‘Then I suppose I’d need to know where Gann was when I opened the door.’
As the notion took root Hamlin’s thoughts turned to his own purposes rather than Stratton’s. He was hooked on the idea but tried not to show it. If he could get through the door he didn’t give a damn what Stratton wanted to do. He knew exactly where he would head for.
Stratton sighed dramatically as part of his charade. ‘I guess the theory is fine but the practical side would be pretty impossible,’ he said, backing off and sitting on his bed.
Hamlin sat down opposite, watching his room-mate and still trying to figure him out. ‘But if you could? You beat Gann to death and then walk back into your cell? You ain’t gettin’ any further.’
‘Maybe you’re not the only one with an escape plan.’
‘Who said I had a plan?’
‘You did.’
‘I said I’d like to prove ’em wrong. That could mean a lotta different things.’
Stratton looked away as if he’d grown tired of Hamlin’s games.
‘So you’ve been here five minutes and you’ve got an escape plan,’ Hamlin scoffed.
‘Like I said . . .’
‘Yeah, you got friends.’
‘Let’s just forget it.’
Hamlin didn’t want to. He enjoyed nothing more than talking through new technical matters. But this one was of much greater personal interest to him. ‘Supposin’ we could get through that door. I’m into the whole mutual support thing but only so far. I’d wanna do my own thing. I wouldn’t want anything to do with your problems - or your plans.’
‘I would neither expect nor want you to. No disrespect but you’re no spring chicken any more.’
Hamlin rested back against the wall, still eyeing Stratton suspiciously. ‘I don’t know about you, my friend . . . It’s still the missing part-death side of you that bugs me.’
‘Maybe you haven’t been around a true optimist for a while.’
Hamlin was not sure why, but he was beginning to trust Stratton.
‘Tusker?’ a voice boomed over a speaker in a grille beside the air duct.
Hamlin got to his feet and turned down the tape player. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘How you feelin’, Tusker?’
‘Not too bad. I’m still gonna sue, though.’
‘You know I’d be a witness for yer if I could, Tusker.’
‘Generous of you to consider it, anyhow.’
‘You feel up to doing some work? We got a torn filter on number two scrubber.’
‘I warned you about that one a week ago.’
‘Yeah, well, now it’s torn. You wanna take a look at it?’
‘Where’s the engineer?’
‘He’s not feeling too good.’
‘And if I don’t?’ Hamlin said, winking at Stratton. A short silence followed. ‘He’d have to get his drunken ass off his mattress, wouldn’t he?’
‘You gonna do it or not, Tusker?’
‘I’ll do it for a cup o’ one of them fine clarets the warden always has for dinner.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Come on, Busby. You can do better’n that.’
‘OK,’ the operations officer agreed.‘I’ll send someone down to escort you in five minutes.’
Hamlin looked at Stratton as a thought struck him. ‘Hey? Busby? Those scrubbers are a bitch to pull and, well, I ain’t feelin’ all that good. How ’bout my cellmate here givin’ me a hand?’
‘Not a problem. Maybe you can teach him a thing or two for when you’re too goddamned old to do it any more.’
‘That’s thoughtful,’ Hamlin said, making a lewd gesture. He slumped back tiredly and looked at the door again, studying the frame around it. He got to his feet and felt the area where Stratton indicated the sensor lay beneath the rubber. ‘We’re gonna get ourselves a pump and open us a door,’ he said in a low voice. ‘But not this one.’ He looked at Stratton. ‘I’ve got me a door that, I admit, suits me very well, but I think you’ll find it’ll also suit you better’n this one.’ Hamlin went back to the door and his own selfish motives. ‘Then I’m gonna show those motherfuckers that Tusker Hamlin still has a few tricks up his old sleeve.’
Stratton watched as the man’s faced cracked into a strange smile and asked himself who was manipulating who.
Durrani was kneeling on the bare floor of his cell, sitting back on his heels, his palms flat on his thighs, his back to the door while he prayed towards the far left corner of the concrete room. He had been told by fellow Muslims when he’d first arrived that the apex of the angle of the corner pointed in the direction of Mecca. With no way of ascertaining the accuracy of the claim he took it as fact. He was not permitted a prayer mat and his copy of the Koran had been confiscated for reasons unknown to him the day before so he uttered what chants he could remember, praising Allah and leaning forward to kiss the floor at intervals.
Durrani had never been particularly religious but since his incarceration in Styx, with encouragement from his colleagues, he had found the incentive to at least go through the motions of daily prayer. This kind of prison, without sunlight, a view of his beloved landscape or even the smell of it, was like a living death. He found it ironic that having never seen the sea until the boat ride to the surface ferry platform and coming from a country that was landlocked he now lived deep inside an ocean. Even if he could escape the walls he would be unable to swim.
But despite his past and present circumstances Durrani was not entirely convinced of the rewards that the Koran promised its followers on the other side of the grave. Praying did, however, break up the day: it gave him something to do and if God did turn out to be all he was cracked up to be then at least Durrani was hedging his bets. On completion of each prayer session he mentioned to Allah that he would forgo the promised paradise if he could see his homeland one last time. It was all about maintaining a level of optimism. But deep down Durrani feared his lifelong trend of general misfortune would persist until the end.
