Undersea Prison (33 page)

‘You must see that if we cover our tracks as best we can then there will be less interest in pursuing us.’

‘I understand,’ Mandrick said, deciding that if Forbes was not subtly trying to entrap him then the man was sounding like an idiot.

‘As long as you do . . . Fine, then. I’ll get back to you as soon as I hear anything else. Do nothing without my say-so. Is that understood?’

‘Of course.’ That was it, Mandrick decided. As far as his suspicions were concerned that last instruction gave Forbes’s game plan away. Forbes was trying to control the final stage of the abandonment of Styx, the doomsday phase, which included both their escapes. Mandrick reasoned that if he was wrong and had misjudged Forbes it did not matter. He could not afford to take the risk and had to stay a step ahead of his boss.

‘I’ll speak to you later,’ Forbes said and the phone went dead.

Mandrick replaced the receiver. The feeling of independence he had once enjoyed while in Styx had turned into one of isolation. The lines of control from the shore had stretched to breaking point as his ship headed towards the void. Mandrick had to scuttle it while he still could.

Since it was now unlikely that he would obtain any kind of insurance against the CIA he would have to fall back on his original plan - which was to devise a scenario that provided substantial evidence of his death without his body having to be found. That was not impossible. It would all depend on the execution of his plan.

As Mandrick got to his feet the door buzzer sounded and he looked at the monitor to see Christine standing outside. She appeared relaxed and confident as usual but as he studied her, zooming the camera in on her face, examining her extraordinary natural beauty, he thought he could detect a trace of tension in her body language.

He checked his watch. Dinner wasn’t for a couple more hours. She was early. An enigma, he mused. His gut feeling told him that she was as much a prison inspector as the pope was. She’d been the first person to talk to Charon when he came around. Charon was a damned spy for someone. The place was probably crawling with spies. But he could care less now. It was time to pull the plug on the operation - an apt way of putting it, he reckoned.

Mandrick considered sending her away but decided that he couldn’t. If she was a spy then the blossoming romance between them was an act on her part. She was planning on leaving that evening but he couldn’t go with her now. Their ‘affair’ would end this night. She was here for something, to give or to take. Perhaps it was to give first and take later. Having his way with her for half an hour or so would not cripple his plan. The thought amused him. He had the weight of the world on his shoulders, desperate to finalise a strategy for his own survival and yet here he was pausing to consider a piece of ass. What a maverick he was. It gave him a feeling of masterfulness, of superiority. He was a true buccaneer, a mercenary to the core, a rebel and adventurer. What could be more heroic than to take a break at such a crucial juncture for a romantic interlude?

He hit the button beside the intercom and as the door hissed, clunked and opened he stepped from behind his desk and into the centre of the room.

Hamlin, followed by Stratton and a guard, led the way down a narrow, sloping, dimly lit corridor. The mould and fungus common to Styx had taken a particularly firm grip of this section of the prison. Dripping lengths hung from rusting ceiling girders and intertwined between the conduit and cables that followed the contours of the walls. Hamlin slipped on a patch of slimy plankton and Stratton only just managed to grab him before he fell on his backside.

‘Thanks,’ Hamlin said, taking a moment to recover and catch his breath. ‘This road is long overdue for a clean-up, Jed.’

‘You know we don’t have enough inmates to maintain the whole place,’ the guard replied.

‘I don’t see why we can’t use the Buttfucks,’ Hamlin said, taking a grimy cloth from his pocket and wiping the sweat from his face and neck.

‘I don’t make the rules,’ the guard said, loosening his jacket. Sweat stains were clearly visible on it around his chest and armpits.

‘If you got rid of these damned plants you could reduce the humidity down here,’ Hamlin argued.

‘And then you guys’d complain about the disinfectant.’

‘It ain’t disinfectant, Jed, it’s industrial-strength weed-killer, ’ Hamlin sighed, as if he had complained about it a hundred times.‘Like we ain’t got enough health hazards down here we gotta soak up that shit.’

‘Quit bitchin’, Tusker, and get movin’.’

‘Just give me a minute, will yer? My old lungs don’t process the air as good as they should. I use the term “air” loosely, of course. Smells like raw sewage. We can only guess what we’re taking into our lungs.’

