"We know. That's why we are taking you to your cell, and not solitary confinement." One of the men replied.
I nodded and relaxed a little bit as we reached the door to my cell, where the men unceremoniously dumped me in a heap on the cold concrete floor.
The door slammed shut behind me, and I lay in silence, my head resting on the floor, the cold concrete a comforting roughness against my back.
Why had that man tried to kill me?
Clearly, I wasn't the most popular man at the facility, but it made no sense.
I hoped the guards would get the bottom of it when they interviewed the other inmate.
It had to have been a rubber bullet that brought me down. Legend was that they hurt like hell. I could now confirm the legend.
I pushed up into a sitting position and leaned against the bed, lifting my battle dress top. I could already see the bruise beginning to spread from the impact point of the rubber bullet.
Finally, I crawled onto the bed and closed my eyes. I drifted almost immediately into a fitful sleep.
Chapter 12:
I crept through the darkness, a thick warm liquid covering my hands as I sought my next target.
A shadowy figure sprung from the darkness of the next alley and I crouched low to the concrete, the razor sharp Ka-Bar knife grasped firmly in my right hand.
He didn't notice me, which was all the better.
I quickened my step, careful to put the pressure on the toes of my combat boots. It was quieter that way, when you were crouching low.
The man's form became larger in the darkness, a long bandolier stretched across his dark chest, a long beard casting a shadow against the moonlit alley walls beside us.
He spoke in Urdu through a radio; this close to the Pakistani border that was no surprise.
I turned the knife over in my hands, clutching it in a fist now. I'd have to make it quick.
The form was large in the darkness now, and I could smell his sweat.
I controlled my breathing.
Silent as death, I raised the knife.
With my other arm I seized the bearded Taliban fighter by the shoulder and plunged the 8 inch black Ka-Bar bayonet into his heart.
He died instantly, and I lowered his heavy, dark form to the rough concrete of the alley floor.
As I set him down, my eyes alit upon his face.
The once bearded face was fresh faced and clean shaven now. The form was no longer that of a human man but that of a child.
My eyes sprung open and my back exploded in pain from where the rubber bullet had impacted the fleshy portion of my lower torso the day before.
I was covered in sweat and my eyes were heavy.
How long had it been since dinner? I wondered.
In jail, the world without time, I had no idea.
The sun was just breaking through the tiny East facing window of my cell. I thanked God for that small mercy.
It was morning.
I lay in that position as the sun came up fully, too sore to do my traditional workout.
It wasn't long before the buzzing began and the guard opened my cell door.
It was the chubby white kid again.
"Breakfast time." He said, a small smirk touching his face.
I groaned and rolled to my side, my feet touching the floor for the first time since the guards had unceremoniously dumped me on the floor of my cell the night before.
I glanced at the young Petty Officer's name for the first time. "Thank you, Petty Officer Borger."
Fitting name for the rotund little guy, I thought as I stepped through the heavy steel door of my cell and into the long hallway to the mess hall again.
He smiled a sardonic grin. "You're welcome. By the way, your friend from last night will not be a problem for you this morning." His chubby little hand guided me down the hallway into the too bright fluorescent lighting of the sterile dining hall.
This morning instead of hostile stares from the tables around the room, I sensed something different. A grudging respect, perhaps even fear.
I picked up my plastic tray and walked through the line. Something that looked like oatmeal and toast was slung onto the tray, and I picked up a box of orange juice and sought out the only face in the room that didn't avert his eyes when I scanned for a seat.
The thin man was sitting alone again, near where he'd been the evening before. He nodded slowly to me from across the room, and I traversed the shiny floor to an empty seat at his table.
When I set my plastic tray on the cold steel of the table, he just nodded. Unlike the other men in the room, he did not avert his eyes.
His steely gaze met my eyes without blinking.
"Quite a show you put on last night." He said quietly.
I nodded and dug into the oatmeal in front of me. My stomach growled aloud. The attempt on my life last night had meant I hadn't eaten in almost twenty-four hours.
He pushed his own tray across the table as I shovelled watery oatmeal from the tray into my mouth. When I finished my own breakfast, I nodded my thanks and dug into what was left of his.
When I finished, both trays were wiped clean, and the man sat with a small smile on his face as I downed what remained of my small carton of orange juice.
"Feel better?" He asked, a smile in his voice.
I nodded again. "Thank you. That asshole last night made sure I didn't get to eat dinner."
He grunted. "I noticed. At least you won't have to worry about him anymore."
I set the empty orange juice carton on the edge of my tray and looked up.
"Why is that?" I asked.
"You didn't hear?" The man responded.
"Well, how could you. They've got you all by yourself on the other side." He was speaking to himself now, and I interrupted.
"What happened?"
"The big man killed himself in solitary last night. Not an easy feat. Guards say he pounded his head against the concrete wall. Brained himself."
My mouth hung open in shock. "Why?" I managed to stammer.
