Spiders from the Shadows

ELEVEN


Raven Rock (Site R), Underground Military Complex, Southern Pennsylvania


It was a simple device: small, easy to use, accurate, and lethally intrusive. Developed for. One step. Two steps. llShe really didn’t know. critical and time-sensitive interrogations on the battlefield, the device was no more complicated to operate than a cell phone. Slip the sensors on. Ask some questions. Wait for the light. Red light, the subject was lying; yellow, the computer didn’t know; green, the subject was telling the truth.

Accurate to something more than ninety-two percent, the computer was no larger than a deck of cards with a couple of wires attached, two electrodes that measured the subject’s stress through changes in electrical conductivity under the skin, a third that evaluated cardiovascular activity through a pulse oximeter on the fingertip, and a clip on a fold of the skin under the elbow that measured blood pressure. The military called it the Preliminary Credibility Assessment Screening System (“PCASS”), and though the early versions had been troublesome, the algorithms coming under constant stress and tweaking, the latest models were as accurate as any polygraph ever made. Initially envisioned as a combat triage device to identify who or what situation needed attention first, the PCASS had proven to be an extremely accurate, easy to administer, highly portable polygraph device. It was this simple: Pull the subject aside. Slip on the sensors. Give the subject instructions: Look at me. Answer all my questions. Is it raining right now? Do you have shoes on your feet? What color is my name tag? Look at your watch and tell me what time it is. OK. Good. Now, what is your name? Where do you live? Did you admire Osama bin Laden? Who are your friends? Are you associated with any militia? Do you support your government leaders? Do you have any weapons? Are you a member of the Taliban? Do you know how to work with explosives or any other dangerous material? Have you ever contemplated or plotted to harm Americans?

It was like talking to a prophet. The controller of the PCASS could discover anything.

Because the PCASS had proven extremely effective, over time its uses had been expanded into other areas of interrogation, most of which were legal, but some of which were not.

* * * * * * *

Even though deception measures had proven completely ineffective against the PCASS, the group had still ordered sodium pentothal to be administered to James to bring him completely under their control. The professional interrogators had argued against the drug, knowing it was unnecessary, but the group had a proven zealousness that amounted to overkill. It simply wasn’t in their nature to take chances, their operating philosophy falling more in line with “Why drop a single bomb when a dozen bombs will do?”

James was propped up in a chair, the drugs flowing heavily through his veins, dilating his eyes and lowering his pulse and blood pressure until his head bobbed atop his neck as if suspended on a string. His eyes were unfocused, his lips pulled back in a grimace of a smile. The PCASS electrodes were slipped around his fingers and under his arm, and the questions began. They started out very simple, then became more probing, more dangerous, more telling and instructive as the interrogation wore on. Inside the functioning part of his mind, deep inside his ventromedial prefrontal cortex where his moral compass and ethical judgment resided, James struggled with all his might to keep from answering, but the mental resistance he tried to exercise never quite made it to the surface of his brain. As hard as he tried, the answers were impossible to avoid. He tried to lie. The interrogator caught him. James tried remaining silent. The sodium pentothal made him talk. And some of the questions didn’t need a truthful answer; knowing when he was lying was enough.

“Is Brucius Marino alive now?”

A long hesitation.. Which was fine with tw

“Is Brucius Marino alive?”

Finally a struggled answer. “I don’t know.”

Red light. With one option eliminated from a yes-or-no question, they didn’t need to ask again.

“Does Brucius Marino realize he’s next in line of succession to be the president of the United States?”

A very long pause. A very pained face. Eyes rolling. Dry lips smacking.

“Answer the question for us. Does Brucius Marino believe he has a claim upon the presidency of the United States?”

“I don’t know.”

Another red light. Another lie. Again, no reason to follow this line of questioning any further.

“Is he planning at this time to make a claim upon the presidency?”

Another long moment of hesitation. “No, I don’t think so.”

A couple of seconds for the computer and monitors to evaluate, then another red light.

Even as he answered their questions, stabs of fear cut through James’ mind. He knew what he was saying but he couldn’t stop himself. Deep in his brain, he focused his determination, willing himself to say the right thing, willing himself not to tell them everything, willing himself to shut his mouth and not say anything at all. “SHUT UP! SHUT UP, YOU FOOL!” he screamed from deep inside himself. But the heavy drugs had made him talkative, giving him a false sense of contentment that led to a willingness to share his secrets with his new friends.

In the end, his resistance didn’t matter. Despite his best efforts to deny them, it took only a few hours until they knew.

* * * * * * *

Minutes after the interrogation was over, a small group of men gathered in the private office of the president.

“Brucius Marino is alive,” the first man said.

The other men demurred. They had suspected he was out there somewhere, but this was not welcome news.

“He’s holed up in the Strategic Command Operations Center out at Offutt.”

More murmurs. It was the last place they wanted him to be.

“We could kill him,” one man offered. He was the new FBI Director and had always favored the most direct approach. “Better to eliminate him before he can do us damage.”

Five minutes of conversation followed. Most of the men agreed.

Then the old man stepped forward, the air pungent with his smell. “Yes, we could kill him,” he offered simply. On the surface it appeared that he was seeking their support, but none of them bought it. They all knew the final decision would be his. “As a matter of principle, I think we’ve pretty much established that we’ll do what we have to do in order to make this work. But there are important considerations before we take such a course. And the truth is, my good brothers, there’s a better way. There is something we could do that would utterly eliminate Secretary Marino as a threat, perhaps more effectively than if we put a bullet in his head. More importantly, my suggestion has the added and powerful benefit of establishing our authority while legitimizing our new government and making everything that we do after this perfectly justifiable and legal.”

The men fell silent. Whatever he came up with, they knew it would be brilliant, and the He wet his lips and ro fingery knew that it would work.

“How many members of the Unites States Congress are still alive?” the old man asked.

“One hundred and twelve,” the FBI Director answered. “Thirty-eight senators, seventy-four congressmen.”

“How many of them are here in Raven Rock?”

“All but twelve. The others are in various stages of arrival, but it may take a few days. A couple of them—”

The old man raised his hand. “It doesn’t matter. We have enough,” he said.

* * * * * * *

It took almost a day to complete the second interrogation. All they were trying to do was gather enough video footage of James Davies talking to be useful. To do that, they had to moderate the drugs to make him coherent yet sedated enough to keep him under their control. In the end, it proved to be impossible. He was simply too bullheaded, his will too strong to get anything useful without showing the obvious effect of the drugs.

“It doesn’t do us any good to put him in front of the cameras if he looks like he’s stoned out of his mind!” the old man screamed. “Go back! Try agaare more of us