Undersea Prison

by Duncan Falconer

  ‘You go right. I turn left,’ Hamlin said, wanting assurance.

  Stratton could not imagine why Hamlin would want to head deeper into the complex. Left was essentially down. As far as he could remember there was nothing in that direction but the mine and some more caverns. ‘You go where you want. I’m heading up.’

  ‘Good.’ Hamlin grinned. ‘To make the most of it we should open the door at the same time the circuit-breakers snap. That way, when the alarm triggers in OCR they’ll think it’s part of the electrical fault.They’ll have too much else to worry about than a door opening down at this level anyway.’

  Stratton began to prepare himself mentally for the push. Like a runner approaching the starting line, he was thinking ahead to the first curve in the track. Charging up the corridor would be no different from crashing into a house and not knowing where the enemy was.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ Hamlin said as he left the room and headed along the gantry and down the steps. ‘A drill saw and something to isolate the sensor,’ he called out as he hurried down the steps.

  Doctor Mani stood over Durrani who was lying on the operating table in a near-unconscious state. As usual, the medic was not expecting to find much in the way of outward signs of injury after an over-zealous pressure interrogation but he did a cursory check as always. Durrani moaned as Mani pushed open his eyelids to inspect his pupils with a light, looking for any sign of brain damage.

  The door opened and Gann walked in. ‘How is he?’ he asked, towering over Mani.

  ‘They might’ve gone too far with this one. How many times have I warned those idiots?’ Mani said, pulling open Durrani’s shirt. He plugged the two earpieces of his stethoscope into his ears and moved the other end from one place to another around the Afghan’s chest while listening to the man’s erratic breathing. ‘God knows how many of his bronchial sacs are ruptured.’ Mani felt along the sides of Durrani’s ribcage. ‘I think he’s dislocated several ribs.’

  ‘Is he gonna live?’ Gann asked, not particularly interested from any humane point of view. He collected knowledge of the human body’s endurance to violence like a stunt-car racer took an interest in car wrecks.

  ‘He’ll live. Question is how comfortably. Unless he’s suffered brain damage in which case it won’t matter, I suppose.’

  ‘I heard the tech say they took him equal to almost halfway to the surface. His lungs must’ve been tryin’ to push outta his backside.’ Gann grinned at his description.

  ‘Charming,’ Mani said dryly as he wheeled a scanner over to the table and positioned it above Durrani’s throat. ‘Would you move aside, please?’ he said to Gann who was blocking the doctor’s view of a monitor on a nearby counter.

  Gann obliged just enough, craning to look down at Durrani. ‘He’s gotta bit of red froth comin’ out the side of his mouth.’

  ‘Thank you. Now, please, give me room.’ Mani slowly moved the scanner down Durrani’s torso, his eyes glued to the monitor that showed the Afghan’s chest cavity in a variety of colours indicating bone, air spaces, flesh and fluids. ‘This man cannot go back into that chamber - ever. He won’t survive another massive decompression.’

  ‘They’ve got other methods,’ Gann said matter-of-factly.

  Mani glanced sideways at Gann who was now concentrating on the monitor. He had known the man since arriving at the prison a year and a half ago to relieve the original doctor and had never ceased to be amazed at the depths of human depravity Gann was capable of reaching. Mani had never come across such an animal before. He more or less understood the need for such types in a high-security guard system of this nature and accepted it was a small community and that contact was unavoidable. But he wished he did not have to communicate face to face with him and his kind quite so much as he did. Preferably he wouldn’t have had anything at all to do with them. What irritated Mani most was how Gann treated him as some kind of colleague or, worse, accomplice. Mani accepted that he was a part of the Styx corruption but he never saw himself as anywhere near Gann’s sordid level.

  ‘You can speak their language, can’t you?’ Gann asked.

  ‘A little. I’m not fluent.’

  ‘When he comes around I want you to ask him some questions.’

  ‘Fine. Come back next week sometime.’

