Undersea Prison s-4

by Duncan Falconer

  ‘They won’t survive,’ Gann said reassuringly, as if Mandrick needed convincing.

  ‘That will be unfortunate,’ Mandrick said, checking a screen on his computer monitor. ‘Ferry four is officially operable.’

  Gann knew nothing about Mandrick beyond his role in the prison. He suspected that the man might be weak. Treating him as a boss was an act. Mandrick was the warden but Gann did indeed answer directly to others and looked upon his official prison duties simply as a cover for his real purpose. Mandrick’s cold willingness to be complicit in the deaths of so many people did, however, impress Gann. Mandrick obviously had to have some kind of background that qualified him for the position. But what Gann didn’t know he didn’t particularly care about as long as it did not directly affect him.‘It must be important,’ Gann said, wondering if Mandrick knew more about what lay behind the plot.

  Mandrick would not tell Gann the precise nature of the problem, that the victim was an FBI agent - it might even have negative implications if he did. This sabotage was a serious act of desperation and had ‘endgame’ stamped clearly right through it.The writing was on the wall.

  Mandrick didn’t want anyone prematurely jumping ship, not before him. If the feds were snooping around it was a warning that the party was coming to a close. The death of one of their agents might only accelerate it. But perhaps the end could be delayed, which was clearly what the Agency was hoping for. It suited Mandrick too.The mine was still generating cash while the CIA was extracting information from Taliban and al-Qaeda insurgents. All affected parties wanted it to go on for as long as possible.

  Mandrick made a mental note to start putting together his escape plans in greater detail.‘We can afford to have at least one serious mishap, I suppose,’ he said as he touched a button on his desk and another gush of air announced the opening of the door.

  Gann smirked, wondering if Mandrick knew anything at all. He walked out of the room.

  The door closed behind him with a clunk and yet another hiss of air and Mandrick looked once more at the names of the men who were going to die. He dropped the paper onto his desk, walked over to an antique bureau, opened it up and took out a bottle of fine Scotch. He poured himself a small glass and took a sip.

  Chapter 8

  The prison truck slowed to a crawl in order to negotiate a fat speed-bump, its chains and metal innards rattling as it lurched over it. Out of the corner of his eye Stratton watched the guard pull himself to his feet.

  Jerry had scrutinised Stratton when he’d eventually climbed back inside the van after the police had arrived at the scene of the escape on the highway. The guard’s expression conveyed his irritation with the prisoner for not being of any help to the investigators.

  While a medic had cleaned Stratton’s wounds and inspected his body for anything more serious a police officer had questioned him. For the most part Stratton just shook his head and mumbled how he had seen nothing. They eventually left him alone, unsure if he was telling the truth or simply protecting a fellow con. Stratton felt confident that neither of the guards was suspicious about his identity.They were preoccupied by their own problems and were also still suffering some minor after-effects of the strobe.

  Before the police had arrived the guards had huddled outside the truck, trying to clarify the events leading up to the escape. They were worried about their descriptions of the strange hypnotic device and wondered if they would be taken seriously. Harry described a multicoloured flashing light while Chuck remembered the man in the bushes pointing something at them that was not a gun. Jerry could only remember feeling nauseous, followed by an intense paranoid feeling that he was going to die. It all sounded too much like science fiction.

  The first thing the police did on hearing the story was to breathalyse all three of them and then take samples of their blood for testing. The cops eventually provided an escort for the rest of the journey while the investigation continued.

  Stratton was pleased with how it had gone. He had successfully passed through the phase that many in the planning department had considered the greatest gamble - mainly because it had been left entirely up to the Americans who had failed to send through a photograph of Nathan Charon to confirm the degree of likeness between him and Stratton. Handing control of such an important segment of the operation over to any other outfit had always been going to be difficult but the Yanks had, Stratton reckoned, just about come through, with a little help from Todd’s fists. So far, so good. The rest of the journey into the prison would be relatively straightforward.

