by
Linda Delaney

Prologue – Waters off République du Isle Petit Bijou

The deck watch called into the Control Room of the SSRN Seaview. “Mr. O’Brien, there are two gentlemen topside requesting permission to come aboard.  They're from the government of Île Petit Bijou - the Governor, Monsieur Jacques Vioget, and Commandant of the Military, General Michel Panault, and they've presented papers and send their compliments, sir. They request to see the Admiral and the Captain.”

O’Brien picked up the mike, “Mr. Haber, hold them at the deck until I can get the Skipper and the Admiral.”

“Aye, sir,” Haber replied sharply and the mike clicked off.

Nelson and Crane were in the Admiral’s quarters, as the boat sat in the waters off the Republic of the Seychelles, one of a group of several island nations. They were preparing reports to be sent on to Washington after the completion of a diplomatic mission to Port Louis, Mauritius.  This part of the Indian Ocean tended to be calm waters, and lying at the surface near the Seychelles seemed like a good idea at the time.

The two men had been on the nearby island republic, Île Petit Bijou, at the time when there were deep political troubles in the new nation. The result had been the banning and disbanding of the Societe Démocratique. Both men had made some serious enemies in the tiny country, but with ONI and the local government itself promising them that the insurgents had been taken care of and that neither one of them need be concerned, lying in the waters not that far off the small island seemed to be in good faith, if nothing else. They had acted at the bequest of the legitimate government at the time, and only done as they had been requested, with the support of the US State Department, and other US government branches as well. Yet it still niggled at both men each time they heard of the difficulties Île Petit Bijou was having maintaining its independence.

Nelson's phone beeped, and he picked it up.

“Admiral?” the voice on the other end asked crisply.

“Yes, Mr. O’Brien?”

“Sir, there are two officials and their escort on the deck, looking for you and the Skipper.  They'er from Île Petit Bijou.”

Cradling the handset next to his ear, Nelson arched an eyebrow and looked up at his Captain, who was perched on the corner of the older man’s desk, tip of the pencil tapping lightly on his temple, as he worked a few figures on his clipboard. “Lee?”

“Mmm, yessir?” Crane put the pencil in the top of the clipboard and looked at his boss.

“Feel up to entertaining a couple of locals? Seems we have visitors who are demanding our presence.”

“Demanding, sir? What'd we do to get them to pay us a visit this time?”

Nelson humphed. “I don’t know of anything.  You sure you're not holding something from me?”

Lee grinned crookedly, “I’m innocent, Admiral! I swear!  Maybe one of the men…?  But we haven’t been in these waters long enough to even grant any leave.” He stood, putting the clipboard on the desk. He straightened his tie. “Okay, I’ll get Chip and you tell O’Brien to bring them into the Nose. That’ll diffuse whatever they’re coming aboard to complain about.”

“Sounds good to me. The only possible thing I can think of is that we're in violation of some kind of local environmental law or so. They've got some stringent ones here, considering the number of rare species on these islands, and I don’t know of any off hand that we may have run afoul of, but I’ll take a minute to check. You and Chip make them comfortable.  I'll be down in a few minutes.”  Nelson spoke softly into the phone and then put the handset back on the cradle.

Lee took the few steps toward the door of Nelson’s cabin, opened the door, and turned back toward the older man, “Anything else, sir?”

Already intent on finding out what he could of the local environmental laws, he waved Lee out, “No, no, nothing. I’ll meet you and Chip in the nose ASAP.”

“Aye, sir.” Lee replied, and closed the cabin door, as he stepped into the companionway of Officer’s Country.  He moved down the companionway to the Exec’s cabin, and knocked on the door. “Chip?”

A muffled ‘umph’ was followed by, “Damn!” then “Come…”  Lee opened the door, to see a shadow in the doorway of the head.

“Everything all right in here?” Crane asked, concerned about his friend and XO.

Chip stuck his head out of the small compartment, dabbing at a cut on his chin. “Damn, Lee, don’t surprise a guy when he’s got a razor in his hand. It makes his face start to look like chop-meat!”

Lee peered at the cut on the face of the Exec, “Hmmm, doesn’t look all that bad. I think,” he continued as he plopped on Morton’s bunk, “that you are overstating your injury, Mr. Morton.” 

Chip came out of the head, wiping the rest of the shaving cream off his face, then dropping the towel around his neck. Lee had his long legs extended from the edge of the bunk, his arms crossed on his chest.

“What’s up, Skipper? Riley’s music getting to Sharkey again?”

Lee laughed aloud. “Nothing as easy as that! We have a couple of locals, from Petit Bijou requesting permission to come aboard. The Admiral and I don’t know them, but they apparently know us. They want to ‘talk’ to us, so I need you to meet them with us. United we stand, etc., etc...you know the routine.  Bobby has the watch, so he can bring'em aboard and then hold the Con.”

“Sounds simple enough,” Morton replied as he snagged his shirt from the back of his chair and shrugged into it. Buttoning it, tucking it into his trousers, he pulled a tie from the back door of the head, and in a short time, presented himself to the Captain of the Boat with a huge grin. Snapping to attention, he saluted, “Lieutenant Commander Morton, reporting as ordered, sir. Any further orders, sir?”

Lee stood, laughing, clapped Morton on the shoulder, “You idiot! C’mon, let’s go and meet these locals and get it over with.”

The two friends walked out the door, laughing.

Minutes later, they arrived in the Control Room and found Nelson there, waiting for O’Brien to bring the ‘guests’ aboard. Two men followed the Second Officer through the Control Room to the Observation nose, Nelson’s ‘Front Porch’.

Governor Vioget was a short, plump man, round of face, balding and sweating profusely in spite of the coolness of the air in the sub. His white suit was rumpled, and he held his large, Panama hat close to his chest. He was nervous and ill at ease in the great sub, his thin moustache twitching all the while he stood, waiting for his companion to join him.

Commandant of the Military, General Michel Panault, was tall and elegant in a white uniform that was covered in braid, gold trim, and two chests full of medals. He carried his cover under his arm, and with his light grey-blond hair, in a pompadour style, looked an arrogant, egotistical military man. He had an aquiline nose, hawk-like eyes, and he seemed to order the tepid little Vioget around, in spite of the fact that Vioget held the title of Governor, and in theory, was Panault’s superior.

Panault saluted Nelson, Crane and Morton smartly. “Thank you for receiving us, gentlemen. We come on behalf of the new government of Isle Petit Bijou. We would like to invite you to dinner this evening at the Governor’s home in our Capital, Couronne du Bijou. The governor’s home, Coeur du Bijou, is lovely, as I am sure you will remember from you last visit to our small island, Admiral.”  There was a grin, but it was more cold and formal, lacking any real emotion.

The jumpy little governor nodded nervously, “Yes… yes… please… please come to my home for dinner. You will find nothing lacking…   We… we are quite civilized here.”

Nelson looked at the odd pair, hesitant to go, and yet hesitant to offend the government of the tiny island. He smiled back at the two men, “Welcome aboard, gentlemen. My officers and I do deeply appreciate your invitation, but I’m afraid that we'll have to beg off of your kind invitation. We have to conclude our tests and then be on our way.  Unfortunately, we have some rather tight deadlines to meet.  However, we do appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

He extended a hand in an attempt to encourage them to leave, but neither man budged from his position.

Panault cleared his throat. “Admiral, I really must insist you and your officers come to dinner this evening. It would be bad form to decline, and worse, it would seem as if you are snubbing us. Our people are very proud and this wonderful submarine of yours in their waters begs attendance by you to our dinner at seven this evening . You and your officers must come.”