The guard rolled his eyes.

A tinny computer-generated voice announced the time over the speakers.

Stratton wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve as he waited for Hamlin to move on. He pondered on the humming sound that had grown louder with their descent. The sound of water was still the most noticeable noise; a green, frothy liquid ran down a gutter on one side of the concrete path. The wall on the same side was practically hidden by a variety of piping and conduits, some of it hanging loosely where the original fastenings had corroded or broken off.

Hamlin sighed heavily and moved on, ducking below a large metal brace that secured a cluster of enormous air ducts to the ceiling.The men weaved between clumps of dripping fungus as they headed steadily downhill.

The lights dimmed suddenly as the voltage dropped. The guard produced a flashlight as Hamlin slowed to a more careful pace.The sloping path became long steps as its angle steepened. Stratton reckoned that they were approaching the lowest depths of the prison. A broad tunnel appeared ahead, cutting across their path. As the lights returned to full brightness voices penetrated through the other noises, accompanied by the sound of heavy footsteps. Stratton realised the sound was coming from behind them.

‘Step aside,’ a voice called out and the three men moved against the pipe-covered wall.

A guard led half a dozen prisoners at a brisk pace down the long steps. The perspiring inmates were all wearing heavy-duty overalls, robust boots, mining helmets and harnesses from which various tools and pouches hung. They shuffled past, their hammers and chisels clanking, each man carrying an emergency breathing tank on his back with a full-face mask hanging from the valves by the head-straps.

‘That’s you in a couple of days, buddy,’ Hamlin said to Stratton.

‘They’re still mining pretty actively,’ Stratton observed. The report on the old mine had made only scant reference to current activity.

‘Some prisons do licence plates and street signs. Our extracurricular is workin’ the face.’

As the tail-end guard went past them into the larger tunnel he called for a halt. ‘Take a breather,’ he said, his voice echoing. ‘Last smoke before we go in.’

The guard looked at Stratton with sudden recognition and gave him a nod. ‘How you feelin’?’ he asked.

Stratton thought it was a strange question from a guard but he nodded anyway.

The guard joined Jed and his colleague and they all lit one up.

‘You don’t remember him, I s’pose,’ Hamlin said.

Stratton shook his head. ‘Should I?’

‘That’s Zack. He’s the guy who saved your ass from drownin’.’

Stratton looked back at the guard. These were odd circumstances in which to show appreciation to someone for saving your life.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Hamlin said as if he could read Stratton’s thoughts. ‘He’s just as likely to take it back if you step outta line. He’s one of the fair ones . . . It’s what this place was before they converted it,’ Hamlin said.

Stratton looked at him, wondering what he was talking about.

‘This place. It was a mining and agriculture experiment. ’

Stratton acted as if he knew nothing about the facility’s past. ‘What are they mining?’

‘Gems.When it was an experiment it cost the taxpayer a fortune to run and the yield didn’t even begin to cover the expenses.When it got closed down they kept the water pumps running. Rumour is that an engineer working on the site in those days wasn’t straight-up about the mine’s true potential. As they were closing down he found a new strike - a big one. Next thing you know a bunch of private investors came up with the plan to reopen the project as a prison. Pretty obvious all they really wanted was access to the mine. Pretty smart to get Uncle Sam to pay for the reopening and running of the facility. Even smarter to have a work force that don’t cost anything, ain’t goin’ anywhere and can’t tell anyone what’s goin’ on down here. Some of the guys have kept a few rocks for themselves but they ain’t goin’ anywhere with ’em. The guards get a nice fat tax-free bonus each month in a brown envelope to keep ’em sweet. And the CIA turns a blind eye to it all and even plays safety for the corporation because they get what they want.’

‘Pretty smart set-up all around,’ Stratton agreed.

Hamlin looked at him, the trace of a scowl on his face. ‘You think I’m as dumb as you, don’t you?’

Stratton looked into his angry eyes and was reminded of how unhinged the man really was. ‘We’re the ones down here working for them,’ Stratton said, pushing it, curious about the old man’s mental state. Hamlin was probably a genius which, as the saying went, was often close to madness.