The man was deadly serious now. "I've been in here for a long time, Mr. Pike. Going on ten years. I've never in that time seen someone attacked in the galley. The showers, the exercise room, sure. But never the galley. It's too public, too well supervised."
He paused, and took a drink of coffee from a flimsy Styrofoam cup. "No offence, sir but you are also a non-entity around these parts. Sure, people know you from the news stories, but you haven't been convicted of a crime. You are being held in pre-trial confinement."
He looked around the room. "That's the other thing that bothers me. I can't for the life of me remember the last time someone in pre-trial confinement ate in the Brig galley. They usually bring food to your cell."
I looked around the room. The guards paced near the exits, two of them near each of the exits. Another standing towards the center of the room.
"What are you saying?" I asked, my gaze fixed back towards the stranger.
He laughed softly and without mirth. "Like I told you yesterday, Lieutenant. Watch your back in here."
He began to collect his tray and stand up. As he did, his uniform pulled away from his arm, exposing the faded black trident that marked his forearm and wrist.
"You're a SEAL." I said.
"I was, Lieutenant." He leaned across the table.
"Now I'm just a convict. Like you'll be, that is, if your case makes it to trial."
I stood up and held my tray. I was a pace behind him as he walked towards the scullery.
I finally got up the courage to ask. "So you think the guards planned the attack?"
He turned around for a moment and looked me in the eyes. "I don't know, LT. But they made sure you were here in the galley."
He took another few steps and placed his tray on the edge of the scullery counter. As he walked by he paused one final time. "I definitely don't think the big guy brained himself on a concrete wall without... encouragement."
"Wait." I said, as he
stepped away.
He turned.
"What's your name?" I asked quietly.
"Pete." He said simply. "Pete Rogers."
I nodded and stepped in the opposite direction. The thought that the man who had attacked me last night had been murdered in solitary confinement sent a shiver down my spine.
My feet fell quickly towards pre-trial confinement, anxious to return to the relative safety of my cell, my back aching the whole time, my head spinning.
Chapter 13:
My mind raced.
The cell that had confined me seemed smaller and more isolated. The lack of neighbors was now more disconcerting than quiet.
I paced the cell, my footsteps echoing across the cool concrete floor as I replayed the conversation with Pete over and over in my mind.
Why was I eating in the common mess hall?
Why had that man tried to kill me?
And most importantly, who had killed him when he had failed?
There were just too many questions.
My back ached and I stopped, leaning my forehead against the cool concrete wall.
The cold hardness reminded me of what Pete had said.
My attacker had brained himself, crushed his skull against the wall rather than speak to the guards about why he attacked me.
Whether he indeed caused the injuries himself, or someone had helped him didn't matter.
Either prospect was terrifying, for altogether different reasons.
If he'd done it himself, it meant he knew that worse ends awaited him for failure.
If he'd had assistance, it meant that at least one of the guards was involved in the attack.
I shuddered and continued to pace.
Think, Jackson, THINK! My brain ached with confusion.
The frustration was starting to get the better of me.
I paced like that for hours, until the familiar buzzing sound greeted me once again and I was led to meet my attorney in the small beige room down the long desolate hallway.
Lieutenant Commander Myers was way too well put together for my tastes this morning. His service dress uniform was cleaned and pressed. His were eyes fresh with a full night's sleep and a steaming paper cup of coffee sat before him.
Beside him, I surely looked like a dishevelled mess.
And he noticed.
I was still favoring my right side. My face was unshaven, my hair in disarray.
He stood, his normally reserved nature pushed aside momentarily.
"Are you alright?" He asked. There was real concern in his voice.
"Better than the other guy," I replied, without mirth.
He took a seat and turned on the tape recorder while I recounted the attack in the lunch room, and even what Pete had told me.
"Shit, Jackson." He said, when I concluded my story, calling me by the first name for the first time. "We need to get you out of here."
I allowed myself to slump deeply into the seat as he settled in across from me and opened his briefcase, setting the contents on the metal table before us.
"Unfortunately," he said, "the facts of the case continue to point to your team as the only possible source of hostile fire in that compound."
I nodded as my exhaustion overtook me for a moment.
My lawyer recounted a list of challenges to our defense. It was a long list.
Eventually the frustration became overwhelming. I could feel my fist begin to clench on the solid metal of the cold desk.
Without thinking, I raised my hand and drove it full force down upon the table.
My lawyer jumped back in surprise, and the door opened quickly, the guard clenching his baton in his right hand nervously. My lawyer waved him off, turning back to me.
"Something to say?" He asked, as the guard closed the door to the cell once more.
"I didn't kill those people. There has to be a way to prove it." I said.
My lawyer stood, clearly shaken by the first show of emotion that I'd exhibited since his arrival. He began to place the file folders back into his briefcase before finally walking towards the door and banging heavily on the thick metal.
"In that case, Lieutenant, we had both better hope that Chief Jones can add something to your defense." The door swung open, and he was gone.