  Gann looked at the side of Mani’s head as he suppressed an urge to punch it. He regarded the doctor as a subordinate and was not used to being talked to by him in that way. He wondered if it was perhaps time to remind the man of his position in the prison hierarchy. ‘I wanna know what Charon was doing with him in the galley,’ he said.

  Mani sensed the irritation in Gann’s voice and realised his last comment had not gone down very well. ‘Sure. I’ll ask him . . . Anything else?’

  Gann sensed the new patronising tone. ‘Maybe I’ll just wait until he comes around.’

  Mani was always careful not to upset Gann, having experienced his venom on his first day on the job. Styx’s original doctor had also been an Asian - a coincidence, although that fellow was a Sikh. He had arrived wearing his turban, which did not go down very well among the guards, particularly with Gann. It was too similar to the traditional black headdress of the Taliban and as far as Gann was concerned the doctor had to be more or less the same as them. Mani never met the man and did not know how he had come to be employed as the prison doctor but when he’d refused to remove his turban he’d had to go.

  When Gann found out that Mani was Hindu he confronted him right away, telling him he didn’t trust anyone who was religious, especially on this job, and a religious Asian was off the chart. Gann didn’t think there was any difference between Hinduism and Islam and therefore Mani was considered to be doubly untrustworthy. It took a long and patient conversation to persuade Gann that Hinduism was not a religion but a way of life, a philosophy. It was far older than Christianity, which in turn was hundreds of years older than Islam. Mani did not worship a god or single out any prophet and he had no set rituals or performances - like praying on a mat, for instance.

  Gann only began to accept Mani when the Indian assured him that he had no time for Muslims. Hinduism, he explained, did not get in the way of making money even by dubious means as long as there was a sound philosophy behind it. Mani pitched himself as simply a healer. The philosophy was flawed but not sufficiently so to keep Mani from turning up to work. Besides, there was also the small matter of him being unable to practise his profession anywhere else in America.

  Mani had been struck off the medical register after a patient he was treating had died. He was running a detoxification clinic at the time and was accused of serious malpractice after giving a heroin addict an experimental cocktail of opiate antagonists that led to a fatal seizure.

  Mani might have avoided the subsequent litigation had it not come to light that he also happened to be a director of a company that was concentrating on commercialising an ultra-rapid detoxification treatment that had not been officially approved. In addition, he recruited heroin addicts as guinea pigs for experiments without informing them of the extreme risks. Mani was lucky not to have been incarcerated when it also transpired that the dead patient was not his first failure. No others had died but many were found to be suffering from a variety of debilitating physical and mental conditions. Fortunately for him the evidence that his treatment had been directly responsible was inconclusive. But the court case cost Mani every penny he had and, unable to practise, he found himself in a desperate situation.

  Mani was an Indian immigrant who had moved to America with his parents when he was five years old and, much as he loathed the thought, he considered moving back to Calcutta where he’d been born to continue making a living the only way he knew how. He sold his car, the last remaining possession of value he had, in order to buy the air ticket. But two days before he was due to leave America he was approached by a man who said he represented the Felix Corporation in Houston and that they had a job they would like him to consider.

  When Ma
ni started to explain he was no longer able to practise the man said he knew everything about Mani’s past and that the Indian had all the right qualifications for the job. By that he meant Mani was not only a doctor but was also corrupt. And there was no need to be concerned about the legalities since the job was not on the American mainland.When Mani learned the whereabouts of his new practice he brought up the obvious point that the prison was still in sovereign waters. It was explained to him that certain legal technicalities allowed him to work offshore as a medical-supplies officer as long as he didn’t call himself a doctor.

  As a medical-supplies officer Mani was permitted to give demonstrations to the guards of how to use the most basic of equipment, which he was required to do whenever there was an illness or injury. It was one of the reasons why Gann felt free to come and go as he pleased - not that the man needed a reason. Gann enjoyed watching Mani ply his trade, the more serious the medical problem the better.