Lee looked at Nelson and Chip, and made a quick decision, hoping it would be an acceptable compromise to these men.   "General Panault, perhaps the Admiral and I can come to your dinner. I’m afraid, however, I will have to decline for the rest of my crew. We need Mr. Morton here when we aren’t on the boat, and Mr. O’Brien is needed here to assist him. We still have our test results to compile and send out, and Mr. Morton and Mr. O’Brien can continue the work for a few hours in our brief absence. As the Admiral stated, the finished reports are on a short deadline. After all, gentlemen, our job is primarily that of Research, isn’t that right, Admiral?”

“Yes, Lee, absolutely. “ He looked at the two men, feeling distinctly uneasy with them, “You do understand, don’t you, gentlemen, that we do have a great deal of work to do here. We won’t be able to stay more than a few hours, but we would be happy to join you for dinner. Thank you for your kind invitation.”

It seemed to Chip Morton that the two visitors heaved a visible sigh.

Vioget wiped his round sweaty brow once more with his sleeve, making the sleeve even more grimy.  "I… I will be most pleased, Admiral, to welcome you to my home… And I can promise you a splendid meal. My cook is wonderful, isn’t he, General?”

The taller man looked down at the Island’s governor. If Nelson and Crane read him right, he just about sneered at the little man. “Oh, yes, Monsieur Governor, he is. Too bad that he has very little opportunity to show his talents.” He swung his face to Crane and Nelson, “At least this evening, he will have ample opportunity to display them.” He snapped his cover more tightly under his arm.  “We, of the government of Isle Petit Bijou are pleased to entertain you this evening. Admiral, Commander, gentlemen. Until this evening…” and he turned on his heel and retraced his steps to leave the boat, followed by the shorter, fatter governor.

Once they were out of sight, being escorted the rest of the way out, Lee looked at Nelson, “Talk about a strange pair. Panault, he was a leader in the revolution that overturned Governor Rene, right?”

”Umm, yep. We never ran into him, but he seems awfully cordial to two men who helped keep him out of power for several years.”  He sighed, “I thought that Rene’s government was a stronger one. We lost on that count. But, well, it will be a change to say the least.”

Lee laughed, “Don’t let Cookie hear you say that. He’ll be offended.”

Nelson laughed, “Right, and then he’ll find a way to keep all of us from getting his Chocolate Chip cookies! And a man who lives on coffee needs his cookies!”

The three men laughed aloud. Lee stood, and moved to the plot table, where Chip immediately joined him. The two leaned heads close, and began to go over the data on the plot table. Nelson reached for a pile of papers and flipped through the files until he found one he was looking for. The steward came down the gangway, carrying a tray with coffee and said chocolate chip cookies, and placed it next to Nelson. He looked up and nodded thanks to the man, then proceeded to pour a cup, as he sat and worked on his ‘Front Porch.'

Isle Petit Bijou - Coeur du Bijou

Captain Lee Crane and Admiral Harriman Nelson waited for the door to be opened for them. The Governor of the island had sent a car to meet them where they docked the FS-1. Both had discussed their ambivalent feelings about attending this dinner. Neither man wanted to be the cause of a diplomatic issue, yet neither felt comfortable being entertained by this new government.  The former government members had vanished as quickly as the coupe d‘état had taken control, and both men wondered at the fate of the men they had befriended several years earlier.

The driver came to the door and opened it, first Crane, then Nelson, getting out. Waiting to greet them was an older man in a formal tuxedo, who then asked them, in heavily accented English, to follow him inside.

They followed him up the steps and through the main hall, heels clacking on highly polished marble. Neither man spoke, both of them deep in their own thoughts about the new governor and government. There were too many unknowns for them to feel at ease with the situation.

The maître’d of the Governor’s home gestured to a door on their left and then opened it. A grand dining room presented itself, filled with about a dozen or more couples, none of whom were recognizable to Crane and Nelson. All had come to power in the coupe and were thirsty for information about the Seaview, as the boat was lying in their waters.  Under normal circumstances, the owner and the Captain of the boat would be more than happy to talk about her. But in this circumstance, they were, at the least, reluctant.  Panault moved toward them, his hand extended, indicating that their escort take their covers, and put them with coats, etc. They gave them over, reluctantly, and equally reluctantly shook Panault’s hand.

“Admiral! Captain! Welcome!! Governor Vioget is unable to attend our little soirée. He has been taken ill with a stomach ailment. If you had not noticed,” he said conspiratorially , “the governor is somewhat a nervous little man. He has always had a bad stomach and it has gotten worse since we freed our little nation. The doctor is with him now and he has been ordered to bed rest. So I will be your host for the evening.” He took Nelson by the arm, “Admiral Nelson, let me introduce you to the rest of the guests.” He steered them toward the group gathered by the tall windows. As they passed, he signaled a waiter, who came toward them with glasses on a tray.

Panault smiled at his guests. “Forgive my presumption, but I remember reading that you, Admiral, like a good scotch, Glen Livet, I believe. And you, Captain, on the rare occasions, I understand you prefer a bit of Kettle One. Please, gentlemen, enjoy.”

The waiter stood and waited until both men had lifted their drinks from the tray.

“Jean-Claude will see that you have whatever you need this evening. He will take very good care of you.”  The waiter nodded ever so slightly, and slid into the shadows. Panault maneuvered them to the group and began the introductions, as waiters moved subtly among the guests with appetizers.

For an hour, they were introduced and questioned by the members of the new cabinet and their spouses, until it was announced that dinner was ready to be served. In that time, never once did the glasses they held go below three quarters full.  Both men, drinking spartanly, still found themselves feeling somewhat relieved that they wouldn’t be driving back to the boat. Eyes met from time to time across the room, as it seemed they were being deliberately kept apart from one another. All the time, Jean-Claude remained quietly attentive, seeing that their drinks were filled, along with plates of the delicacies that were being served.

When they were seated at the table, Lee was sitting between two women, the wives of the Minister of Travel, and the Minister of the Mint. Both were younger women, married to men who were much older, and who saw the young Captain of the Seaview as a way to alleviate some of the boredom in their lives.  Nelson, on the other hand, was seated next to the Minister of Science, and Panault, himself, who, seated at the head of the table, truly acted as the one who ruled the country, which was, perhaps, closer to the truth than anyone present realized at the time.

Sometime around 2330 that evening, all the guests had left except for Crane and Nelson. Neither man had had an excessive amount to drink or eat, yet the both of them were feeling less than well. After finally talking to one another for practically the first time since the evening started, they decided to call for the car to return then to the dock, and the FS-1. Even if neither felt comfortable taking it back to Seaview, she could at least be secured until one or the other was ready to undertake piloting the brief trip. Nelson went to stand and send the waiter for the car, when the room swayed around him and he grabbed for his head. Crane tried to move to grab him but found his legs refusing the orders he was trying to give them. He nearly fell out of the chair he was sitting in, Panault’s quick grab preventing him from hitting the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the waiter grab and hold onto Nelson.

Panault’s voice seemed to come at him, from the end of a long tunnel, with his vision blurring, and focusing becoming difficult.

“Easy, Captain Crane. Allow me to help you to a room. We will notify your submarine that you and the Admiral will be staying here this night. It seems that you both have had a bit too much to drink and eat…” he sighed, in apparent tolerance of someone indulging too much.

Lee, in spite of his sudden disability, not trusting the man, yet unable to do anything about it, watched as the waiter helped the Admiral to his feet, and he allowed Panault to help him. The part of his mind that was trained to observe noted that both he and the Admiral seemed to be having the same sort of problem with muscles not listening to the orders that their brains were trying to send. Lee knew at that moment that they had been drugged, he didn’t know if it was going to be fatal or not, but he saw in Nelson’s eyes the same realization, as with much (almost too much?) fanfare, they were escorted to guest rooms in the guest wing of the governor’s mansion.

