The handful of people at the surrounding tables began lowering themselves to the floor when the First Lady got up from her chair and looked contemptuously at the armed robber. ‘Why don’t you lower your gun? Then perhaps I’ll do what you say,’ she said.
Christine initially feared that her boss was simply flirting with the danger and then a second later realised she was deliberately trying to distract the man. She was later overheard saying she knew Christine would take the opening.
As Christine lowered herself to the floor she paused in a position not unlike that of a hundred-metre sprinter waiting for the starter pistol.
‘Shut up!’ the robber shouted, pointing the revolver directly at the President’s wife. ‘Get down on the floor or I’ll shoot you.’
When Christine made the lunge she put all her power behind it. On making contact with the robber, her outstretched hand pushed the barrel of the weapon towards the ceiling and she practically knocked the man out as her shoulder struck him in the side of his ribcage. The blow launched him across the room and over a table where his head hit a wall, finishing off the job.
The other agents did not lose a second in tearing into the other two crooks, throwing them to the floor where, seconds later, they were bound tightly in plastic cuffs, napkins secured over their eyes. Christine quickly ushered the First Lady, her son and the dignitary out of the restaurant and into the limo which sped away, followed by a couple of the heavy suburbans.
The incident hit the media, although the identity of the agent who saved the day was kept secret, except around the Washington corridors of power. The President heard the details first-hand: his son gave him glowing accounts of Christine’s lightning reactions and decisiveness.
A couple of weeks later a vacancy for a Special Secret Service Operative to the Oval Office occurred and Christine’s name was placed on the list. But despite her recent heroics it was reckoned that she was unlikely to get a position that in the past had always been filled by men. Another argument against her was her lack of experience.
The First Lady, however, was determined to reward Christine for her valour in the Cape, intuitively aware that the young woman would much rather be doing something more adventurous than working as a bodyguard and sports instructor. Despite stiff opposition from several senior staff members the First Lady demonstrated her influence over the President and within a month Christine was swearing her allegiance to the country’s leader in a private ceremony before heading off to Fort Bragg to begin a three-month training course. It was the first of five different locations in the USA and two in Europe where she would learn a variety of skills that included the use of sophisticated communications systems, imaging, the handling of explosives and a variety of weapons, unarmed combat, aggression training and, finally, a couple of weeks learning a special operative’s general knowledge base of skills and techniques.
When Christine graduated she was provided with an apartment in Alexander and received instructions to no longer associate freely with her former Secret Service colleagues. Those agents also understood that if they were ever to see her outside the confines of the White House they were not to acknowledge her.That included an agent with whom she was having an affair, which was a blessing since he was madly in love with her but she could not reciprocate to the same extent. It was not a major concern to her that she seemed unable to find a man who was even remotely right for her but she was beginning to wonder if the problem lay with her own personality. But this was the wrong time in her life to cultivate any kind of relationship anyway and so it wasn’t even worth thinking about. She could only hope she was kept busy enough so that she did not have time to dwell on such issues. She was not to be disappointed.
She got her first assignment a few days after she’d settled into her apartment, although it was no more than a simple courier task to an embassy contact in Warsaw. Her next dozen jobs were similarly low-level adventures and even though she suspected that she was still being assessed she did begin to wonder if there was ever going to be anything more interesting for an Oval Office operative. And had the world remained on the same even keel the chances were that she might not have seen a great deal more excitement. But if history really is ‘philosophy by example’ the world will always be a roller coaster swooping up and down between war and peace.
Christine had been an operative for only nine months when New York’s Twin Towers were brought down by Muslim extremists, after which her life - like those of so many others - was never to be the same again. The tasks she was assigned suddenly became more intense, secretive and dangerous as America’s Cold War infrastructure was ripped out by its roots and the machinery to wage a world war against Islamic terrorists was hastily assembled. There was an immediate shortage of experienced operatives and Christine found herself busier than she could ever have imagined. In between jobs she was sent on crash courses to learn Arabic and Farsi where she was taught to converse, read and write in those languages at a basic but workable level.
There is nothing like a war to sort the true men and women from the boys and girls and within two years it was hinted to Christine by a senior member of the White House staff that she was near the top of the most-favoured-operatives list. A year later, when she was called to a briefing and given her task at Styx prison, she knew she had finally arrived at the place she had dreamed of since her youth.
But the more difficult and dangerous a task, the greater the risk of failure: the higher one climbed the further one could fall. As she listened to the details of the mission it became clear that it could be a matter of physical survival, not just of boosting her reputation.
Christine closed her laptop, got to her feet, sat on her bed and lay back on the pillow. It was time once more to go through thoroughly the various steps she needed to take in this final phase, to examine the many things that could go wrong and, as far as possible, to determine what her reactions to them might be.
Chapter 12
Stratton woke up to the sound of his cell door depressurising and the feeling of his ears popping. He struggled to open his eyelids - they’d been sealed shut by the dried eye discharge that everyone in Styx appeared to suffer from while they slept. He felt for a bottle of water on the floor by his bed, dabbed some on his eyes and pulled the lids apart as someone came in.