  Mani loosened Durrani’s trousers and pulled them down to expose his abdomen. He felt around the area, firmly pressing the flesh in places in search of any muscle tightening that might indicate an internal injury. Finding no obvious signs of damage he realigned the scanner and slowly moved it from Durrani’s ribcage onto his abdomen. As it moved down to Durrani’s hips a small black object just above his groin area appeared on the monitor.

  Mani’s brow furrowed as he tuned the scanner’s focus. The object became clearer.

  ‘What’s that?’ Gann asked.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘He swallow something?’

  ‘It’s not in the gut,’ Mani said as he examined the flesh to find the small pink scar.

  ‘Maybe it’s a piece of shrapnel,’ Gann suggested.‘These guys’ve been in all kinds of shit.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Mani muttered as he took a closer look at the object on the monitor.‘It doesn’t look like a random splinter or a bullet. That bit there.’

  Gann drew closer to the monitor, squinting as he examined the dark patch.‘No shit.That ain’t no shrapnel.’

  Mani went back to Durrani’s abdomen and felt around the scar, prodding his fingers into the flesh.

  ‘Cut it out,’ Gann suggested enthusiastically.

  ‘You think I should?’ Mani was unsure.

  ‘Sure as shit you cut it out.’

  ‘I should call Mandrick.’

  ‘Look, pal. I’m tellin’ you to cut that out. He’s got somethin’ in there. He’s smuggled it in. He could come to at any time and . . . I dunno, maybe activate it or somethin’.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a bomb,’ Mani said sardonically.

  ‘Maybe it’s some kinda suicide device. If he wakes up he might kill himself.’

  ‘I didn’t think the Taliban were that sophisticated.’

  ‘Maybe he ain’t a Talibuttfuck. Maybe he works for the Russians.’

  Mani thought that sounded just as ludicrous. ‘I think we should go and see Mandrick.’

  ‘OK. I’ll stay here. But if he starts comin’ to I’ll cut it out myself.’

  Mani believed Gann would do it too, and probably with his penknife. He ran his fingers through his thick short black hair, frustrated by his indecision. ‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll open him up and take a look.’

  ‘It ain’t gonna do him no harm anyhow.’

  ‘I’ll do it, OK?’ Mani whined, taking a paper bag off a nearby silver trolley and opening it. Inside was a plastic bowl with a collection of surgical instruments each in its own sterile bag, an assortment of absorbent gauzes and a pair of plastic gloves. He took a syringe and a small bottle from a drawer under the counter top, removed the sterile cover from the syringe, pushed the needle through the top of a bottle and drew out some of the liquid.

  ‘He don’t need anaesthetic.’

  ‘The pain might wake him up and that would not be a good idea if I’ve got my hand inside him at the time.’

  ‘I’ll take care of him if he wakes up, don’t you worry about that.’

  Mani shook his head, containing his impatience and anger. He wanted to tell Gann he was the biggest idiot he had ever met but the satisfaction might come at an unacceptable price. ‘Would you mind just staying back and allowing me to do my job, please?’

  Gann frowned as he took a step back and leaned against the counter.

  Mani injected Durrani’s skin in several places around the small scar, placed the syringe on the trolley and pulled on the gloves. He inspected the scar closely again, pulling at the skin lightly to test its elasticity. He pulled the sterile wrapping from a scalpel and positioned it over the skin. Gann leaned forward to get a closer look.

  Mani cut into the flesh, keeping the incision to the length of the scar. Blood immediately dribbled down the side of Durrani’s abdomen. Mani wiped it and dabbed the cut. The bleeding was minimal. Mani stuck a finger into the opening and moved it around. He couldn’t feel anything solid and pushed a couple of fingers in up to his knuckles. He shook his head in frustration as he took out his bloody fingers. ‘I can’t find it. I’ll use the scanner - would you mind?’ he said, indicating the scanner above Durrani’s chest and his bloody hand that he could not use to take a hold of it.