Reality was becoming more and more blurred, more and more out of focus, by the time he was put on a bed in a large room. Hands removed his watch and ring, and placed them on the night table, along with his tie and tie tack. His jacket was draped on a valet, his shirt unbuttoned, his shoes removed and a light sheet dropped over his unresponsive body. The last thing he remembered was wondering if he was about to die.

Nelson was treated similarly. Deposited in a large room, he too found watch, tie, tack removed and placed on the night table, jacket on the wooden valet, shoes on the floor and covered with a light sheet.  He, too, wondered, as darkness claimed him, if these were his last moments, and if so, why did it have to be in a place like this…

Île Petit Morte - DAY ONE

They pulled him roughly from the back of the truck. Panault pushed him roughly forward and he moved with staggering steps toward a large stone arch. Whatever drug they had given him, it had been quite effective. He was just now coming to grips with idea that he was a prisoner of the man who the night before had been his host at dinner.  He couldn’t help be desperate for word of the Admiral, but at the same time, he didn’t want to give away that concern to his captors. So he said nothing, waiting for his chance to attempt escape. He had to wait until he was fully aware before he made a move, for right now, he had no idea where he was.

The arch, in which was carved the words ‘Une fois par cette porte, la seule évasion est la mort’ (Once through this gate, the only escape is death) was supported by two stone pillars that supported identical iron and wood gates. One of the gates was slightly ajar, and an armed guard stood behind it. Seeing the small party, he pulled the gate back further, to allow the men to enter the compound.

Lee had never seen a more depressing sight in his life. Several small buildings, made of stone surrounded a larger one, obviously the center of activity in the compound. The smaller buildings were all exactly that, small, perhaps five foot by seven foot. They had iron barred doors on one side, no other visible windows, and connecting all of them was a catwalk above them. Looking more closely, Lee realized that there were no roofs on them, that they must have an open ceiling so that the guards could look into them from the catwalk above.

He had no more time to look, as he was pushed into a large room in the central building. Seated behind a large mahogany desk was a slender, brittle looking man with a slight moustache and long, boney hands. On his desk was a small plaque, with a name, Etienne la Roche, and a title, in French, ‘Geôlier pour la vie morte’.(Jailer of the Living Dead).  He looked...sepulchral...and Lee shuddered, seeing in his eyes a pleasure in taking in a new prisoner.

“General Panault, welcome. It has been a long time since you graced us with your presence.”  He extended a hand to the other man, who took the hand and shook it perfunctorily.  With a nonchalant look, “Whom do we have here?”

“A newly recovered but old enemy of our new republic. He aided and abetted that traitor Rene when he was in power. He and his commanding officer were here during that revolution. He is a trained American agent and our new government has classified him as in need of the ‘special’ treatment all traitors are. He is to be confined here for the rest of his life, as the traitors before him were.  His government will not be able to remove him, for they have no idea where he is. He has disappeared from sight, now that he is here. There are no records, my friend. All there is from now on, is his number. Any files on the mainland have been destroyed, the escort that brought him here is assigned here, permanently, as you know, since they came to get retrieve him at my request to you, and I am the only one that will know where he is. As far as the government goes, you and I know that this facility does not exist. You are simply a line on a budget for ‘maintenance’.”

The Geôlier of the prison nodded. “He joins an elite group of prisoners, Michel. However, I regret to say that he will be the only one here, as the last two residents that were here, died last month. However, we will be able to focus on giving number ten-three-seven-three our complete attention…  My friend, will you be staying for dinner?  My chef would be pleased to fix a special meal to test his skills. He has so few opportunities.”

“I had hoped you would ask. I have brought a fine wine with me, Etienne, to share with you. After we get our charge ‘settled’, I would love to dine with you. I will stay overnight and take myself back to the city in the morning. I do hate to try and maneuver the shoals in the dark.”

The commandant of the prison came around the desk, facing Lee. He was about the same height as the Captain, bald, wearing a grey linen suit, with a white shirt and green tie. When he smiled, he looked like a skeleton head on a mannequin.  His conversation with Panault had been in French, which Lee now deeply regretted he did not have facility in.

Now he spoke to Crane in soft, accented English.  "Welcome to your final home, Île Petit Morte. It will be your home for the rest of your life, ten-three-seven-three. We exist here for one purpose and one purpose only - to see that you are properly punished for the crimes you have committed against our citizens. You are a prisoner of our country, a prisoner of the worst kind. You are an enemy, of the people and the republic; as such, you were tried and convicted of crimes against the state, in absentia; all proper and legal according to international law, with confinement awaiting you, if you ever entered our waters. Unfortunately for you, you did, and now, you are here and you are mine, to do with as I see fit, according to your crimes.”

He grabbed Lee’s chin between his fingers, holding his face close to his own. “We have a way of doing things here.  You see, we are most democratic and you will be treated exactly as everyman who has walked through those gates has been treated.”  He fingered Lee’s collar insignia, the silver maple leaf somewhat incongruous in these surroundings. “Commander, is it? Well, Commander, this will be the last time you are addressed as such. My men will call you by number. I will call you by number. You are now, no more than ten-three-seven-three!”

With those words, he tore the collar pin from Lee’s Khaki shirt, and stepped back from him. He had the guard in the room remove the cuffs that had held his arms behind his back these last hours, and gave Crane a minute to restore circulation to his arms. Then he said, slowly and quietly, “Strip.”

Lee looked at him, not quite believing the command and having a hard time reacting because of the drugs still in his system from the night before.

Because he was too slow, a rifle butt slammed him in the stomach. He doubled over, stunned by the pain. Etienne la Roche waited patiently for Crane to regain his composure. “You will not disobey again, ten-three-seven-three, or the punishment will be worse. Now, strip! You will not need that uniform here.” Slowly Lee, staring at the prison commandant, removed his uniform and socks. He paused and then la Roche chuckled. “You don’t seem to understand do you, ten-three-seven-three?  Take off everything!”

Lee removed his undergarments and stood, naked, in front of the two men.

“Good, very good, ten-three-seven-three.” He walked around Crane once. “Yes, we will get some good work out of you… before you die.  There is a stand of trees that need to be taken down and they will be your work.”  He nodded and the guard moved toward Crane, metal and chains clanking in his hands. The guard pulled Lee’s hands in front of him, and placed metal shackles with a short bar between them tightly, on his wrists, first making his right hand face upward, while the left faced down. Then he placed shackles on Crane’s ankles, connected by a short chain. He moved around to face the Captain of the boat, raising a device towards Crane’s face, when he was stopped by the General.

Panault was smiling at him, as he took the device from the guard. He stood in front of Lee, holding the metal and leather object in front of his prisoner.

“Do you know what this is, Captaine”

“No.”

“Well, it’s our version of, how do you say this… a museau.”  He thought for a brief moment, wanting Lee to get the total impact of the next word, “Ah, yes. In English, I believe it is a muzzle, like for a dog. You will be fed and watered through it, like the animal you are, and you will not be able to speak, and barely make a sound. It is what we like to think of as the final insurance for prisoners like you … You see, we know who and what you are. You and your Admiral interfered with our government some years ago, shut down our beloved party, Societe Démocratique, and you cost us greatly. It has taken us several years to regain what we lost, and to do it ‘democratically’ so the nations of the world will not see us in a bad light. We cannot dare harm or accuse him, but you… well, you have now, officially disappeared… forever. No one on the main island knows where you are, no one there knows that our lovely little prison here even exists. It is for the worst of the political prisoners, the traitors, and those that help them.” He fingered the device in his hand, almost a perverse leer on his face.  “Any last words, ten-three-seven-three?”

“You won’t get away with this… The Admiral, my men, my boat, will find me.”

Panault laughed. “Believe whatever you wish. I know that they won’t. There is no way to trace you. I have seen to that. You will slowly realize that. Now, open your mouth.”