I sat alone with only my bruised and aching back and a feeling of being hunted in the small beige holding cell.
Chapter 14:
I sat like that for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably closer to ten minutes.
When the heavy steel door finally swung open, I stood slowly, my head down.
Until the form that darkened the door became clear.
It was Leigh.
No wonder they had left me sitting in this sullen beige interview room for so long.
She took one look at me and gasped. Her feet fell quickly on the cold concrete floor as she ran into my arms.
"What happened to you?" She asked, her arms draped around my neck.
"It's nothing," I responded.
The guard cleared his throat loudly in the doorway. "You have ten minutes, Lieutenant." He remained in the room.
Leigh's soft body pressed against mine and I exhaled loudly, causing me to wince from the pain in my back.
Reminder to self, I thought. Don't do that.
"What's wrong?" Leigh asked, pulling up the back of my BDU top, exposing the angry black and blue bruise that covered most of my back, where the rubber bullet had impacted.
Her hand went to her mouth and she gasped again in shock.
"Who did this to you?" She asked, glancing at the guard who stood emotionless across the room.
"Don't worry about it. The other guy had it worse than me." I said dismissively.
"That doesn't make me feel any better." She said, touching my face.
We stood like that for a few moments, before I stepped back. "I'm glad to see you." I said.
She actually blushed.
"But you can't come back here." I said, walking slowly towards her.
"Why, Jackson?" She asked, eyeing my appearance and labored gait.
"Do you remember where I took you to propose?" I asked, resting my hands lightly on her shoulders and looking into her eyes.
"Of course." She answered, confused. "Why would you ask?"
I leaned in and kissed her neck. "You need to go there. Today. Take Clementine out of school and go. Don't come back until I send word."
I said this in a whisper as I leaned in to the nape of her neck, her perfume flooding my nostrils.
She nodded, and threw her arms around my neck, her passionate embrace sending a shockwave of pain through my lower back.
The guard cleared his throat a moment later, and we broke our embrace. Tears rolled liberally down her face. She didn't bother to wipe them away as the guard led her out the door and into the brightly lit corridor outside.
When he returned to bring me back to my cell, I was the most relaxed I'd been in days.
Whatever was going on, Leigh and Clementine would be safe.
As for me, I thought, as the guards led me down the corridor to my cell. Well, that was another matter.
Chapter 15:
Military Special Operations training teaches you to be constantly vigilant, to always expect an assault at the most unexpected time. It is an awareness bordering on paranoia.
And it had already saved my life once in the past twenty-four hours.
The awareness in the back of my mind was heightened.
But I was not afraid. Leigh and Clementine were safe. And I could handle myself.
As the thick metal door to my cell clanged shut and the long steel bolt slid closed on the outside, I let out a deep breath and sat on the edge of the uncomfortable bed.
Waiting.
I sat like that for a long while. My awareness heightened, my body in a state of near rest.
Light streamed through the small window in my cell. It had to be mid afternoon by now.
Still there had been no aggr
essive action. No enemy to rail against.
The waiting was truly the hardest part of any operation.
There was a time when my extremities would have trembled at the surge of adrenaline that came before a combat operation.
Not anymore.
I looked down at my hands. They were steady.
I waited.
The attack never came.
The buzzer did.
I opened my eyes from the state of near rest I had placed myself in. It was a form of meditation that I had learned from long flights in uncomfortable conditions, and long hours in the decompression chamber of submarines.
You could call it a subconscious awareness of your conscious surroundings; a waking sleep.
I shook myself from the heightened awareness and dulled emotions of the meditative state and stood.
I plied my sore back and stretched to my full height. It was uncomfortable. Slouching would have taken the pressure off of my back, but I wanted to portray no sign of weakness.
So, I smiled through the pain and nodded to the chubby young Petty Officer who waited beyond the door to my cell.
He returned the nod, and I stepped down the corridor slowly, his footsteps echoing behind me. Ahead, the normally bright fluorescent lights of the dining hall were dark. I glanced around. The sun had set at some point while I had straddled the border of consciousness and sleep in my cell.
Awaiting the attack.
The attack that was happening right now.
I spun, but was too slow. The guard's Taser dug deeply into my side. My side and back exploded in pain as I collapsed hard to the concrete floor below. As my world dimmed, the light draining from the periphery of my vision, I saw the young guard above me smile, his crooked teeth bright white in the dim hallway, a gleaming pair of handcuffs in his hands.
The stun effect of the Taser lasted for about a minute, best I could tell. When I came to, still groggy and disoriented, the guard was pulling me to my feet.
"You shouldn't have done that". He said.
I shook my head, vainly trying to clear the cobwebs.
"Attacking a guard is grounds for transfer to solitary confinement." He flashed the crooked, joyless smile again as he halfway pulled me down a long gray hallway that ran perpendicular to the entrance of the dining hall.
Afghan Sunset: A Jackson Pike Novella Page 4