  The vehicle continued slowly around a tight corner before it came to a stop. The guard walked to the rear doors and waited beside Stratton.The outside latch was pulled aside with a heavy clunk and fluorescent light spilled into the cabin as the doors creaked open.

  Jerry climbed out of the back and exchanged greetings with several men. Another guard climbed in and unshackled Stratton from his wrist and ankle chains. ‘Let’s go,’ he said and Stratton got to his feet. ‘Prisoner coming out!’ he shouted and Stratton was helped down.

  ‘Stand still,’ Stratton was ordered as his feet touched the concrete floor surface inside a large hangar. A robust wire-mesh belt was fastened around his waist and his hand shackles were secured to it, in front of his stomach.

  Chuck appeared from the front cab, holding out a box file. ‘Here’s his files,’ he said to the handover guard who took the metal box.

  ‘Hey, you managed to bring half of ’em home,’ the handover guard said sarcastically, much to the amusement of the others. ‘Walk on,’ he said to Stratton as another guard joined them.

  Several more prison wagons were parked around the hangar, with clusters of guards standing around them, chatting and smoking. Stratton walked up a short flight of metal stairs onto a concrete platform and stopped in front of a heavy-duty steel door. The handover guard pressed a button on the wall by the door, a buzzer sounded inside and he looked up at a video camera. ‘Come on, wake up,’ he mumbled impatiently. Seconds later there was an electrical buzz followed by a clunk.

  The guard pulled the steel door open and Stratton was led into a white room where a female officer seated inside a steel cubicle watched them from behind a thick glass window. The guard bringing up the rear closed the door behind them and a red light above another steel door on the other side of the room turned green. ‘Walk on,’ the female officer said over a loudspeaker.

  The two guards moved Stratton towards the door, one of them in front, the other behind. The handover guard pushed open the steel door and they entered a sterile concrete corridor with a high ceiling. Halfway along they turned and entered a room with yet another heavy steel door already open.

  Stratton was led to a metal bench that was bolted to the wall.When he sat down a chain attached to the bench was threaded through rings on his mesh belt and fastened with a lock.The handover guard left the room while the other stayed by the door, one hand on his holstered baton alongside a Mace dispenser, a zapper and a radio.

  ‘You’re gettin’ booked in,’ the remaining guard said in a Southern drawl.‘Gonna be a while.You need the can?’

  Stratton shook his head.

  ‘That’s just fine,’ the guard said, taking a toothpick from his pocket to service his tobacco-stained teeth.

  Stratton remained in silence for almost an hour before the handover guard returned to release him from his seat and lead him out of the room. The trio continued to the end of the corridor, their footsteps echoing, and through another door. They had to wait until the entry door had locked magnetically before the exit door was unlocked by an officer inside a bulletproof cubicle.

  Stratton was ushered into another room where four male prisoners wearing the same uniform as him were chained to a long metal bench. Stratton was placed at the end of the row where he was secured beside a surly unshaven individual who ignored him.

  An older guard walked in, carrying a clipboard. Judging by his demeanour he was the senior officer. He stopped in the c
entre of the room, planted his feet wide and addressed the group. ‘Listen up,’ he said in a gravelly voice. A couple of the prisoners sat up but the rest ignored him. ‘You’ve arrived at Styx transfer point. Shortly you’ll be moved to the dock where you’ll board a boat that’ll take you to the ferry platform. From there you’ll commence the final leg of your journey. Did anyone have a problem understanding what I just said?’

  A dirty-brown-skinned Latino inmate with a straggly goatee glanced up at the senior guard, a quizzical expression on his face.

  ‘Comprende, Ramos?’ the senior guard asked him. Ramos shrugged to convey his ignorance, a malicious smirk on his face.

  ‘Give Ramos the Spanish card,’ the senior guard said. One of his colleagues responded by walking over to Ramos and holding a plastic card in front of him. It had the requisite information written on it in Spanish.

  ‘I take it you can read?’ the senior guard muttered. Ramos glanced over the card, shrugged again and muttered something that amused only himself.The guard returned to his position.