Hamlin walked unsteadily into the room and the door closed as he sat down heavily on his bed. The drastic depressurisation of the mess hall during the riot had clearly taken its toll on the older man. Stratton had recovered minutes after the pressure levels had returned to normal but several of the inmates, particularly the injured, had required medical attention. Hamlin was one of those who’d been taken away on a gurney. Some people were more susceptible than others to variations in the pressures of the gases that make up air, notably in the oxygen level. Hamlin was one of those who did not fare well under such conditions and judging by his startled reaction immediately before the ‘attack’ he had obviously experienced something like it before and had known he was about to suffer.
‘You OK?’ Stratton asked sympathetically.
Hamlin did not acknowledge him and seemed to be focusing all his mental resources on simply keeping breathing. He eventually raised his head and opened his red-rimmed eyes to look at his cellmate. ‘I don’t have the constitution for this place,’ he said, sounding strained. ‘I can’t survive here much longer.’
Stratton could not help wanting to give Hamlin some kind of psychological support. The man was a jailbird and would remain so for the rest of his natural life but Stratton had seen his ‘normal’ side and had to admit to liking that aspect of him. Perhaps it went deeper than that. Stratton was, after all, stuck inside a maximum-security prison in a grotty cell surrounded by a host of dangers, most of them unknown. It was only natural under such circumstances to seek out friends and allies, particularly when you had none to start with. ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do?’ he asked.
Hamlin looked slightly amused by a thou
ght that came to him. ‘After my conviction, the FBI showed me a letter they found in my files that I wrote some years before. It was to the President of the United States, letting him know how I felt about some of his foreign and domestic policies. I suggested he should quit or go the way of JFK. I never sent it but the feds decided it was a serious threat because it came from me. I never meant it as a direct threat. It was just a suggestion, you know? . . . They told me I’d never make parole. The only way I was leaving jail was in a body bag.’ His expression changed to one of determination.‘I’m gonna prove those sons of bitches wrong,’ he said, glancing at Stratton for any reaction to his comment.
Stratton took it as bravado.
‘You’re an odd fish, fellah, ain’t yer?’ Hamlin enquired.
Stratton wasn’t sure how he was intended to take this comment.
‘Somethin’ about you. Can’t point to it but . . . I don’t know. Somethin’.’
‘I don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.’
‘Ain’t nothin’ like that. More like the opposite . . . Maximum-security cons have one thing in common. They ain’t ever goin’ anywhere, other than another prison. They don’t kid themselves about it, either . . . least, not deep in their souls they don’t . . . We’re all partly dead because of it.You can see it in the way we move, walk, talk. Part-dead people can’t hide it . . . You ain’t part-dead.’
Hamlin continued to search Stratton’s eyes in case he was wrong. ‘Maybe it’s because you just don’t know you’re part-dead,’ he eventually decided, looking away.
He remembered something else he wanted to say to Stratton and, putting a finger to his lips, reached across to his desk and switched on a tape recording of some classical music. He increased the volume and leaned towards Stratton in a conspiratorial manner. ‘You know Gann’s got a problem with you, don’t yer?’ he said in a gruff whisper.
Stratton shrugged, going along with the intrigue. ‘Why?’
‘There ain’t a lotta secrets in a prison. If the guards know somethin’ the cons’ll soon learn about it . . . I don’t know why he wants you, though. That never came down the vine . . . Gann don’t need a reason to hate someone, anyhow. He’s just a mean son of a bitch.’
‘I don’t suppose there’s much I can do about that.’
‘I guess not,’ Hamlin agreed.
‘Unless I got to him first.’
‘Fat chance of that.’
Stratton studied Hamlin, weighing him up, trying to decide if he could use him in a plan he had been hatching. The trick would be to make it of benefit to the older man too. It was something Hamlin had said that had triggered the idea. He had expressed a desire to get out of Styx - not that any such yearning was exactly surprising. But it had been more than a simple wish. Hamlin had implied that he really could escape and Stratton had to take this seriously, no matter how much of a long shot it was. Escaping from Styx would take some brilliant planning and knowledge of the prison if it was to be done without help from the outside. Hamlin had the credentials and, in his role as prison engineer, had perhaps also had the opportunity to come up with something.The more obstacles Stratton could break down the better chance he had of finding a way to Durrani.
Nothing was impossible and Stratton felt confident that if he had the time he could at least devise a plan. Successfully carrying it out would be another matter, of course. The point was that escape wasn’t impossible. You just had to be smart enough to work it out. There was a risk in involving Hamlin but since Stratton had nothing else to go on but the few hours he had spent in the man’s company he decided to rely on his instincts.
Stratton turned his attention to the heavy steel door with its thick rubber seam surrounding it. ‘You know these doors are sensitive to external pressure?’ he asked.
Hamlin looked at him oddly. ‘I know just about everything there is to know about this place, including these doors. I service the machinery that maintains the pressure tanks, remember?’
Stratton looked at him soberly. ‘So I’m right.’
