Tiger War by Don Pendleton Page B

have given him an Oscar. "Do you realize the consequences?" he asked.
    "I have nothing to say," Bolan intoned once again.
    The interrogator sighed. "Very well." He looked in the direction of the men on the bench and nodded.
    A curtain was pulled back, and an arc light went on. Bolan's blood froze. The light lit up a corner of the room with an overhead metal bar and a stool. On the floor lay a pair of wires with metal clamps at their ends. Bolan could imagine to where the other ends led — to a hand-pedaled electric generator similar to the one they had left behind with the busted radio.
    Hands roughly grabbed his collar, and he was dragged to the corner.
    With practiced movements the men attached a chain to his handcuffs, threw it over the bar, and pulled him up so he hung from the bar, his toes just touching the floor. Only then did he realize that they had just cuffed his ankles as well.
    A soldier undid his trousers and pulled them down along with his underpants. Another stuck a bucket up to him and made a gesture that he should urinate. They did not want him to mess up the floor. He did as he was told because there was a man with a raised rubber truncheon ready to encourage him, making it obvious which part of the body he would strike.
    The clamps were attached, one to the skin of his testicles, the other to his left earlobe. For the ear a soldier climbed on the stool. Another brought a wet towel that he passed to the man on the stool. The first soldier squeezed some water on the clamp to improve conductivity. Then he jumped off the stool and repeated the process on the genital clamp.
    The victim ready, the men disappeared beyond the light, taking the stool with them. Bolan hung from the bar, handcuffs biting into his wrists, the bright light burning the retinas of his eyes. He could see nothing beyond the light; everything was in darkness. The room fell still.
    "Now then," the interrogator's voice spoke from the darkness, "permit me to remind you that the pain will accumulate as we proceed. What is more, the pain will last a long time. You would be well advised not to delay answering for too long. What is your name, please?"
    There was a deathly hush. Bolan replied, "I have nothing to say."
    A chair scraped, there was the sound of a turning dynamo, and Bolan gasped as electricity flowed through his body. The gasp turned to a scream as the soldier hand-pedaled faster and the voltage built up. As he screamed, the whirling stopped.
    "I am sorry for causing you pain," the interrogator's voice said, "but you really leave us no choice. I must remind you of what this is doing to your body. The damage could be permanent. What is your name, please?"
    "I have nothing to say," Bolan groaned.
    The generator whirled. Only this time it went on and on, the sound of the dynamo mixing with Bolan's repeated screams, the electricity sending his body into spasms, contorting his face. When it stopped, his testicles were on fire and he was gasping for air; the current had prevented him from breathing.
    A soldier stepped forward with the stool and the wet towel. He climbed the stool and squeezed more water on Bolan's ear, repeated the process on the other clamp, then disappeared into the darkness. Bolan hung from the bar, panting, his body covered in sweat, the light burning his face, throat parched, tears filling his eyes.
    "Once again," said the interrogator's voice. "What is your name, please?"
    "I... have... nothing... to... say," Bolan groaned.
    A warm glow was spreading through his testicles as the body's defense mechanism began anesthetizing. But his torturers were experienced men and knew this. So when the man by the generator pedaled, he did so much faster, boosting the voltage far above what he had given Bolan before. The current seared through Bolan's body, transforming him into a screaming puppet, the twitching body dancing like the paper skeleton by the ancestral altar in the headman's hut, his handcuffs rattling against the metal