Date: Mon, 27 Mar 2017 17:57:54 +0100 (BST)
From: "rampage938@btinternet.com" <rampage938@btinternet.com>
Subject: THE JUDAS EFFECT 6

Chapter 6

Shane struggled hard to focus on the image in front of him, then took in a
sharp breath as he realised it was a photograph of a body hanging from an
overhead pipe in what could only be described as the interior of a small
cell in some kind of jail. The face was twisted into a hideous blue
gargoyle mask, the sockless, shoeless feet and arms covered in dried blood
from deep, jagged slashes hung down at freakish angles. He found it almost
impossible to tear his eyes away from the dreadful sight and looked
pleadingly at the interrogator, silently beseeching him to remove the
ghastly photograph.

"This one served at the submarine base at Lorient in France. He had arrived
in West Germany for a spell of shore duty and had soon gotten himself a
German boyfriend who, it later turned out, worked for the Stasi - you must
know who they are. The guy in the picture was stationed at NATO's Naval HQ
in Bremerhaven. He passed highly classified information to his "boyfriend,"
who in turn passed it on to his contacts. The trouble was we caught
them. When he was interrogated, he turned out to be just like you - an
unsophisticated lad from a hard working farming family. He had no
pretensions, no bullshit. It turned out he'd done what he did just because
his "boyfriend" had a big, thick, juicy dick. The victim was charged with
spying for the East Germans. He did not rate his chances very highly back
home in a military jail with the record he would have, so he checked out in
his cell one night. He used the sheet there in the picture to do it." It
was grotesque. Shane's interrogator dropped the next picture on to the
table. Try as he might, Shane could not resist the temptation to look at
it. A body was lying on what appeared to be an old filthy mattress. The
corpse seemed to be the remains of a girl with long blond hair, clad only
in a bra, garter belt, and high heels. Her entire pubic area was one mass
of blood and something obscenely bloody had been violently pushed into her
mouth.

"This one was a Brit, like you. Stationed at a NATO Army base in this part
of Germany. His little foible was he liked to dress up in drag. He also had
a civilian "boyfriend" but this one turned out to be a paid up member of
the dreaded Bader Meinhof gang. The "boyfriend" shopped him to us and in
due course we picked the bastard up and cheerfully handed him over to the
local Sicherheitskrafter. In revenge the Bader Meinhof bastards blackmailed
the lad and made him pass vital information to them concerning military
exercises involving multiple NATO units on land, in the air and at sea. He
did so for a while but eventually he got scared and decided he'd had
enough. They organised a party for him dressed like that before they
savagely hacked off his dick and balls and, as a final insult, stuffed them
in his mouth. Then they shot him - once - in the head. If you study that
photo closely you'll see where the bullet went in between his eyes. Pretty
people aren't they?"

Shane gagged, fighting to keep from passing out as he closed his eyes, the
images of the two dead boys burning into his eyelids, his brain trying not
to think of the second poor guy's last agony - watching his own genitals
being hacked off, then forced between his lips. "Look at them," the
American said sternly, "and believe me when I say your sort are marked by
every extremist political splinter group trying to steal secrets, by every
terrorist group trying to create anarchy, by every security agency, friend
or foe, as well. With the work you do, with the secret information you are
exposed to every day, you will be targeted until one of them, or us, gets
to you. They, or we, usually do. I believe a plain dishonourable discharge
would have been far better for those two guys than what actually happened
to them. Don't you?"

Shane could not find anything suitable to say against the man's
arguments. He was right. What on earth was worth losing your life for the
way these two unfortunate youths had lost theirs? Nothing. Purely and
simply - nothing. A dishonourable discharge would have meant they would
have lived the rest of their days with that stigma, only able to find work
at the meanest of jobs. At least they would be alive, able still to
appreciate a glorious sunset or the feeling of resurrection and a fresh
start in Spring after a hard Winter. Shane felt he was beaten, the whole
experience leaving him without any resistance whatsoever.

"But . . . why . . . I mean . . . why show me those horrific photos?" Shane
queried in a soft, melancholy voice.

"Because we believe you can help. You can help us and quite possibly help
yourself." Shane was silent for several minutes, then he uttered one word,
"How?"

The interrogator sat back in his chair, a faint smile of satisfaction on
his face. He was now totally relaxed as he realised this young man was
something of a cut above the rest of the stupid buggers he'd had to deal
with up to now. He looked directly at Shane and said, "First you have to
believe that it is imperative we flush out these homosexuals. We have to
identify them and get them safely out of the military community. For the
good of NATO and equally for their own individual good. We have to protect
them as much as we are protecting the West. A dishonourable discharge may
be hard for an individual to take, on the surface, but in the end it is
giving them their lives back. Do you understand?" Surprising himself, Shane
did understand what the man was saying but all he could reply was a feeble,
"Yes, sir." Shane still felt sick at heart but what the interrogator was
telling him made sense, perfect sense. He had to force himself to
acknowledge he was now branded as one of "these homosexuals". Nothing he
could say or do would convince these people of anything different. His
salvation had been placed firmly in his own hands. The man had paused, to
allow the significance of what he had said to sink in. Satisfied with the
result, he continued in a much quieter, softer voice.