Not wanting to get another rifle butt in the stomach, Lee did as he was told. The device, a metal half mask was placed on his face, over his mouth and chin. In his mouth, a metal funnel, with the width of a man’s fist, attached to the frame by several bolts, forced his teeth to bite into it, caused him to gag as the end of the funnel reached the back of his mouth. The opening of the funnel had a door over it, which was closed for now. Panault pulled at the leather straps tightly, so Lee felt the metal bite deeply into the flesh of his face. Swallowing was immediately difficult with the object in his mouth, and Panault was right, as the only sound he seemed able to make was a soft, grunt.

“Good, very good, ten-three-seven-three. Your guard here will take you to your new home. Get used to it. You will finish your life, here on Île Petit Morte. ‘Il n'y a aucun espoir ici, seulement votre mort’  There is no hope here, only your death.”

As he was prodded out of the office, and into the early evening light, he heard the two men talking and laughing, and he could only wonder how he was going to survive in this place.

He was pushed to the first of the small cell-buildings and forced to stand as the guard unlocked it. Shoved into it, he was pushed to the center of the cell, the guard bending down, pushing his legs apart, and forcing him onto a low, wooden bench. His ankles were spread far apart and locked into place on the bottom of the bench. His arms were then taken and fixed to the bench above his head and the mask fastened to a lock behind his head. Then the guard left, only to appear again, in the company of a second guard, above his head, on the catwalk, above the open, wired ceiling. He could not move. This was how he was to sleep. He tried to begin to condition himself to this place, to hope for rescue, since it was obvious he would be unable to escape, at least for the near future. A myriad of feelings crept into his consciousness, washed over him, but he would not allow the despair, the hopelessness, to eat away at him. The Admiral would find him. Somehow…he hoped…

Panault’s last words to him, ‘There is no hope here, only your death,’ began to eat at his being. The aura of death did truly seep from the walls, the generations of tortured souls leaving their disturbed and destroyed spirits behind in the walls and air of Île Petit Morte.

Île Petit Morte - DAY TWO

He was awakened by a sharp jolt of pain in his side. He opened his eyes to the face of a guard with a cattle prod. It was just getting light. The early dawn light was just filtering through the heavy tree cover.  As soon as his eyes opened, the guard released the bolt on the back of the mask, and his hands. He touched Lee with the prod again, so he would sit up. He started to look up, and as he caught a glimpse of a guard on the catwalk, the guard in the cell struck him in the chest with the handle of the cattle prod. He immediately gave his attention back to the guard in the cell with him, the realization that he was being watched at all times, even as he was sleeping, and locked to the bench, just at that moment making full impact. The guard released his ankles, and pulled him to his feet. He swayed, slightly, then steadied. The guard indicated a bucket in the corner, for him to relieve himself, if needed, and he did so, awkwardly. Perhaps that was the worst of all, the fact that he was allowed no clothes, and no privacy for anything.

The guard then prodded him toward the door of the tiny cell, and out into the courtyard of the prison. He was led to a pole in the middle of the yard, and the guard took his wrists, securing them to the pole above his head, then left. Lee looked around, seeing the lush jungle outside the confines of the gate, trying to gauge the possibility of getting off the island if he could get free of the shackles and the guards.

The sun was now hot, and the air, hot and humid. He could feel the sun beginning to burn, especially those parts of his body that were never exposed to sun. He craved a drink of water. He had no food or water since the dinner the night before last. The dryness in his mouth was torture in itself, the taste of the metal permeating his being. As he stood there, the sun and humidity making it hotter and hotter, he began to perspire. Then the gnats and the small jungle flies began to be attracted to his body, landing, biting all over, and adding to his misery.

Finally, the guard returned. He opened the small door of the mask and poured water down it. More water wound up on Crane’s chest than in the funnel, and down his throat, it didn’t relieve his thirst, but at least fluid was being poured into his body. Then the man poured some kind of paste down the funnel, followed by another liquid. Swallowing as quickly as he could, so as not to choke, he assumed that that was his ‘meal’ for the day, and he knew he needed to get as much as possible in order to survive. Once again, as much of the mess wound up on his chest as he was able to swallow, but at least some nourishment was received.

The guard finished feeding  him, then took his hands down from the pole, linked two chains thru the wrist shackles, and proceeded to lead him back to the office. Both Panault and la Roche were there, seated and talking as they brought him in, and they were  looking rested, and comfortable.

“Well, ten-three-seven-three, I trust you had a good night’s sleep. You will be very busy today, the beginning of the the rest of your days.”

Panault rose from his seat, and came to stand close to Crane, leaning close to Lee’s face. “I know you have your tricks, ONI man, but they will do you no good here. You will not be able to escape. Your restraints will never be removed. You will have no way to do anything, even relieve yourself, without being watched. You do not know where you are. No one knows you are here. You will die here. Remember that punishment is strict if you break the rules. And you have nowhere to go, and no way to get out, if by some chance, you were to escape from your guards.  Enjoy the rest of your life, ten-three-seven-three. It will be a short one.” He turned to la Roche. “Etienne, again, what work is he going to be doing?”

“He will be working in the stand of trees outside the compound. They need to be removed, we need the wood for the cooking fires, and to keep warm on those wet nights we occasionally have. He will take down three trees a day, clean the logs and chop them up as well. He will work some18 hours of hard labor a day. Enough to keep him busy.”

He then directed his comments to Crane, “You are going to be chopping down trees, and chopping them up. Good, hard labor, something that I’m sure you are not familiar with in your soft life on your submarine. You will be given an axe to use, and you will be watched by several guards at all times. I will not see you again, ten-three-seven-three, unless you need disciplining. If not, then the next time I see you, you will be dead.” He waved a hand at the guard, “Take him away.”

The guard took the chain and led him out of the compound. Lee’s feet were being cut and bruised by the rock and stones in the yard. Once out of the compound, the ground was gravel, and the walk all the more painful and difficult with bare feet. The guard led him to a deep stand of trees, where two other guards were waiting. The chains were removed from the hand shackles, and wound into the chain between his legs. He was led to a large tree, the diameter of which was about four feet. The chains at his feet were spiked into the ground. He was handed an axe, and by several gestures, shown what he was supposed to do. Awkwardly, he swung the axe, it hit the tree trunk, and he began to chop down the tree, as the guards watched.

Michel Panault sat at the table, looking at the remains of the elegant breakfast he had shared with Etienne la Roche. Picking delicately at his teeth with a toothpick, he smiled at his host. “Etienne, I cannot understand how you remain so thin. Your man prepares food fit for a king!”  He patted his stomach. “I would be three times my size if he was cooking for me!”

“We do not dine as grandly everyday, Michel. Although what I am paid is generous, I cannot afford this luxury all the time. As much as I would like to. It would relieve the monotony of this place.” He took a sip of the champagne that had accompanied the meal.

“Ahh, I do understand. I will see that your needs are better met with the next delivery. Do you need anything in order to keep ten-three-seven-three?”

“No, we have enough to keep him and the guards. The women that you provided the guards with take very good care of their men; there is little hard work for them to do, and the men who are here, enjoy their work. The women get their occasional trinkets, they all eat and drink well. No one wants to leave. They also know the penalty if they do. Since they all were once criminals themselves, they know better. They have a good life, as they see it, and want no more.”

“Yes, our little system works quite well. Those last two, seven-zero, and seven-two, when did they die?”

“Both died on the same day and we burned the remains, scattered the ashes, smashed the remaining bones and tossed them into the ocean. There is no evidence that the prime minister and vice president of the old regime were ever here, or, for that fact, that they ever existed, after the coup.”

“Good. I want seven-three to be disposed of the same way.”

“I have already begun that. His clothes were burned last night, the metal of the collar insignias and belt buckle melted and made into some bullet casings for the guards. There is nothing left of them.”