‘Not for long, my friend. These pricks’ll remember the day they locked Tusker Hamlin up in here. They said it would be the last anyone ever heard from me. Well, they’re wrong, Mister Charon. They’re wrong.’

Hamlin continued to stare at Stratton, his look turning to one of curiosity. ‘Charon,’ Hamlin said, this time pronouncing it ‘Kar-on’, a smirk forming on his lips. ‘That’s very amusing . . . Now I know who you are.’

Stratton held his gaze. Since the guards were within earshot he was prepared to defend himself against any accusation that Hamlin might make.

‘You’re the ferryman.’

Stratton had no clue what the man was talking about.

‘The Styx ferryman,’ Hamlin continued. ‘Karon was sent by the gods to carry the dead souls of evil men down the Styx river and into hell.’

Stratton remembered the mythological story although he did not recall a ferryman. Hamlin had had him worried there for a moment.

‘OK, you guys,’ the guard called out. ‘Let’s get going. See yer later,’ he said, waving to his colleagues.

Stratton and Hamlin watched the miners trudge into the mine entrance. ‘What’s it like in there?’ Stratton asked.

‘Dunno,’ Hamlin said. ‘Never wanted to find out. Another reason I made myself an indispensable engineer. ’

The two men followed their guard further down the low-ceilinged tunnel for a short distance and stopped outside a large airlock door set in a broad reinforced concrete wall. The door had originally been painted blue but most of the coating had fallen off to reveal rusting metal below.

‘Jed at the air room,’ the guard said into his radio as he looked up at a black semi-sphere fixed to the ceiling above them.A second later there was a loud hiss, followed by a heavy clunk, and the door moved but only a couple of inches. The guard leaned his shoulder against it to help it open. ‘Piece o’ shit door,’ he grunted as he put all his effort behind it. The door opened slowly and he stepped back, out of breath, to let Hamlin and Stratton lead the way inside.

Two things struck Stratton with some force as the door opened. One was the sudden increase in machinery noise, the other was an intense smell like rotten eggs.

‘You’ll get used to it,’ the guard said, pushing him in.

Hamlin stepped through the door as if eager to get on with the job. ‘I find it almost refreshing,’ he said above the increased noise, sucking in the air as if it was nectar.

‘You would, you strange motherfucker,’ the guard said.

Hamlin pulled two pairs of ear defenders out of a box by the door and handed one set to Stratton. They afforded some relief from the high-pitched noise.

They were in a cavernous space, the largest single chamber in the facility. A thousand miles of ducts twisted in and out of several machines and up to the ceiling which they practically covered, finally disappearing through the walls in several places. In the spacious centre was a large wooden workbench covered in various machine parts and tools, with power jacks dangling from the ceiling. It was a dishevelled-looking place, untidy, rusty and disorganised, like the bowels of a neglected supertanker. Metal stairways led up to various service gantries and walkways surrounding the bigger machines.

‘I’ll leave you guys to get on with it,’ shouted the guard.

‘Don’t hurry back,’ Hamlin replied caustically.

The guard waved him off and stepped back through the door, which closed behind him and sealed shut.

When Stratton looked back at Hamlin the man was grinning at him. ‘Welcome to my office,’ Hamlin shouted.

Stratton walked into the cavern, turning around to take it all in. ‘How much of the prison’s air does this place scrub?’ Stratton asked.

‘These only run the mine and inmate levels now. You’d need twice the number of scrubbers, all working efficiently, plus a couple thousand litres of oxygen a day to cover the entire place. There’s a mother of a surface barge takes care of the living quarters . . . The desalinators over there only provide part of the potable water. Those pumps’re pretty essential, though,’ he said, indicating four squat machines along one of the far walls, two of them running and responsible for much of the noise. ‘They dump a lot of the water. If they fail you’re lookin’ at shuttin’ down the entire lower sections, including the mine.’

‘If this place is so important how come they let you down here on your own?’

‘They got pretty lax with me over time. I do a good job, I’m twenty-four seven, and I’m free. I guess they think I’m harmless. There’s nothin’ serious I can do down here - or so they think. But they don’t know Tusker Hamlin as well as they think they do.’