concrete. Every surface seemed to be contaminated by some variety of kelp and mildew, some of the ceiling species several metres long. The two men paused on a steel-and-concrete landing facing a pool the size of a couple of tennis courts, its water gently lapping several inches below the edge. Four separate clusters of taut dirty-brown heavy-duty cables rose out of the water and passed over large wheels suspended from the ceiling before heading back down. A lone ferry was parked at the far end with the number ‘1’ stencilled on its surface in places. The water looked black, reflecting the dark rock, although it was crystal clear. The doomed ferry was visible several metres below a placard on the wall that had the number ‘4’ stencilled on it behind the strings of vertical cables. A diver was making his way around the ferry, a line attached to him, its other end held by a guard on the landing.
Mandrick looked along the landing to where a metal ladder curved from the jetty into the pool. Several men were gathered in a circle, one of them wearing a diving suit, a set of dive-tanks close by. The other men were prison guards, all bent over a body lying prone on the wet concrete. Standing back a little from the group was Gann, pulling off his bright yellow escape suit as he kept an interested eye on the group’s activities.
Mandrick glanced back to the number four ferry below the surface and saw the cables wobble as the diver pulled on the side door with some effort. He looked ahead at the group of men and walked towards them.
Gann’s gaze met Mandrick’s for a second as he closed in. The diver was giving cardiac massage to the man lying on the ground, pushing down on his chest in a quick rhythm.A guard stood aside to let Mandrick enter the circle as the dripping-wet diver halted the compressions long enough to feel for the man’s carotid artery. A guard kneeling the other side of the body looked into the diver’s face for signs of hope.The diver showed none as he recommenced his pumping action.
‘I can spell ya, Zack,’ the kneeling guard offered.
‘I’m OK,’ the diver replied.
A guard arrived and quickly placed a mask over the body’s mouth, turned on an oxygen bottle connected to it and squeezed a bag attached to the mask, filling the body’s lungs.
The man looked dead to Mandrick. His eyes were slightly open, water was trickling out the side of his mouth and his only movement was caused by the diver’s efforts. Mandrick was reminded of the first time he had given a man the same last chance for life. Three times he had gone through the process during his military days and had never won back any of them. All three had bled away beneath him. The diver was obviously a tenacious bugger, or something was inspiring him to hold on.
The man with the air bottle checked his watch. The rule in the prison for cardiac massage was eight minutes. Mandrick had done his three for about a minute each, not much more. He’d known the men were dead before he had started but he had continued anyway. He’d had the time and people were watching. Maybe that was why this guy was still doing it.
‘Sir,’ the controller said and Mandrick turned around to look at him. ‘Diver’s inside the ferry and it isn’t good. He counts four prisoners and Palanski - all dead.’
Mandrick looked back at Gann to find the man staring at him. He looked as if he was asking him for some kind of acknowledgement. Whatever doubts Mandrick had had about Gann’s insanity were gone. The man was deranged, to say the least.
‘I think we got something,’ the diver called out excitedly.
Gann’s expression blackened as his eyes snapped to the man lying at their feet. The diver’s fingers were deep into his neck to one side of his throat. ‘Yeah - we got a beat,’ he said. ‘Weak but I’m sure of it. The gurney on its way?’ he called out.
‘Doc’s on his way down,’ the controller informed everyone.
‘Way to go, Zack,’ one of the guards said, patting the diver on the shoulder.
Mandrick glanced at Gann who was staring at the lone survivor. Mandrick’s initial thought was what the odds were on him being the fed. Even if it was it would not be smart to kill him now. No matter how much of an accident it looked. It would seem far too suspicious. Mandrick’s prime objective was survival and he did not want to do anything that implicated himself in too obvious a manner. He had pushed it way too far as it was. One man was easy enough to keep an eye on. And there was always the possibility that he had suffered serious brain damage.
‘Anyone know his name?’ the diver asked.
The senior controller flicked through his file of the incoming prisoners, pausing at each picture. ‘Charon,’ he said. ‘Nathan Charon.’
‘Come on, Nathan,’ the diver said. ‘You can make it. Breathe. That’s it. All right. He’s back.’
Stratton opened his eyes to see a chequered steel mesh with bright lights spaced at uneven intervals set into the ceiling behind it. Fatigue tugged heavily at his eyelids but he fought to keep them open. The feeling of utter exhaustion lay on him like a lead shroud and he wondered how long he had been lying there. He fought to remain conscious, trying to remember what had happened and how he had ended up in what seemed like a small, clean hospital room. He knew who he was and that he had been on a submersible cable-car heading for an undersea prison. But other recent memories appeared to be missing or fractured. He remembered the ferry flooding and his desperation to get out of it. From the point of leaving the ferry he was unable to piece together the snippets of sounds and images he retained into a coherent pattern of events. He could see the face of a man and hear his voice while water lapped around his neck. The face of another prisoner appeared and Stratton remembered opening the hatch with him. After that it was all a confused blur.
He wanted to look around the room to see if there were other occupied beds but his head felt as if it was bolted to the pillow.
Stratton could hear a tapping noise as if it was floating around in his head all alone. He was unsure if it was a memory or if it was really happening. As he fought to collect the jumble of images speeding through his mind the tapping seemed to get louder. He couldn’t lie still any longer and, desperate for clarity, fought to activate the muscles in his neck and turn his head. He slowly rolled it to one side but his eyes would not readily refocus and he looked back up at the ceiling.The mesh was clear but when he turned to look at the room again it was as if his eyes were jammed and unable to adjust.
Fear crept through him as he suddenly wondered what other parts of him no longer functioned. He broke into a cold sweat at the thought of being an invalid and concentrated on moving his arms.They rose up off his stomach where they came into focus and he let them back down with a feeling of relief. Next he had to see if he still had his legs. With a supreme effort he raised his head off the pillow until he could see two ridges under the sheet going from his hips to small mounds at the ends of them. They moved from side to side at his will and he dropped his head back with another heavy sigh of relief.
Stratton began to scan the rest of his body with his mind, tensing various muscles and then relaxing them. Suddenly, the ceiling light he had been staring at was replaced by the face of a beautiful dark-haired woman looking down at him. Her complexion was pale, her eyes and lips dark within the shadow of the light behind her. He was sure she was real only because he could suddenly smell her, a fresh soapy aroma. It was odd because his sense of smell had never been particularly acute. Perhaps he had been reborn, or he was in heaven and this was an angel.
‘You’re back, then,’ she said, without a trace of emotion, looking at one of his eyes and then the other in search of something.
Stratton could only blink up at her.The total absence of a smile or any trace of cordiality ruled out paradise.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked. Her voice was soft but at the same time strong, and her accent was American.
Stratton started to open his mouth but found it difficult, his lips sticking as if they had begun the process of healing together.
The woman moved out of his sight to reach for something and when her face returned she put a straw to his mouth. ‘Have some water.’
He took a sip, feeling the cold liquid pass through his mouth and down his throat like the first rains along a parched river bed.
‘Do you remember your name?’ she asked again.
A dim alarm throbbed inside his head as his training and years of experience warned him never to talk unless he was