“Good. For a few moments, I had a concern at my home about his ring, but I left it in the room he was assigned to with the rest of his personal belongings. It looks like he just disappeared. His Admiral will wake with quite a hangover, one of two days keeping, and not even remember when he went to bed. He won’t remember much of the dinner either. And as much as he will insist, and he will, that his Captain wouldn’t do such a thing, he will, simply, be gone. Vanished without a trace.”

Panault rose from his chair, “… and with that, my friend, I will take my leave. I must return to my home before the Admiral awakes. I will be in touch with you within the week to see how seven-three is adapting.”

The two men shook hands, and la Roche watched as the General made his way to the truck that would take him to the dingy he had left on the shore. There were no docks on this island, no safe or natural harbor. No where was a boat stored. Once the general left, they were again isolated, save for the radio that they maintained. And even that was carefully hidden, and when contact was made, they had rolling frequencies, so that never was any message sent or received on a regular signal that could be traced. While this island was only several miles from the main one, it was as good as if it were on the other side of the planet. The miles in between were deep enough for a large freighter to pass through, but were filled with a variety of deadly fish, that would kill anyone trying to swim for the mainland. It was the perfect prison for men who would not be returning to society. It had been patterned after Devil’s Island, and the men who used it were even more successful than their predecessors in doing away with their prisoners.

It was two hours after dark that Lee Crane finally saw the cell that was now his home. Restrained or not, all he wanted was sleep. He was dirty, his hands bloody and blistered, his feet bloodied and torn. His body was burned by the sun, and burned in places by the cattle prod his captors used on him to keep him working. He had had water poured down his throat once during the day, but he craved more. He was hungry, but did not believe that the ‘food’ poured down his throat that morning would be given again at night.

He was pushed into the cell and positioned in the center. The leg shackles were attached by chains to two rings in the wall, spreading his legs far apart. A chain was dropped from the mesh in the open ceiling and attached to the back of the mask. Another chain was attached to the shackles at his wrist, and that was attached to a ring next to the door, extending his arms completely out in front of him. And then the guard left. Another took position above him, on the catwalk. He had to stand. There was no way he could do anything. Moving anyway would choke him. Even nodding his head caused the device in his mouth to trigger the gag reflex, and after one session of retching he kept his head up. Only his ONI training enabled him to remain standing for the next two hours.

A new guard entered the cell, and released the chains that held his arms out, allowing his arms to fall in front of him. The guard had a container of water, that he then poured down ten-three-seven-three’s throat quickly, spilling more on him, then allowing into him. He then released the leg irons, and the chain on the mask, tightening the mask when he released the chain and pushed Crane onto the bench, fastening him to it, as he had been the night before. All the while, the guard stood above on the catwalk, simply observing, preventing any attempt by ten-three-seven-three to escape. Again, as uncomfortable as it was, Lee forced himself to sleep, knowing his battered body needed to rest, at least a little if he was to survive until rescue. And he would be rescued. He was as sure of that as he was of the Admiral.

Île Petit Bijou - DAY TWO

Harriman Nelson was tearing up the halls of government of Île Petit Bijou. Now in the company of both Morton and Sharkey, he raged, bellowed and talked to everyone and anyone that would listen. His Captain and friend was missing, his things left in the bedroom of the government house they had stayed in, and no one, at any level, knew anything.

There was, by agreement with the last government, a satellite tracking station on the Island, maintained by the US Air Force. This new government had demanded that the men stationed there be removed and the site be made an automatic one. There was no embassy on the Islands, and the closest one was in Madagascar. Therefore, with demands to the United States being made, it was up to Nelson and the Seaview to transport the small force back to the States, ASAP, and the boat and her crew were told they were, as of 1500 the day after Crane had disappeared, persona non grata on the Island and to take the force from the small base and leave.  The fact that Seaview's captain was missing was now of no concern to the Government.

Crane’s disappearance had been reported to the US Embassy, to ONI, COMSUBPAC and the SECNAV, but that not withstanding, the Seaview and her entire compliment were ordered to San Diego as rapidly and directly as was possible. In fact, when reporting the disappearance to Admiral Jiggs Starke, head of COMSUBPAC, his old friend had reminded Nelson once again of that warning long ago, that his friendship with Crane would cause him endless grief. Nelson told Starke to go to hell and slammed down the phone, after telling the other man what he could do to himself.

Nelson was getting nowhere with the locals, raging at his own government, and was in total disbelief at the lack of help that he was receiving from anyone, be it military or otherwise. He refused to believe that there was no trace of Crane after he retired on the night of the dinner at Michel Panault’s home.  Resignation was beginning to take hold that no help seemed to be coming from any angle at all.  Therefore, being the Military man he was first and foremost, following orders he received from the highest levels of his own government, he had Morton prepare to sail, knowing that once underway, he and his crew would make plans to find their Captain.

Île Petit Morte - DAY THREE, Early morning

He was wakened in the dark, dragged to his feet, and positioned as he had been earlier in the cell. He was then left with only the solitary guard above him, watching his every move, his every breath.  No one spoke, no one interacted with him unless it was necessary, and that was by the prods and by pushing. Not that he could have answered them. The device in his mouth and on his face was becoming more and more painful. Each time he was moved and rechained, the mask was tightened further, pushing the punishing metal and leather deeper into his face. Not being able to eat and drink was beginning to wear on him. The whole experience, designed to dehumanize and destroy the prisoner, was chipping slowly away at his reserve and training. He had been through many things, but the absolute degradation of this situation was something entirely new in his experience. There was absolutely nothing he could do; there was no way that he could effect his own escape. That in and of itself was a new concept to him; there had always been some way to escape, someone to help in one way or another. But he had been, literally stripped of all that. Every movement was watched and carefully controlled.

The shackles on his wrists and ankles were so tight that when he moved, they eroded the skin and he bled from the erosions. His wrists were bound in such a way that he could not touch fingertip to fingertip. The device on his face and mouth prevented speech and impeded swallowing. He was naked, kept that way in order to prevent escape, as well as to totally humiliate. A basically modest and fastidious person, this part of the treatment was already breaking down his sense of self.  He knew he had to harden himself against the negative feelings, but it was hard, very hard and growing harder with each indignity. He tried to concentrate on his boat, his lady, and bring the closeness he had with her and his men to the front of his mind, concentrating on them, in order to fight the feelings of negativity the situation was bringing to his mind.

Some time later, he had no idea of how much time passed, a guard returned to the cell, released him from the standing position and fastened him to the bed once more, leaving him alone yet again, save for the solitary sentry. He drifted into a semblance of sleep, his body craving the rest, his mind hoping that the nightmare would suddenly end when he woke, yet knowing the reality was much too grisly not to be true.

He was awakened again with the cattle prod, several sharp shocks being directed to his groin. He instinctively tried to cry out in pain, but a muffled grunt was all that came out. He couldn’t open his mouth to cry out, couldn’t move his body away from the painful jolts, all he could do was take them. His jailer seemed to enjoy inflicting further pain on his prisoner, and jolted Lee several times after he was awake. He smiled as he used the prod, turning up the level of shock until the man on the bench was writhing in pain. Then, as suddenly as he began the torture, he stopped, releasing his prisoner to a sitting position, and then to standing. Lee was finding it difficult to walk, pain radiating from his groin, his feet sorely damaged from the day before, his legs so numbed with pain that they were refusing to follow even basic orders of one foot in front of the other. The guard, taking his inability for reluctance to comply, used the prod to make him move. He was allowed to use the bucket to relieve himself, then prodded to the compound center, where he was again fastened to the pole in the center and left. Again, after an indeterminate period of time, a guard returned, and poured water and some other food down his throat.  Afterward, the guard shut the door on the mask, and left him there, in the sun, for another indeterminate period of time.