One of the difficulties with praying, however, was working out the timings of the five different prayer sessions each day since he was not permitted a timepiece and there was no rising or setting of the sun. Trying to divide the day into five equal portions did, however, confirm his suspicions that the guards were messing with his head beyond what one might expect from the normal rigours of prison life. He received three meals a day, occasionally in the mess hall although most often a tray was brought to his cell. But the periods between meals varied between what seemed to be a couple of hours to five or six or more. The cell lighting worked hand in hand with the feeding.The lighting programme was supposed to simulate sixteen hours of daytime and eight hours of night but Durrani was convinced that some cycles were at least twice as long as they were supposed to be while others were only half the ‘official’ duration.
There was never a period when he felt completely well, either, although he was not the only one. He was always getting coughs and throat and lung irritations and, like most prisoners in Styx, had developed horrible sores and rashes all over his body. But then, living under constant pressure, far greater than anywhere on the surface of the planet, was not normal and it undoubtedly did strange things to the body as well as to the mind.The temperature also varied greatly but on average it was far too warm and the ambient atmosphere was always humid. Mould and fungus built up quickly in his cell and the guards often failed to provide enough disinfectant to kill the bacteria that thrived in such conditions.
Another source of suffering was the poor air quality. Durrani would sometimes wake from a deep sleep unable to breathe properly, as if there was not enough oxygen in the air. At other times he would feel intoxicated and experience blackouts, unable to remember what he had done only hours before. According to colleagues these were the symptoms of oxygen poisoning and, again, he reckoned it was due to deliberate manipulation by the guards.
The combinations of these physical and mental assaults were gradually wearing him down but the mo
st significant change in his state of mind, and one that probably went unnoticed by his jailers, was his attitude towards his fellow Afghans. Having spent all of his life deliberately avoiding close human contact, with a couple of notable exceptions concerning the fairer sex, he now cherished the rare occasions when he was allowed to mingle with his colleagues. He was still aloof and distant, never discussing his personal history and certainly not his lineage. But he looked forward to the gatherings with anticipation. It was not so much the physical closeness that he sought, nor his compatriots’ advice or encouragement. It was simply the direct experience of seeing them there. Durrani sometimes woke up in the darkness with the fear that he was the only prisoner left in Styx.
He suddenly stopped in mid-prayer, his senses, which had become highly tuned, warning him of a sudden drop in pressure. He felt a burning sensation in his lungs and his face reddened as his heart rate increased significantly. This was the third attack since he’d been returned to his cell after the mess-hall incident. He dropped to the floor and lay on his back, complete lack of movement his only defence against the drastic reduction in the amount of oxygen he was able to extract from the air.
The small light bulb on the wall above his bed suddenly went out and his cell was plunged into total darkness. Durrani concentrated on remaining conscious, calculating by estimating the duration of his prayer sessions how long the day had been. He heard the door seals hiss and knew why the air had been thinned and what was coming now. It was barely hours since they’d last come for him. He had hoped they had finished with him. How foolish of him. It would never end.
The door opened with a loud creaking sound and the beam of a sharp blue halogen light searched the room until it rested on his face. ‘Stay still!’ a voice commanded in heavily accented Farsi as two figures moved inside. He was grabbed around the arms, raised to his feet and held as a sacking hood was placed over his head.
Durrani did not resist as he was manhandled out of the cell in his bare feet and along a slippery damp stone walkway. His guides were not particularly rough with him as long as he remained compliant. Resistance was futile, a lesson he had learned during his first visit to the Styx interrogation room. If he struggled his arms were twisted up his back. If he refused to walk he was released and seconds later a powerful electrode was thrust into his groin, racking his entire body with a pain so intense that it induced vomiting and rectal evacuation. After that he was not interested enough to find out what they would do to him if he resisted further.
Durrani was brought to a halt while a door hissed open in front of him. He was guided through it and up a flight of stairs.This was the usual route he remembered. It led to another corridor at the top of the metal stairs where he was steered left into a room and then into a chair. His hood would then be removed and he would find himself sitting at a table, with a white man sitting on the other side, aiming a microphone at him. A wire leading to a recording device was attached to the mike.
On the whole his interrogations had not been particularly harsh. The first series had been at a camp in Germany, his first stop after being flown out of Afghanistan. It had been run by soldiers and a handful of men in suits and had been all very unsophisticated and procedural. After confirming his identity, place of birth and the school he went to Durrani was asked about the operations he’d taken part in, the names of various commanders and the locations of meeting places, training camps, weapons caches and so on. He answered many of their questions in one of two alternative ways: the ones he felt were inconsequential he answered truthfully, those that he considered more important he lied about. His interrogators did not appear to know anything about him such as the identity of his true father or the fact that he was part Hazara. ‘Tell us now for we will always find out in the end and it will be worse for you,’ they had threatened. He did not believe them.