  Gann was eager to be of help in this kind of surgical situation and he moved the scanner down Durrani’s body, watching the monitor until the black object appeared. Mani took a pair of forceps from its bag and slipped the end into the cut while looking at the monitor. He opened the forceps and soon had the ends placed either side of the object. He carefully closed the ends around the item. He withdrew the forceps, the small device in its little bag sliding out of the bloody hole.

  Mani placed it in the bowl and, with Gann literally breathing down his neck, he wiped the bag clean of blood.

  ‘Take it outta the bag. Let’s have a look at it.’

  Mani took a pair of scissors from the tray and snipped one end of the bag. The small memory card fell out of the bag onto a piece of gauze and both men stared at it.

  ‘What do you make of it?’ Mani asked.

  ‘No idea,’ Gann said.

  Mani used the scissors to turn it on its side. He took a magnifying glass off the counter and examined the object more closely. ‘Whatever it is, it’s very sophisticated. ’ He held it with the forceps and used the scalpel to gently pick at what looked like a join. The gap widened slightly and he applied a little more pressure. The piece slid fully open to reveal a finely patterned gold strip similar to that on the face of a SIM card. ‘It looks like some kind of memory chip.’

  Gann took the magnifying glass and had a look for himself. ‘Yeah. Like you get in digital cameras,’ he muttered. Tumblers started moving inside his head. ‘That’s why that Charon guy was talking to him. And that’s why he pulled his shirt up. He was looking for this. He ain’t workin’ for our side otherwise he wouldn’t need to be sneakin’ around as a prisoner. Charon’s a friggin’ spy.’

  Mani wasn’t entirely sure what Gann was going on about and didn’t particularly care. He took a small zip-lock bag from a drawer, placed the card inside it, sealed it and removed his gloves. ‘I’m taking this to Mandrick,’ he said.

  ‘Fine,’ Gann said, uninterested in the device. ‘And I think I’ll have that little meetin’ with Charon that I was plannin’.’

  Mani placed a piece of gauze over Durrani’s wound as Gann walked purposefully out of the room. The doctor left shortly after and closed the door behind him.

  Durrani’s eyelids flickered and slowly opened.

  Chapter 14

  When Christine walked into Mandrick’s office he immediately noticed something about her that he had been unable to see on the monitor. She had groomed herself, only a little, but more than she had in the past. There was also a hint of eyeliner. That was a significant effort for her.

  Christine saw the lecherous glint in his eye as she entered the room. Mandrick was standing there with a superior demeanour as if he was all-knowing. Once again she suddenly wondered if he knew who s
he really was, or at least that she wasn’t what she claimed to be. It was not just with Mandrick either. She never completely trusted her cover, always feeling most unlike prison-inspector material. Every time someone looked her directly in the eye she would stare back at them searching for traces of suspicion. There were so many reasons to get the job finished and be out of the damned place.

  She forced a smile.‘Have I caught you at a bad time?’

  ‘No. I was about to do my rounds of the prison but I’m happy to put it off.’

  ‘I can come back later if you’d prefer,’ Christine said, stepping closer to him while at the same time wondering if her discomfort at being so close to him was obvious.

  Despite being certain of her duplicity Mandrick was struck once again by her attractive qualities. As well as her beauty and intelligence she had an aura about her, an undeniable strength beyond her physical athleticism. She was a superior creature. There were times when he felt strangely inadequate beside her. The feeling was bizarre and on certain levels it irritated him.Which was why he became far more of a predator in her company than he would normally be with women.

  He moved towards her. Inwardly she braced herself, expecting him to take hold of her. But he brushed past like a matador.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ Mandrick asked, going to an antique bureau and a collection of fine crystal decanters and tumblers.

  ‘I shouldn’t really.’

  ‘Is that for medical or professional reasons?’ Christine grinned. ‘How does it affect you at this depth?’

  ‘You do get more of a buzz for your dollar . . . But don’t let me pressure you.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Bourbon do?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Mandrick poured two glasses, opened a small fridge beside the bureau, took out a bowl of ice, plopped a couple of cubes in each glass and brought them over to her.