Every joint of his body, every bone, screamed in pain. His muscles stiffened and refused to work to allow him even the slightest attempt at movement. The parts of his body where the cattle prod had been used burned as the sweat from his own body bathed the raw areas. The guard finally came, and took him down from the pole. He could barely walk, but the guard kept poking him with the prod, sending  volts of electricity thru Crane’s body at every opportunity.

This time, they stopped in the middle of the compound, near a layer of gravel, with several pikes fastened into the ground. Standing on the other side of the gravel was Etienne la Roche. Lee looked puzzled. La Roche smiled at him, the skeletal face looking more and more as if it stepped right from the grave.

“My dear ten-three-seven-three, in my enthusiasm when you were welcomed here, I forgot to inform you that on Sundays, you get a day of rest from your labors. That is not to say that you don’t work at all, but you do get four hours of prayer - to pray for the redemption of your soul.  You get to pray here, in the open of the yard, with the Lord’s sky above you.”

He motioned to the guard, who pushed Lee slightly forward and then forced him to his knees on the gravel bed. Again, the cry of pain trying to escape sounded more like a grunt. The guard released the bolt of the wrist shackles and pulled his arms far apart, running chains from them to the pikes in front of him. It forced his body to grind down on his knees, deep into the gravel, breaking skin and tearing into muscle and tissue. The guard then staked each of the ankle shackles deep into the ground, forcing his legs deeper into the gravel bed. Finally, he ran a chain through the back of the mask, and pulled it backward until Lee was staring straight up into the sky. He struggled for breath as the funnel in his mouth shifted to cover most of his throat.  La Roche stood above him, leering into his upraised face.

“Four hours here, ten-three-seven-three. To contemplate your sins against the government of this charming island. Sunday is a day for prayer. When you are done praying, you will go to work in the field today. There are a dozen logs that need to be brought to the compound and since we have no horses to pull them in, you will do it. And you will not get to rest until you finish bringing all of them here. Pray well, ten-three-seven-three.  Pray well.”

He cracked his crop across Lee’s throat, causing ten-three-seven-three to gag and wretch, pulling on his bonds, not trying to, but unable to stop the convulsive response to the pain. His knees and legs were ground deeper into the gravel, and he tried to cry out, but was unable to…he was about to give up, to give into the despair. Suddenly a vision of the boat, the faces of friends, raced across his conscious mind, and he clung to them to drag him out of the deepening well. The memory of their faces offered a rope that he clung to in the midst of deepening darkness around him.

Four hours later, a guard came to him carrying a jug of water that he poured down ten-three-seven-three’s throat before he released the mask from the pike that held his head bent backward. Lee’s head slowly moved upward, the fluid giving him some respite. The guard then released one arm shackle and brought it to the other, connecting them before he released the second chain. With that release, Crane fell face forward into the dirt of the compound. The guard then released the ankle shackles from their pikes, and waited for ten-three-seven-three to move. He didn’t, so the guard took the cattle prod, and held it to his ribs, releasing several consecutive jolts to ten-three-seven-three’s chest. He still didn’t move, and the guard signaled another one of the guards to join him. They dragged the man they referred to as ten-three-seven-three to a nearby tub of water, and immersed the semi-conscious man in the water. That seemed to revive him somewhat, and he was dragged from the tub, and stood up His legs were macerated and bloody. He could barely walk, from the pain, still, they drew two chains thru the wrist manacles and pulled and prodded him out of the compound and into the jungle.

Some twenty minutes later, they reached a small clearing with a large pile of some twelve logs, trimmed and ready to be hauled to a finishing plant. He was shoved onto the pile, and made to crawl to the top, to push the highest log down. He struggled, tearing skin, leaving a bloody trail from legs and arms on the wood. He managed to get the log to the bottom of the pile, and somehow, climb down. They pushed him to the head of the log, and fitted him with a rope harness, that ran around his shoulders and back, and fastened to a belted waist. The rope was rough, not well made, and it was tightened to the point where it drew blood. His arms were fastened to the harness in front of him, and the log attached to the back. Then, with the guards using the prod and a riding crop on him, he pulled the log back to the compound.

By the time he reached the compound, everywhere the rope had been tied was torn and bloodied skin mixing with the rope fiber. He was dirty, bloody and in pain beyond any measure he had ever known. Yet he knew he had to continue doing what he was ordered to, or the consequences would be beyond even his imagination. So he forced his body to move, forced it to do the work of animals, until, near midnight, he was finished.

 
He was taken to his cell, and then he was forced to stand for another four hours.  At four in the morning, as the false dawn of the tropics was beginning to show, he was locked onto the bench, locked into the cell and left alone. The guard above him stared down, watching him breathe, just waiting for him to do something, anything that would allow further punishment.

The guard was to be disappointed. Crane did nothing, but allow his abused body to try and get some rest, before hell began over again.

SSRN Seaview – DAY THREE

Harriman Nelson stormed around his boat. He was angry, frustrated, and if Jiggs Starke or anyone else had asked him how he felt, he would have, quite simply, killed them. He had little tolerance of fools, and anyone asking him such a stupid question would be immediately considered a fool by him, and he would have had them walk the plank, and then, if they survived that, he would have had shot them out a torpedo tube!

They had not been able to find Lee on the Island nation, had not been able to find out anything. It was as if he had literally vanished.  And vanished leaving all his belongings behind. And that was not Lee Crane. Nelson was worried, frantic if the truth be known. He did not trust the ‘new’ government of Île Petit Bijou They came across more like thugs than politicians. He was uneasy with the idea that the members of the old regime, men he had known, were, simply, gone. They had vanished, once the new government took over. Much like Lee. His enquires had come up against a wall of people who knew nothing. They knew the Captain had been with Nelson at the dinner, but no one had seen him leave, no one had heard any noise, no one knew where he went or when he left. Crane’s disappearance was a mystery without a solution.

All of the Admiral’s inquiries, the overt as well as the covert had turned up nothing. He had been force to leave, by orders of his government, and the one on the Island. He was following orders, as he had done all of his life, but for the first time, he was questioning them. He picked up the mike next to the desk in his cabin, “Mr. Morton?”

“Aye, sir?” Morton’s voice was terse and brittle with his Admiral. He didn’t understand how Nelson could take the boat and leave Lee behind, because Chip knew in his gut, that somehow, Lee was back in that Island Nation, not at his choice.

“Change course, Mr. Morton, set her for Pearl, at flank. Give me an ETA ASAP, then report here at 1900.  Also, have the FS-1 made ready.  I'm going to fly out ahead of you.”

“Aye, sir.”

Nelson looked around the cabin, at pictures of him and Lee and Chip Morton at various events over the years. “I will find you, Lee. We will, wherever you are!”

Île Petit Morte - DAY FOUR

The guard returned a scant two hours later, which would be giving ten-three-seven-three barely enough time to even begin to recover from the work of the day before. The light of the day was beginning to penetrate the cell, and the guard took a good look at ten-three-seven-three. He was disgustingly dirty, but that was not something he was unused to. All prisoners here quickly became that way. They were all going go die anyway, so there was no reason to waste water to allow them to clean themselves.

La Roche often worked to prolong the lives of prisoners as long as possible. He enjoyed his work. The guard shrugged, and moved to the bench. As he looked at ten-three-seven-three, he saw that the man’s legs were swollen and puffy, as were his feet, and hands. Burns, bruises, cuts and deep, raw wounds covered his body. His exam of ten-three-seven-three was merely cursory. He didn’t care about the man, he was simply doing his job. The guard left the cell, knowing that ‘seven three’ would not even be aware that he had been in the cell. He knew too well how the bodies of the men imprisoned here adapted quickly to taking rest when they could, and blocking out all but the necessary sounds around them.

