Several hours later, the steel door to Kael’s cell blew open and two heavily armed guards stepped partially inside, looking menacingly around for a moment before reaching down and pulling Andrews up from the floor.

The brash young soldier’s eyes widened in fear and his dark skin paled for a moment before the customary smirk reappeared over his broad features. “Give it your best shot, coppers,” he said in his best James Cagney accent. “You’ll never get me to rat.”

The smart remark earned him a hard shot across the jaw, but Andrews refused to let his knees buckle. Turning his head toward his companions, he flashed them a brief, confident smile before he was dragged from the cell, leaving his two squad mates to stare at one another in silence.

The poke to the jaw did nothing to ease the pounding in his head, Andrews observed as he was dragged along through the twisting corridors of the underground structure. Adapt and overcome was one of the mottoes of the Corps and he tried to do both. He really did. It was, however, a bit difficult trying to adapt when one saw everything in quintuplicate. Overcoming was damn near impossible.

Instead, he just went along for the ride, spying everything through a fog of pain and nausea which clenched sickly at his belly as if it had grown roots and planned staying on awhile. He was thankful to whichever gods might have had pity on poor Marines when he was finally dragged through one last doorway and thrown into a hard, high-backed wooden chair. His cuffs were released, then his arms were bound in back of the chair, stretching the muscles in his shoulders to the point of protestation.

His pain calmed some as his vision eased back into sharp focus. Taking advantage of what was sure to be an all too brief respite, the soldier looked around at his new accommodations. It appeared he was in an office of some sort, quite Spartanly decorated. A desk filled much of the space and a large picture of Saddam Hussein hung behind it, bordered by the Iraqi flag on one side and the banner of the Republican Guard on the other. The floor was cheaply tiled and barren of any coverings. Andrews smirked internally. ‘It’s gotta be a bitch to get the blood out of Berber.’

Seated behind the desk, resplendent in his Guard uniform, was obviously the Commandant of this little pleasure camp, his black, close cropped hair gleaming in the mellow light. A luxuriant mustache sprouted beneath his nose and the man stroked it reflexively as he attended his paperwork, giving off the calculated air of a man much too busy to have time to deal with ruffians such as the one now seated before him.

After a long moment of silence, the man’s dark, cunning eyes lifted from the desktop, scanning the seated form of Andrews with as much fascination as one would spy a particularly interesting insect on the sidewalk. He looked at the guards bracketing Andrews like bookends, speaking rapidly to them. Both men nodded and grabbed their weapons to their chests, standing like statues.

Finally, the man looked back at Andrews, smiling slightly and stroking his moustache again. He fired off another rapid sentence, then sat back in the chair awaiting a response.

Unfortunately for the Marine, Andrews was a last minute addition to the squad, having been called up from a cushy job stateside when the original explosives expert came down with the flu. As such, his training in the local flora and fauna of Iraq left much to be desired. He neither spoke nor understood a word of Arabic.

Never one to allow such a minute detail disrupt his work, Andrews met the patiently waiting look from the Commandant with a challenging stare of his own. His effort was rewarded by a rifle butt to the stomach and he hunched over, gasping for air, suddenly thankful that he’d skipped breakfast that morning. Looking back up, Andrews shot another challenging glare toward his tormenter and was again rewarded with a blow to the stomach, leaving him breathless and coughing.

Getting his breathing back under control, the Marine gathered his wits and straightened slowly, trying to adopt a casual posture against the snakes of pain in his guts. “Listen, Colonel Klink,” he said in the strongest voice he could muster, “it should be obvious to you by now that I don’t understand a word you’re saying. You could jabber at me like a monkey on the rag till the next millennium and I still wouldn’t understand ya. So why don’t you just cut to the chase, beat the crap outta me like a good little thug and take me back to my buddies, huh?”

His breath came out in a gush and he swore he could feel the weapon’s stock against his spine as the next blow to his stomach came full force. The world around him greyed out for a moment, and when he came to, the Commandant was slowly getting up from behind his desk, meticulously straightening the creases in his uniform. He favored Andrews with a toothy smile. “You Americans are so predictable,” the man said in English so lightly accented that Andrews knew he had spent quite some time in the States. “All bluster and bravado, yet when it comes right down to it, softer than the belly of a pig.”