  The senior guard walked to a steel door at the end of the room, reached for a small hatch at face level and opened it. He pulled a two-way radio to his mouth as he looked through the opening. ‘Transfer room to dock . . . Transfer room to dock.’ ‘Dock reading you loud and clear,’ a voice crackled over the radio.

  ‘This is Perkins, senior watch. Those guys from Styx ready for transfer of five packages to the dock?’

  ‘That’s an affirmative. Officer coming up now.’

  A look of irritation passed across the senior guard’s face as he closed the hatch and turned to look at the prisoners.There was a deafening silence, one that Ramos chose to break with an extended fart.

  ‘You fuckin’ stink, Ramos,’ said a large, muscular, tattooed neo-Nazi beside him.

  ‘Shut it,’ the senior guard said before Ramos could respond. ‘You’re still mine until you get on that boat and I ain’t too pleasant if you get me riled.’

  The other guards remained watching silently, their cold expressions reflecting their boss’s threat.

  A minute later a clunk signalled that the outer door had been unlocked. The senior guard checked through the hatch once more before unlocking the door on his side.

  It opened to reveal a Styx prison guard in his tailored one-piece lime-green uniform.‘Hi,’ the Styx guard said, a broad smile on his face that was destined to irritate anyone who saw it.

  The senior guard retained his grim look as he checked his clipboard. ‘You Gann or Palanski?’

  ‘I’m Palanski.’

  The senior guard handed Palanski a sheet of paper from the clipboard.‘You taking any of your stores down with you this trip? They’re piling up all over my goddamned hangar.’

  ‘Sorry. Not this time. I hear they’re gonna be runnin’ ferries all day tomorrow, shippin’ stores.’

  ‘They better be.’

  Palanski smiled again as he finished reading the paper, took a pen from his breast pocket and signed the bottom of it.

  ‘No matter how often I see that uniform I can’t help thinking how cute it is,’ the senior guard said mockingly.

  His fellow guards grinned. There was a distinct one-sided animosity between the regular land-based prison guards and their Styx equivalents. The land guards resented the sizeable disparity between their perks and remunerations and those of the Styx custodians. The rumour was that with bonuses and special allowances the undersea guards got twice the annual pay of the land ones. It was also well known that, apart from the negative aspects of living under pressure at the bottom of the sea, the Styx amenities such as food and leisure facilities were of a far higher standard.

  ‘It is kinda nice, ain’t it?’ Palanski replied, not remotely insulted. Indeed, the Styx guards were quite used to being needled by their surface colleagues. ‘Designed by Ralph Lauren, tailored to the individual, breathable fabric for added comfort. Oh, and a real large wallet pocket inside the jacket . . . for extra-large wallets.’ A wink finished off the rejoinder.

  The senior guard’s smirk turned into a scowl. ‘Let’s do it,’ he said and stepped outside as one of his men took over his position and closed the door.

  Stratton looked down the line of prisoners, a variety of disagreeable-looking individuals.The man beside him finally glanced at him but when Stratton met his gaze he looked away.

  A few minutes later the door opened and the senior guard stepped back into the room while Palanski waited outside.The prisoner closest to the door was unshackled. ‘On your feet,’ the senior guard said. The prisoner was escorted out of the room and the door was secured once again.

  Several minutes later the guards returned to collect the next prisoner and the process was repeated. Ten minutes later Stratton was the last remaining prisoner and the guards returned to unshackle him. ‘On your feet.’

  As Stratton stepped through the door and walked through a narrow low-ceilinged hangar he could smell the distinctive odour of ripe sea kelp and hear the distant cavernous echo of lapping water. A curtain of mildew-stained overlapping strips of opaque plastic hung from the ceiling across the width of the hangar.The escorting guard pushed through, holding it open for Stratton.The hangar continued for a short distance, the concrete floor meeting a flight of metal steps that led down onto a landing made of heavy steel girders. As Stratton walked along it he could see black lapping water through the chequered metal pattern of the flooring.

  Up ahead, moored alongside one of several landing fingers, was a low, slender fibreglass passenger craft, its cabin and cockpit enclosed. Gann stood on the open aft deck, eyeing him coldly.