He walked across the compound, to the office and entered. Early as the morning was, la Roche was seated at his desk, dealing with what looked like a pile of paperwork.

La Roche looked up, “Yes, de Bec?”

“Seven-three seems to be getting ill.  His legs, feet and hands appear to be infected. They are swollen and discolored, and some of the wounds seem to be giving off a discharge.” There was no concern or emotion in the man’s voice. He had long ago, like the other guards here, lost any care about their prisoners. They were well paid and well cared for, and, as former convicts themselves, they knew that to get involved with prisoners bode no good for them.

The commandant looked up at the guard. ”Hmm, well…Wake him, and get the salt baths ready. After he is fed, put him in the bath, for several hours, then just back to his cell. Sleep and stand him for fourteen hours. Make the periods irregular, so by the time night falls he has no idea of time. Then bed him, wake him and bed him twice more, before tomorrow. I want him working in the tree stand before daylight, as he will have a day’s work to make up, so keep him at work until all the work for both days is current. Advise me of his progress, if there is a need. I don’t want him to die just yet. Our country owes him a great deal of pain and suffering for his support of the old tyrants.”

The guard merely nodded, and left the room. La Roche moved to a large armoire, and opened the door. Inside was one of the radio transmitters in the prison. Carefully, he picked a frequency, and began to send a message to Panault. The two men had worked out a code, based on the old Morse code to send messages back and forth. They had determined to keep the messages short, but the code itself was a complex one, added to the fact that they would send it in different languages. Neither man used the same receiver more than once in a send/receive cycle.

The message read, “Michel, seven-three has developed infections. Am treating with salt baths. Send word if you wish more done.”

He closed the radio inside the cabinet and went across the compound. Arriving at the building used as a kitchen, he entered, and strolled at a leisurely pace through the Dining Hall, and into the kitchen proper. The stone room had a stairway to the left of the entry that wound itself to what was sarcastically called ‘The Grainery’. La Roche climbed the circular stairwell, and at the large, solid oaken door at the top, took a key and opened it.

Inside was a fairly open and large sitting room, furnished, absurdly as it may seem, with white wicker furniture and blue rugs and wall hangings. It resembled a sunny retreat from reality. La Roche liked the room and spent many hours here, reading. He walked over to a small tapestry on the wall and moved it aside. Behind the tapestry was a door, which he used another key to open. Behind the door was another radio transmitter. He turned it on, and then sat, waiting for Panault to respond to his missive.

Crane was awakened with the cattle prod by the guard. The man shocked him three times before he acknowledged that ten-three-seven-three was awake. The routine was the same as it had been since the first morning of Lee’s imprisonment. He was released from the bed, and brought to his feet. This morning, however, blinding hot pain drove him back onto the bench. His feet were swollen and oozing fluid and blood, as were his legs from the knees down. He took his hands to attempt to wipe something from his face, and found himself looking at hands swollen to twice their size, the torn palms also oozing a sour smelling discharge. He, in all truth, could not stand, much less walk. Unable to speak to the guard, he waited to see what the man would do. The guard came over to him, and using the prod, forced him to his feet. Each step was agony, and by the time he reached the cell door, he was near collapse. It was at that moment another guard joined them, and when Lee began to fall, he grabbed at one arm, the other guard taking the other. He was dragged to the pole, and fastened to it. All he was aware of was the blinding red pain raging in his feet and legs. Standing on his feet was agony beyond description. The pain in his hands and wrists was pounding as he was fastened to the pole by his wrists. He wanted to vomit, to retch with the pain, but the mask prevented that. He shivered with fever, and yet sweating in the sun with the heat of it as well as from the fever. He could barely focus on anything, and at that moment, he wished for a swift death to put an end to it all.

The guard returned with the food and water and proceeded to pour it down ten-three-seven-three's throat. Finished with the feeding, the guard closed the door of the mask and left him alone again. The sun beat down, burning already seared and damaged skin. The fever from the infections raged. An hour later, two guards came to take the now unaware prisoner off the pole. They then dragged him across the compound to a small building. The stone building had no windows and a solid door. There was no solid roof, only a mesh covering as the other cells had, and it was connected to the rest of the buildings by the catwalks. One of the guards opened the door, and they dragged their prisoner into the cell-like room. In the center was a large pool, four feet deep, four foot wide, and at present, was dry. In the walls on the side were several pipes, open ended, that emptied into the pool. In it was a bench with rings and chains. They dragged their prisoner into the pit, locked his ankles to the bench, his arms each to a chain on the bench, and his head pulled back, by the chain in the back of the mask. This left him stretched tightly to the bench, while sitting on it. . Then they got out of the pool, and went to the side of the small cell, and turned two large valves, sending gallons of water surging into the pool.

Lee was minimally aware of being taken from the pole and dragged across the compound. He had no ability to fight or resist. He had lost most of the desire to. The only thing keeping that small flame of desire to live alive were the thoughts of the men, the boat, and his friends. He did want to see them again. He wanted to see his boat, his lady. But the agonizing pain throbbing throughout his body was making it harder to think, to even simply be.  It would be much easier to give into it and let go. Yet something prevented him from that total surrender, even when the pain was being multiplied, as the salt water began to wash over his legs and arms, burning the open wounds, soaking into his body; while the wet felt good, it was also cold, and made his teeth chatter against the metal funnel in his mouth. The burning of his wounds and cuts intensified, as the water filled the pool to the bottom of his neck. It was ocean water, but with so much salt added to it, you could smell it. He knew, on some level, that it was an attempt to cleanse the wounds, decrease the infection. He knew that salting wounds did prevent further infection, but this was almost beyond bearing. He was burning all over, and he couldn’t move, couldn’t do a thing to stop it.  Eventually, he stopped struggling, knowing there was no relief, no release. He had to keep awake and aware, keep his head above water. He dearly wanted the water, wanted to drink, but there was no way to get any water, the mask prevented it, and the salt content of the water wouldn’t make it palatable in any form. He was thirsty, dry, in the midst of water he couldn’t drink…

Two hours later, the water began to drain from the pool. As the level went down, he began to shiver with cold, as his body chilled with the loss of the insulation of the water. Once the pool was completely drained, the guards climbed in, and released the chains at his ankles, wrists and mask. They rejoined the chains at the ankles, and placed the others on the wrist shackles, pulling Crane to his feet. He moaned in pain, the pressure on the still injured feet intense. He was pushed to the small steps out of the pool, each guard pushing and pulling him out of the pool, and out of the small building. After all the time in the dark, the light in the compound was blinding. It made his head pound, as he was prodded across the compound to his cell. He was confused, delirious with fever and exposure.  He had lost all track of time, and had no idea what was next expected of him.

In spite of his intense pain, he was grateful when he was chained in place in the cell, standing in the center. At least he wasn’t being forced to chop down the trees or drag the logs.  Chained in place in the center of the cell, he stood. Fever, heat, humidity, insects and pain all took their toll as the long day progressed.  He was chained to the bed, then back to standing so many times, he lost count.  Finally, with the after the fall of darkness, a guard came into the cell, and released him from one more time from standing, fastening him to the bench. He immediately gave over to the unconsciousness. At least, asleep, he felt nothing. Nothing at all.

Etienne la Roche sat, reading a book, drinking an iced fruit drink, in the bright airy room, as he waited for the response form Michel Panault.  He enjoyed this room; he found it relaxing to be up here, above the lush rain forest. It was high enough to hide the rest of the prison compound from sight, and high enough to see the ocean and the rocky coast of the island, with out any of the ‘distractions’ of the prisoners below. His small, battery-operated record player played a record of classical music, and the soft strains of a Hayden piece drifted over the sound of the jungle. Were it not that he were waiting a response on the radio, he could easily lose himself in the aerie he had so carefully created, in sharp contrast to the horrors  inflicted on the poor creatures he so carefully tortured to their deaths. He needed beauty for his soul, and he had it here.