As Durrani shuffled along the corridor between his guards their grip on him tightened perceptibly and he was alarmed by the feeling that they had passed the point where they usually turned off into the interrogation room. He wondered if he was confused about the route but when they took a sharp left-hand corner and passed through a narrow rocky corridor only wide enough for one person he knew this was a different place.
Durrani was guided through a narrow doorway and brought to an abrupt halt, turned around and pushed down into an uncomfortable metal chair. His arms were placed on the hand rests where spring-loaded clamps held them in place, something else that was new to him, and his feet were secured in the same manner to the chair legs. The guards had, without doubt, become more aggressive and the rate of Durrani’s breathing increased in line with his nervousness as a horrible thought suddenly nagged at him. He recalled a story, told during a previous gathering of the Taliban prisoners in the food hall, about a special room in Styx with a metal chair in the centre of it and how those who visited it were usually not heard from for weeks after. Sometimes never again.
Durrani’s hood was pulled off and he struggled to focus his eyes in the dim light. His shirt was pulled open to expose his bare chest, whereupon a man proceeded to stick small pads on the ends of wires to his flesh in various places. Several were taped to his chest in the area of his heart while others were attached to his neck and temples. Rings with wires coming off them were placed over a finger on each hand as well as on both of his big toes. The wires all came together at a box attached to the wall and after a brief check of the connections the man left the room followed by the guards.
The door closed behind them with a hiss and a clunk.
Durrani looked around him.The small concrete room was circular and otherwise empty. A light glowed on the wall directly in front of and slightly above him. Its source was a rectangular piece of glass, behind which a figure could be seen. The glass was foggy and several inches thick making it impossible to determine the person’s features. Only when a voice filled the room through tinny speakers, a voice which Durrani presumed belonged to the person behind the glass, did it become plain that the blurred figure was that of a man.
‘Why were you crossing the border the day you were captured by American soldiers?’ the man asked in passable Farsi.
Durrani did not answer. In the silence he could hear the echo of dripping water. He looked at the floor, his eyes by now almost fully adjusted to the dim light. It was wet.A drip struck the top of his head and he looked up to see a circle in the vaulted ceiling directly above him. It was a robust metal hatch set within a thick concrete ring. Another drip struck him in the eye, the salt water stinging, made worse because he was unable to reach it with either of his clamped hands.
‘Do you refuse to answer my question or are you considering your reply?’
Durrani looked at the ghostly figure and thought now that he could make out another in the background. He expected some form of punishment for not answering. After his earlier interrogations he had wondered to what extent his captors were prepared to torture him and how he would react.When sleep deprivation, loud noises, physical discomfort and shouting appeared to be the full extent of their techniques he had put their restraint down to the usual weakness of Western institutions and their fear of the media, human-rights groups and liberal politicians. But as he stared at the figure behind the glass and took in the characteristics of his confines it struck him that this time he might have made an error of judgement.
‘I will ask you once more,’ the voice boomed. ‘Why were you crossing the border the day you were captured?’
Durrani looked down at the floor, a signal that the man behind the glass appeared to take as a refusal to answer.There was a loud clunk from somewhere in the room, followed by a whirling sound and the noise of the sucking-in of air. Durrani immediately felt the change in pressure in his ears and his face flushed as his entire body tightened. He shook uncontrollably and struggled to breathe. It was as if he’d been gripped by a giant hand that was squeezing him like a sponge. It lasted only a few seconds before he was released, only to swiftly experience the
opposite effect. Now he felt as if he was being blown up like a balloon.
The resulting intense discomfort and confusion were unlike anything he had ever experienced before. Just as it seemed his body was going to blow apart, his rib joints straining to disconnect, another loud clunk signalled a reversal of the pumps and a return to normal pressure.When Durrani unclenched his hands he looked down at them to see the fingers had swollen to twice their normal size.
‘You just went for a trip towards the surface,’ the voice echoed. ‘Another few feet and you would have started to stretch like a balloon . . . You see, there’s gas in every inch of your body, dissolved into your flesh, blood, other fluids. Even your bones. Nitrogen mostly, the rest oxygen, carbon dioxide, inert gases . . . You ever open a bottle of fizzy drink? Of course you have. Remember how the bubbles suddenly appeared everywhere in the bottle as if by magic? And if you took the top off too quickly the froth would gush out of the bottle? Remember that? Well, that’s exactly what happens to the human body if it’s depressurised too quickly. Divers call it the bends . . . That’s what I’m doing to you . . . Of course, it’s not an exact science. I drop the pressure a little, you get a body full of bubbles - the more I drop the pressure, the bigger the bubbles get. Problem is it only takes one little bubble to block the wrong vein in your brain and that’s it. Permanent brain damage. Even death. What I’m aiming to do is keep you alive. I’m getting pretty good at it now. Had a bit of practice . . . Made some mistakes, but that’s life. Now, let’s go back in time a little, to before you were captured. Only a few days before . . .You were in Kabul, is that right?’
Durrani’s breathing remained laboured, the pains in his chest still severe, as if every joint in his ribcage had been pulled apart and then harshly pushed back together.
Undersea Prison Page 24