  Stratton was led up a short gangway and onto the deck. Gann took hold of him brusquely and shoved him towards the opening into the cabin. Stratton ducked inside to find the other four prisoners already shackled to a long metal bench. Palanski was standing at the far end of the cabin, his back to a couple of pilots inside the sealed cockpit. Gann followed Stratton inside and after chaining him into his seat he went back outside to complete the exchange formalities with the senior guard.When he returned he shut the door behind him, leaving two guards outside on the aft deck pulling on life jackets.

  Gann unhooked a handset from the wall and held it to his mouth.‘Clear to depart,’ he said before returning the handset to its clip. His words were echoed over a speaker by the pilot and the engine revved loudly. A large door at the end of the hangar opened, pulled up into the ceiling, and the boat puttered through it.

  ‘Should for any reason the boat develop problems and begin to sink a device at the end of the row might be activated that will release your chains,’ Gann said. ‘You notice I said “might”.’ He grinned. ‘The mood I’m in right now it ain’t gonna happen so do something to cheer me up . . . Under your seats you’ll find life jackets. I’m supposed to show you how to put them on like I was an air hostess but you’ll figure ’em out for yourselves if you need to. Anyone don’t understand what I’m saying, then tough shit,’ he said, looking at Ramos whose sudden smirk implied that he understood well enough. Gann smiled back for just a second.

  The sun spilled in through the windows as the boat moved out of the hangar and the grey ocean took up the forward panorama. A prisoner said something to the one beside him and Gann walked down the narrow aisle and stopped in front of the offending talker. ‘I’m gonna say this just once, fuckwit. No one talks on this boat except me . . . and Mr Palanski.You belong to me now. This ain’t like the cushy little numbers you just left,’ he said, addressing all of them. ‘You have any complaints, you talk to me. Any problems, you talk to me. Just one word of advice, though. I don’t like people talking to me. Got that?’

  ‘Whatever you say, boss man,’ the prisoner replied, sarcasm clear in his tone.

  Gann slammed him brutally across the face with the back of his hand and leaned in even closer as if he wanted to bite the prisoner’s face off. ‘I said no talking - and no fucking attitude, neither. Now. You got any complaints?’

&
nbsp; The man licked his split lip, tasting the blood as he looked at Gann with death in his eyes. But, wisely, he choked back his response.

  ‘Learn fast. It’ll keep you healthy in Styx. It’s unhealthy enough down there as it is.’

  The boat rocked in the swell but Gann did not grab hold of anything to steady himself, spreading his large powerful legs to maintain his balance.

  Stratton could not see very much of the ocean outside from where he was sitting but he knew the ferry platform was only a couple of miles away. Gann brushed past him to take up his position by the rear door, his hand on his utility belt beside his baton and zapper, his other hand on his Mace dispenser, his stare fixed on the prisoners as if hoping one of them might give him an excuse to launch himself at them.

  The ferry platform eventually loomed into sight as the vessel manoeuvred to enter a docking bay. It was an impressive construction, like the top section of an oil platform.The most prominent feature was a towering derrick with a dozen heavy cables passing over large wheels at the top before they stretched down at an angle into the roof of a building on the edge of the platform.

  The cabin cruiser slipped snugly into its tailored dock and gently hit the bumpers at the end. Several platform guards, all wearing life vests over brilliant yellow jackets, secured the vessel into place, its gunwales level with the landing deck.

  Gann opened the rear door and faced his passengers. ‘I’m gonna unlock your chains and we’re all gonna walk together in a line across the platform to the ferry housing. For those of you who think it might be risky on our part to have all prisoners walkin’ at once even though you still got your hand chains, that’s because there’s nowhere to go from this platform - nowhere but down, that is. And you can either do that in the comfort of the ferry where you can breathe, or you can jump or get shoved off the side. Either way you’re going to the bottom . . . I know you’ll be surprised to hear I don’t give a rat’s ass which you choose. Anyone screws around I’ll personally toss ’em over the side.’