He sighed as he turned another page of his novel, he disliked waiting under ordinary circumstances, but it did give him time to enjoy this room. He tried to lose himself in the book, but his attention was distracted by the sounds of the animals outside. A man of his tastes and culture shouldn’t be condemned to this place, as exotic as the island was. He deserved much more, but he was lucky that his ‘sponsor’ had saved him from the prison he had been consigned to more than three decades ago. That sponsor had connected him with Panault and his movement on the Island. He had been able to secure the position of Commandant of the prison, and he kept his place, increasing his personal wealth, enabling him to do as he wished, regardless of the regime in power. The bottom line was that all the politicians feared him, and his knowledge. He could bring down any or all the political parties he chose, but this kind of power was better. His ‘sponsor’ had taught him well, to use them all, to further whatever his own agenda was. He didn’t want power, just wealth, and this way he was able to secure it, use it as he pleased, and enjoy his work.

Having been on the inside of prison treatment, la Roche had refined it to a level that few men survived. And those that did were never the same. In the last two decades, no prisoner had left the island alive. And no evidence of their time on the island existed, save in a small book, in la Roche’s safe, hidden in the post of his bed. Everything else, including the bodies, were destroyed as the prisoners died.

Layers of dirt were systematically replaced by the prisoners, all biologic materials mixing so no trace would ever be able to be found. Metals, restraints, feeding masks, anything used by the prisoners were melted down and recast, forever destroying physical evidence of a prisoner’s presence. Any of the guards with the slightest hesitation to an order was killed, as was the woman who was his companion, and they too were burned in death, and their articles similarly destroyed. The small group that manned the island was true to the death with the secret of its existence.

In reality, Etienne la Roche was a king with his own kingdom to do as he pleased. And he did, with the support of whatever regime was in power. 

He sighed again, more of habit than boredom. He turned the page, and as he did, the small buzzer on the radio went off.  A small strip of paper came from the tiny printer in the radio, the language, an obscure Hindu dialect, the code their own.

Etienne,

Do whatever you need to keep him alive. Ten-three-seven-three is to be our ‘guest’ for as long as possible. I want his superiors to be guessing about his disappearance for months. And I want him to know every possible type of pain and suffering you can inflict on him, short of killing him outright. Yes, do what you must to keep him alive and in extreme pain. For what he and his government did to our government, he deserves it all…

Michel

Etienne la Roche absentmindedly nodded to himself. He took the message to a small bowl, lit the paper and watched it burn. Once it was completely fine ash, he added water to it, poured it into a container, and added some soil from a nearby planter. Mixing them together, he then put the mix into a large planter, added some seeds, and watered it again. There would be no trace of the note. And he was also confident that no one picking up the signal would have any idea of what was said. His work and relaxation done, he left the room, locked the door, and returned to his office. He had some plans for his prisoner. He had to facilitate them. If Michel didn’t want him to die just yet, he would have to see that ten-three-seven three survived. Unfortunate for ten-three-seven-three, but there were means of extending his life, longer than the man could ever imagine.

At a remote CIA listening station on Madagascar, Brian Toole picked up the radio transmissions that passed between Panault and la Roche. They were coming from and going to what the 'analyst' thought of as an unimportant little republic and one of  its’ ancillary islands. The makeup of the message itself was pure gibberish, something he felt too complex to even bother with, given the source of the transmissions. He printed out the transmissions, and placed them in a file folder, marking it – Petit Bijou, and filed it in the file cabinet to be sent to Langley later in the week as was normal procedure for non-priority items.

Île Petit Morte - DAY FIVE

Any hope of respite was quickly taken away. Three times during the dark, he was roused from sleep, and stood for indeterminate time periods. After the third time, he was led out in the still darkness, fastened to the pole, and fed, then led out, still in the dark to chop down six trees, before he could claim any attempt at rest. Hours later, after a long day in his personal hell, working and being treated like nothing more than an animal, and once again in the dark, at the end of the days labor, he was led back to his cell, to begin the sleep/stand night that he was now expecting to experience.

His mind began to go to a hidden place, one that he had formed long ago, in the event of a situation he couldn’t cope with. His ONI training had taught him to go there, to mentally hide from the torture they might be subjected to. He decided to go there, with the knowledge that he may never return, but also knowing that it was better than where he was now. How long he lived would merely depend on how long his body could survive.

SSRN Seaview - DAY FIVE 

Once at Pearl, the Seaview quickly discharged her passengers, took on cargo, and prepared to sail at the Admiral’s orders. Nelson had arrived hours before the boat and was at COMSUBPAC HQ, storming at Jiggs Starke, on the phone with the SecNav, the CNO, the head of ONI, the Chief of Staff for the President...yelling at anyone who would listen to him, regardless of whether they wanted to or not.  When he finally decided that the yelling would do no further good, he stormed back into Jiggs Starke’s office, and handed the four-star admiral several manila envelopes.

"What the hell is this, Harriman?" Starke asked, looking down at the envelopes in front of him.

"Let's just say that I'm sick and tired of having my goddamn hands tied, so I'm untying them.  I've had enough of this bullshit!  I'll find Crane on my own."  He snatched up his cover from the edge of Starke's desk.

"Harriman, you can't do what I think you're trying to do..."

"The hell I can't.  Just watch me," and he started toward the door.

Morton and Sharkey had been waiting out in Commander Jackson's office, just outside Starke's, and when Nelson came storming out, the two men quickly picked up their covers and hurried out after him.  The Admiral went down the hall shouting to no on in particular where Starke could go and precisely how to get there.  Before Starke could say anything else, Nelson was in the base jeep and back at the boat. Exactly ten minutes after his visit with Jiggs, the Seaview was preparing to leave her berth and sail back towards Île Petit Bijou.

As he angrily entered his cabin, he quickly removed his tie and threw it on the bunk.  He unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up slightly, then sat down heavily behind his desk.  Harriman Nelson had handed Jiggs his removal from the Reserves, the removal of the Seaview from the Reserves, and papers making all of his officers and crew civilians, once and for all. There would be no more government crap for him or his men and boat! As an independent owner of the boat, he could go where he wanted and do what he wished. The only regulations he would now adhere to would be those imposed by the Federal Maritime Commission and they did not govern what he wanted to do - to find Lee Crane.

His captain and friend had been missing too long, and no one that should be doing something, was doing anything. There was no trace of the Captain; he had vanished, and so now, Nelson was going to take the bull by the horns and do it himself. And to do so, he had to call in the one favor that he knew he would need but hated to use.  The CIA had been a silent partner in the boat since she had her keel laid. It was the only way that ‘Nelson’s Folly’ was able to get launched. The agreement was that the CIA could use her when she was needed. And that she could get help from them as needed. To Harriman Nelson, this was an ‘as needed’ circumstance.

He gave Sparks a number to reach and told him to place it in his cabin. He then ordered Chip Morton to his cabin and left the bridge in Bobby O’Brien’s hands. He was sitting at his desk, and Chip Morton was leaning against the bulkhead, arms crossed on his chest. Chief Sharkey was sitting in the chair at the side of the desk. Lee’s ‘perch’ was deliberately clear. Nelson was smoking his third cigarette in five minutes, when Sparks called into the cabin.

“Admiral, your call has been scrambled and is ready.”

Nelson placed the cigarette in the ashtray, looked at the men in his cabin, and then picked up the phone.  “Briggs, I need your help. My Captain has vanished, and no one knows anything…”

Île Petit Morte - DAY SIX – Late Evening

Etienne la Roche finished his dinner. The china, silver and linens were pristine in the small dining room that glowed in the light of the many candles. The small, battery powered record player played soft, gentle music. La Roche was content. The small game bird in the rich sauce, with potatoes, gre