Considering torture

It all seemed so impossible—the explosion, the gunfire, the shouts. It was an operation that defied logic. No one could explain it. Even his most experienced advisors were stunned into a dull, thick state of shock. The surviving Secret Service agents were talking, blaming, pointing fingers—covering their asses. The President put his face in his hands and tried to think.

Just two hours earlier the day was unfolding as a rare, stress-free delight. He and the First Lady and their two daughters had flown via Marine One to Richmond, where they were making a photo-op visit to an inner city school that was showing promise using a newly-developed curriculum. The children were scrubbed and beaming, assembled on the playground in the shape of a big letter O. The President laughed out loud when he saw it, and treasured the look on his daughter’s faces as they realized what they were seeing out the window.

The helicopter touched down gently. The President stepped to the door and waved, then turned his back as he helped his girls down the steps. It all felt so good that he feared his grin would come across as goofy, but he just didn’t care. This was the change he’d dreamed would come about during his time in the White House.

Following a brief welcome and introduction ceremony by the school’s principal, the first family made their way into the school building for a tour. Each of the girls was assigned and honor roll escort, and the excitement was palatable. The President thought to himself he’d never felt more like the President than at this fine moment.

Suddenly, time slowed down. The President could remember every detail so very clearly, but it seemed to be a bizarre dream—a moment out of a science fiction movie. An overwhelming force threw him sideways, but there was no violent explosion. He felt himself in the air, then felt a blow to his ribs, and the taste of metal in his mouth as his head struck the floor. Panic swept over him like a rogue wave, and his mind could conjure only minor thoughts—Where is my wife? Where are my girls?

In seconds, the room was flooded with men firing automatic weapons. Seconds later, the room was awash in blood, and the smell of gunpowder. A Secret Service agent knelt to shout orders into his ear, only to fall across his chest lifeless before the first command could be understood. The President rolled out from under the dead agent, and rose to a crouch—he scanned the madness, thinking the same simple thoughts. Where is my wife? Where are my girls?

And then, it was over. Men in suits lay across the room, dead and dying. It was impossible to distinguish between the bodies of his Secret Service detail and the attackers. It was a hell he’d never imagined, and for the first time he managed another thought: Why am I alive? What do I do now? And once again—Where is my wife? Where are my children?

A group of men he did not recognize, dressed in riot gear, exploded through the cafeteria doors. How much time had passed? Ten seconds? Two minutes? He willed his mind to work, but the horror of it all was so foreign to him. The men surrounded him, lifted him and carried him out of the door in a well-rehearsed sprint. Back aboard Marine One, The President fought back his feelings of panic, and shouted at the agent who appeared to be in charge, “Where are my kids? Where is my wife?”

The agent spoke briefly into his headset, then looked The President in the eye. “We’re not sure, Mr. President. The React Team is sweeping the grounds—if I had to bet, I’d say their detail has them secured in a side room, waiting for an all-clear signal.”

Once back at the White House, The President struggled to keep his cool. It was obvious that every federal agent within a hundred miles was focused on the situation, but the minutes felt like hours. At last, his security chief approached. “We’ve got to get back aboard Marine One, Mr. President. I’ll brief you in the air.”

Three minutes later, they were airborne. The President was surprised by the relatively few people onboard, but said nothing. His security chief hung up his cell phone, and spoke.

“We got one of them—four blocks from the school, when he was trying to switch cars. He had the first lady in his van; Mr. President, she’s dead. He was planning to leave her there to be found, with a note pinned to her jacket. The React Team has the suspect onboard a helo out of Quantico, and we’re going to rendezvous with them at a CIA facility. We should arrive about fifty minutes after them.”

“Tell me what the note said.”

“It said you have twenty-four hours to resign from office on national television. Or your daughters die.”

The security chief’s phone rang, and The President motioned he should take the call. The remaining time on the flight The President sat in silence.

Marine One landed next to a barn, on what appeared to be a horse farm.

“What is this place?” he asked as the team moved towards the barn doors.

“This place doesn’t exist, Sir.”

Again, The President felt as though he was viewing a wild, three-dimensional movie. They entered the barn, only to find it empty, save for a wall-to-wall concrete slab, and a single elevator. The elevator ride took less than half a minute, and opened into an underground bunker complex. A man dressed in black stood in front of them when the doors opened.

“Mr. President, follow me,” he said. “The rest of you may be seated in the conference room at the end of this hall.”

“I want my security chief with me,” The President announced.

“No, Sir,” the man replied. “You do not.”

The President began to raise his voice when his security chief interrupted.

“He’s right, Mr. President.”

The President followed the man in black down a brightly lit corridor. At the end of the hall, they entered a gray, concrete room—the room was empty except for a six-foot commercial grade tool storage cabinet. The President also noticed a drain in the center of the floor, and a number of eye bolts rising up from the smooth cement floor.

“Here’s the deal, Mr. President. It appears we are dealing with a very organized, extremely professional white supremacist group. This guy looks as cool, and as mean, as anyone I’ve ever encountered.”

“What’s he said?”

“Nothing. He asked for his lawyer.”

“I’m told the note said twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours before my daughters are killed.”

“I’m aware that, Sir.”

“Well, we don’t have time to get him a lawyer—we need him to talk!”

“I would agree with that assessment, Sir.”

“Can you make him talk?”

“Using the tools inside that tool chest there, I could get Osama Bin Laden to convert to Christianity.”

“Do it,” The President said.

“Sorry, Mr. President. The Attorney General is investigating torture allegations. We have agents that are going to go to jail. I can’t help you.”

“These are my children,” hissed The President. “My children.”

“It’s always someone’s children, Sir.”

“I will grant you amnesty! This is an issue of national security!”

“Let me ask you, Mr. President: Don’t you think national security is always involved in these things? Or do you think we do it to people just for fun?”

The door opened behind them, and a man strapped into a dental chair was wheeled into the room. Without a word, the attendant used come-along straps to secure the chair to the eye bolts, then exited without making eye contact. The man in black checked the restraints, and applied another strip of duct tape on the prisoner’s mouth.

“The good news, Mr. President, is this ain’t rocket science. The key is to get him dislike the pain more than he loves his cause.”

“But he’ll say anything to stop the pain,” The President countered. “How will we know if it’s true?”

The man in black smiled sadly.

“It goes like this: You hurt him until he talks. You tell us what he said, and we go into rescue mode. But, there’s a catch—you keep hurting him until you hear from us that the girls are safe. It motivates him, see? Motivates him to talk early, and give us the fastest way to get the girls back. Just explain the rules to him.”

“I can’t do this,” The President said.

“You’re call. But I’d encourage you to take some time to think it over. If you decide you’d rather get him a lawyer, let me know. I’ll be out in the hall.”

The man in black closed the door behind him, and sat down to wait.