‘It don’t take a genius to figure that out, considering there ain’t any locks. Day one I calculated the difference between the inside and outside pressure and at its lowest there’s over eight tons keeping that door closed. It would take you, me and a herd of Percherons to shift it, and only if there was a handle strong enough to tie them to which there ain’t.’
‘Unless the pressure was equalised.’
Hamlin smirked. ‘That’s what everyone spends day two trying to figure out. The pressure in every corner of this entire rabbit warren is controlled from the OCR and even the operators couldn’t override the system without tripping a whole bunch of safety devices, procedures, airlocks, alarms and what-you-gots.’
Stratton didn’t seem perturbed by Hamlin’s negativity. ‘Way I understand it is there are a pair of sensors that monitor the different pressures either side. Those sensors are inside the actual door.’
Hamlin scrutinised Stratton more closely. ‘It took me till near the end of day three to figure that out.’
‘If the sensors detect the pressure on one side equalising with that on the inside they’ll automatically compensate,’ Stratton continued.
‘Unless they’re overridden by the OCR which is what happens every time the door is opened . . . I know what you’re thinking. Same thing everyone else does eventually. How to manipulate the sensors? There’s only one problem, though—’
‘And that’s the reason you’ve never been able to figure out how to do it,’ Stratton interrupted.‘You don’t know precisely where the sensors are.’
Hamlin was growing fascinated with Stratton’s line of speculation and he moved closer, his gravelly voice low. ‘That’s right,’ he said, staring into Stratton’s eyes. ‘If you did, and if you had the right tools, you might be able to isolate the “inside” sensor and make the “outside” one think the pressure inside was higher than what it actually is.’
‘And if that could be achieved the system would compensate by decreasing the inside pressure.’
‘And when it drops below that of the outside, the door’ll pop open . . . Nice theory, ain’t it? . . . So far that brings you up to date with me.’
‘Unless I knew precisely where the sensor was,’ Stratton said.
Hamlin leaned back to look at Stratton from a broader perspective, his expression a mixture of surprise and suspicion.
‘You got a pen?’ Stratton asked. ‘Better still, the tip of a small blade?’
Hamlin continued to study Stratton, trying to make up his mind about him. The guy was either full of shit or he had something very interesting to offer. There was only one way to find out.
Hamlin got to his feet, went to his desk, felt the back of one of the legs and opened a compartment that had been cleverly carved into it. He pulled out a thin strip of metal that had been fashioned into a blade the length of a pen, with string wrapped around one end to form a haft. He handed it to Stratton who got to his feet, faced the door and rubbed the pads of his fingers gently along the seal. Hamlin moved to his side, studying the seal as if he might have missed something the hundred or more times he had meticulously examined it in the past.
‘You’ve noticed these small flaps in the seal?’ Stratton said, poking the tip of the blade into one of the creases and prising it open. ‘They go all the way around.’
‘Sure. They’re breathers. Otherwise the seals could blow up like balloons if there was a pressure spike. It’s where the hiss comes from when the door opens.’
‘And you know there’s another seal inside this one.’
‘The operating seals, one either side. I’ve seen these doors stripped down.’
‘Did you notice that the operating seals don’t have any of these breathers?’
‘That’s because the sensors are inside them. That’s obvious. But it wouldn’t have to be no bigger than a pinhead. And if you didn’t know exactly where it was you’d never be able to isolate it without ripping out the ent
ire seal - by which time it would no longer operate and you’d be stuck until a team of engineers came down to get you out.’
‘The engineers know where the sensors are because they have to service them on occasion.’
‘Sure.They just never let me in on that secret,’ Hamlin said, starting to get irritated.
‘What if I said I knew exactly where the inside sensor was?’
‘How the hell would you know that?’
‘I got friends,’ Stratton said, keeping his voice low. ‘I used to be into sat diving. When certain old buddies learned I was heading for Styx they made sure I got a few details they happened to have on this place in case I could use them. I don’t know how much use it is,’ he added, stepping back to look at the door and then at Hamlin. ‘What would you do if you could get the other side of this door?’ he asked, tossing out a little bait.
Hamlin remained very much unsure of his new cellmate. ‘I want nothin’ to do with puttin’ the hits on Gann.’
‘So you’re saying that even if we could open this door without anyone knowing, it wouldn’t be of interest to you?’
Hamlin sniffed the bait and found his mouth watering a little.
Stratton read Hamlin’s silence to suggest he would be very interested.
‘The inside or high-pressure sensor is dead centre on the door-hinge side,’ Stratton said, rubbing the spot. ‘If we could cut the outer seal just here, then cut into the operating seal, isolate the sensor with a cup of some kind, increase the pressure inside the cup . . . bingo!’
Hamlin was with him every step of the way. ‘We could do that easily with a small electric pump.’
‘You can get a pump?’
‘We’re at the bottom of the ocean. Pumps we got.’ But Hamlin was still very unsure about a lot of other things. He leaned forward to whisper over the music. ‘You open this door, you just got more doors.You got cameras too. Anyone in OCR, the warden’s office or the guardroom sees you and that’s it. They’ll seal you off wherever you are and do what they did in the galley.’
Undersea Prison Page 23