"You are in exceptional circumstances to help us. I mean, you can interact
with them. You know, suck dick and all that. After all, you're one of
them. You can help us convince them to confess their homosexuality so that
we can get them out of harm's way."

"You mean, talk to them?" Shane was no longer completely following the
man's thinking.

"Well, yeah. Talk and . . . er . . . you know, engage with them."

Shane thought, "Engage with them? What the fuck did that mean? What the
hell's he talking about? Surely he does not mean . . . no, that could not
be what he meant." Or could it?

"Engage? Do you mean . . . you don't mean . . ." From the embarrassed look
on the man's face, Shane knew what he meant all right.

"Yeah. I mean engage them in . . . you know . . . get them to indulge with
you in pervy sex acts."

"Like with the cab drivers?"

"Yeah, like with the cab drivers. Except you would not be the mark
. . . they would."

"Your people would take photos? Haul them in here for interrogation? Get
them kicked out of the Services on a DD?"

"Yeah, you got it."

"You want me to help you do that? Help you to manipulate these guys to end
their careers and destroy their prospects for the future?" As he spoke,
Shane was surprised by the man suddenly losing his grip on the
situation. Never before had he been directly challenged like this by a
non-commissioned officer. He stood up and leant over Shane, his face a
distinctly dark red and his voice raised several decibels above normal.

"MANIPULATE? Goddamn it! Take another good look at those pictures, wise
guy! D'you think manipulation is worse than what the Bader Meinhof freaks
or the Stasi spooks did to those two? You goddamned faggot. You think being
some fucking radical's pussy boy until he gets what he's been after and
then tosses you aside like some shitty rag doll or hand you over to some
self-styled security agency as a spy is worse than being sent home to
mommy? Look again at those sickening pictures!" He was shouting now. Shane
forced himself to take another look at the horrors on the table in front of
him. His stomach heaved and he almost threw up at the sight.

"I don't know if I could do it, that's all," he said, almost pleading with
the guy. Calmer now, the man continued.

"What? You couldn't help us save some lives? Couldn't help us plug a
security leak here and there? You couldn't do something to make things
easier for yourself? You could make a try at possibly beating this rap,
have it expunged from your permanent Record of Service. Above all, you
would be doing your duty to your country." The possibility of "beating the
rap" hanging over him appealed more than the interrogator knew.

"Beat the DD?"

"Perhaps. It's a great possibility. We'll see how you do, monitor your
performance and trustworthiness, measure how cooperative you are. One thing
is for sure, we can make a big impact at any Court Martial, in your
favour." He had uttered the two words that had been in the back of Shane's
mind ever since he had been picked up but had been too fearful to formulate
himself - Court Martial.

"Maybe I could," he stammered, his mind already made up but his brain
unable to form a more adequate response.

"You've got just five minutes to decide. I'm gonna leave you alone to think
over all the pro's and con's for five minutes. Not a second longer. Then
you decide. If it's a No - well, we will have done our best to make you see
sense. You must remember, we've already got the paperwork ready to put you
away until you can be brought up to face charges. Oh, so many charges,
faggot!" He rose quickly, turned and strode out of the room, clanging the
door shut behind him, leaving Shane once more alone with his thoughts and
little else.

What choice did the young man have? If he was going to get out of this at
all, he knew he had to cooperate somehow. As his eyes inched across the
table almost against their will, he glanced at the pictures yet again. The
man had been right. Shane knew it deep in his heart. Had these two victims
of their own depraved carnality been caught by Security before they were
hoodwinked and blackmailed into revealing national and international
military secrets, breaching security and becoming spies, chances were they
would both still be alive.

The price he would have to pay for his immunity would be a high one. He
would become a pawn in a dangerous cat and mouse game. As his handler was
to put it to him at a later stage, "It takes a queer to catch a queer." He,
Shane Dawson, a nobody from an obscure town in England, would become their
queer, their "Judas". He would have to pay the high price demanded of him
over and over again, just to escape the dishonourable discharge that
awaited him if he so much as screwed up one task. He would be on the
shortest fuse possible, inhabiting his own kind of self-inflicted
prison. He knew he would have persistent doubts as to the decision he was
about to make. He told himself he would be doing more good than harm.

Shane thought he did believe the man when he had said that all of them in
Intelligence were targets, regardless of their actual nationality. Maybe,
just maybe, enticing some silly boy into doing something stupid and having
him caught would save his own career . . . and his life. Maybe Shane could
just do it - if he kept hold of that thought and kept the pictures he had
been shown in his brain. He could do this. Maybe . . . His interrogator
returned in exactly five minutes. He stood just inside the doorway and
asked the question, "Well, faggot, made your decision?"

Shane stood to attention and said, in a steady, strong voice, "Yes, sir. I
will do it."

The man walked over and sat down in the chair he'd previously occupied, a
broad smile breaking across his hitherto expressionless face. Shane,
however, felt totally drained of all feeling, his brain felt numb. He had
made his decision and must now wait for the outcome. The die was cast.

Next: Chapter 7

Laurie (Rampage938) 27/03/17