“You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree, m’man,” Andrews retorted. “I’m about as American as Mao T’se Tung.” Two rifle stocks jammed into the nerves of his shoulders, slamming the Marine back against the hard wood of the chair, a hiss of pain escaping through tightly pursed lips.

“You take me for a fool,” the man observed, coming around to the front of the desk and perching against it with one hip, casually studying his fingernails. “No matter. What you lack in bravery, you in no way make up for in civility. I, however, am a man of good breeding. I can be polite, even if my guests don’t understand the meaning of the word.” He pressed down the fabric of his uniform jacket, then braced his palms against the desk, leaning forward slightly. “My name is Kamran Al-Hassein and I am the commander of this Unit. And you, my American friend, were caught trespassing on my land. I would like to talk with you about this. Civilly. Why don’t we start with your name?” Al-Hassein smiled again, spreading his hands. “After all, you know mine.”

Andrews smirked. “John Fuckin’ Doe. Next question?”

At the Commander’s nod, two rifle stocks came down on the long muscles of the soldier’s thigh. Andrews cried out in pain, slumping in the chair once again, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead and under his nose. “Your name, American.”

“Benito Mussolini from Bum Fuck, Egypt,” Andrews gasped out. A thundering blow to his jaw snapped the Marine’s head back against the chair and the world spun crazily on its axis for long seconds.

“Your name.”

“Dom Perignone, 1936,” the soldier moaned. A blow to his right collarbone, the bone snapping like a rifle shot, the sound echoing throughout the sterile room.

Al-Hassein walked over to the semi-conscious man, lifting the sopping hair and peering into the soldier’s pain glazed eyes. “Why do you have to make things so hard on yourself, my friend?” False compassion rang through his voice. “The pain will end if you just tell me your name.”

Andrews gathered what little bilious spit was left in his mouth and shot it at the Commander’s face, hitting him directly between bushy black eyebrows.

Al-Hassein stepped back, wiping the spittle from his brow and nodding to one of the guards. Andrews screamed as the butt of the man’s rifle came directly down between his spread thighs, squashing his genitals like a ripe melon. The Marine’s arms and legs drew inward as he hunched over, vomiting squarely into his abused lap. Then he passed out cold.

Sighing and shaking his head, Al-Hassein cleaned his wet fingers on an immaculate white handkerchief. “Take him down to his friends,” he ordered the guards in Arabic. “Unbind the others and let them live with his pain tonight. We’ll start up again tomorrow.”

“Yes, my Commander,” one of the guards intoned. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“No food or water for any of them. Oh, and make sure none of them gets a wink of sleep tonight. That will be all.”

“Yes, Commander.” Unbinding the unconscious soldier from the chair, the guards removed him from the room.

Pressing his handkerchief back into his pocket, Al-Hassein returned to his seat behind his desk, sighing again. “Americans,” he mused sadly as he picked up his pen. “Such pitiful representatives of humanity. The world will be much better off without them.”

Only the walls of the office heard his thoughts as the Commander returned to work.

The slamming open of the steel door scared Reingold out of a year’s worth of growth and he jumped up from his place by the drain, barely avoiding the body of Andrews as it was thrown into the cell. The guards laughed and retreated from the cell, slamming the door tightly shut behind them.

Kael gathered the young man up in her arms and gently turned him over so his face could be seen. Dried blood crusted around his nostrils and mouth. One side of his jaw sported massive swelling and the first hints of horrid bruising that seemed to take shape before their eyes, competing with a day’s growth of beard for space on his face.

“Aww shit, Gunny,” Reingold whispered, taking stock of his companion. “What did they do to him?”

“A little manual persuasion,” Kael replied shortly, noting the fractured collarbone by the odd angle of the Marine’s right arm. Laying the unconscious body gently down on the wet ground, she lifted the front of his thin robes, baring Andrews’ swollen abdomen.

“Aww bloody fuck,” Reingold whispered again, taking in the injuries. “Think he’s got something busted inside?”

Kael gently probed the muscled abdomen, feeling for warmth or involuntary guarding. “No. These guys know what they’re doing. They want us around for awhile yet.” Her eyes tracking down to the massively swollen bulge hidden beneath Andrews’ Marine issue Jockeys, Kael took a deep breath and gently tugged them down by the waistband.