Goliath

“The secret of reaping the greatest fruitfulness and enjoyment from life is to live dangerously.”

—Friedrich Nietzsche, German philosopher

“You had better put me to death, because next time, it might be one of you, or even your daughter …”

—Steve Judy, killer, sentenced to death in 1980 for murdering an Indiana woman and her three children

CHAPTER 10

Royal Naval Base

Faslane, Scotland

The Clyde Submarine Base at Faslane, Scotland, is home to six of the Royal Navy’s attack submarines, as well as its strategic nuclear deterrent force, the SSBN Vanguard-class Trident II missile submarine. Reaching lengths of 491 feet, displacing 15,900 tons submerged, the four Vanguards are the United Kingdom’s largest and most lethal vessels. They are also quite expensive, the fleet’s annual costs running in excess of £200 million just for operations. To keep costs down, each of the Vanguard’s sixteen Trident II (D5) three-stage, solid-propellant submarine-launched ballistic missiles (SLBMs) are leased from the United States Navy, an arrangement that permits them to be maintained at the SSBN naval base at King’s Bay, Georgia, rather than on British soil. Despite these arrangements, the presence of the four submarines at Faslane remains a constant target for the United Kingdom’s nuclear disarmament activists, as well as a growing number of politicians in Parliament.

The Westland Super Lynx light multipurpose helicopter circles six hundred feet above the naval base, allowing the four American passengers to get a good look at the mob scene below. Thousands of protesters have gathered at the gates to swarm around the steel-and-barbed-wire perimeter, their vehicles clogging the single-lane road as if the Clyde were Woodstock. Dozens more have taken to canoes, tossing debris upon the deck of the lone Vanguard-class submarine still berthed at Faslane. Three Coast Guard cutters move in quickly, blasting the boaters with water cannons.

The chopper pilot points to the submarine. “That’s your ride, General, the HMS Vengeance. Her three sister ships were ordered into deep water after demonstrators started getting violent.”

General Jackson nods, a tight grimace on his face. The announcement of Goliath’s attack on the American fleet and the theft of the Russian Typhoon’s missiles have spurred numerous antinuclear protests around the globe.

The chopper lands. Faslane’s base commander, Captain Spencer Botchin, greets the American general and his three companions, signaling them to follow him to an awaiting jeep.

Jackson climbs up front, Gunnar, Rocky and David in back. All four hold on as Botchin races the vehicle through the nearly deserted submarine base. Hundreds of protesters are climbing the gates; police in riot gear stationed along the interior of the perimeter fence spraying the more violent offenders with pepper spray.

The jeep stops at a steel barracks just adjacent to the northern gate. As Gunnar climbs out, a bottle is hurled over the fence, the Molotov cocktail bursting into flames as it strikes the tarmac.

Captain Botchin hustles them inside.

The interior barracks is bland military gray, the walls decorated with corkboard. Base announcements and a calendar of upcoming events dangle from tacks. Folding chairs have been set up around a billiards table.

“There’s fresh tea on the burner if you want some. Sorry about the accommodations. Would have brought you to my office, but a few of the rowdies stormed the south gate last night and set fire to it. We’re abandoning Faslane the moment you people make weigh.” Botchin’s heavy British accent betrays his London origins.

Rocky pours herself a cup of tea. Gunnar grabs a folding chair and positions it by the window. Parting the venetian blinds, he watches as a large flatbed truck outside the gate approaches the front entrance, causing the crowd to part. Stadium-size speakers mounted in back crackle to life.

“What’s our timetable?” General Jackson asks.

“The Vengeance will make weigh in less than an hour. As per your orders, a SEAL minisub has been mounted on her deck. Once Vengeance reaches the rendezvous point, the SEAL sub will transport the four of you over to the Colossus. Paul Whitehouse is Vengeance’s commanding officer. His orders are to head for the Strait of Gibralter. The Vengeance has sixteen nuclear missiles on board. Hopefully Covah will take the bait.”

Gunnar watches from the window as protestors position a microphone stand on the flatbed. A cameraman poised on the roof of a nearby BBC van films a well-dressed man now making his way through the crowd. “Captain, who are these people? Greenpeace?”

Botchin takes a deep breath, as if it pains him to respond. “Worse. They call themselves Ploughshares, taking their name from the biblical prophecy, ‘to beat swords into ploughshares.’”

“Ploughshares? Never heard of them,” General Jackson says.

“They were founded in the early 1980s in the States as sort of an underground peace movement. Gained momentum in Britain when a bunch of women caused extensive damage to one of the Hawk jets we were exporting to Indonesia. The women claimed their violence was justified by law, since they believed they were actually preventing an act of genocide. Jury actually acquitted them. Since then, thousands have joined their movement, politicians among them, all calling for global nuclear disarmament, as if that’s ever going to happen.”

“How long have they been storming the gates?” the general asks.

“Since your president announced the Ronald Reagan was transporting nuclear weapons. Believe it or not, some members of Ploughshares actually consider this Covah fella a hero.”

Rocky’s cup slips from her hand, splattering tea and shattered china across the linoleum floor. “Covah murdered eight thousand men and women. How the hell does that make him a hero?”

“Didn’t say it was my view. Most Brits, myself included, agree this whole fiasco was America’s fault.” Botchin nods toward Gunnar. “If your security’d been better, the Chinese would never have got hold of Goliath’s schematics.”

Gunnar feels the familiar burn in his stomach. He stands and exits the barracks, slamming the door behind him.

Rocky watches him go.

The compound is a frenzy of activity, police in riot gear rushing toward the front gate, base personnel loading computers, files, and cardboard boxes onto transport vehicles. Outside the northern gate is a crush of bodies, the crowd pushing, chanting, climbing like a swarm of ants. The scent of sulfur and tear gas wafts through the winter air.

Gunnar takes cover, kneeling behind the front tire of the jeep. He closes his eyes and inhales slowly through his nostrils, filling his lungs from the bottom up until his stomach is distended and his chest cavity can hold no more. He exhales through his mouth, smooth and steady, his pulse slowing, the internal rage leaving his body until only an acrid taste remains.

A squawk of speaker feedback comes from the flatbed. The frenzy at the front gate settles, the crowd quieting as one of the activist leaders takes the microphone. “All right, all right, quiet down. There’s a man here who wants to speak to us, a man who needs to be heard. Michael, come up here—”

A smattering of applause. The tall politician adjusts the height of the microphone stand. “My God, there are so many of you out here. For those who don’t know me, my name is Michael Jamieson and I’m a Labour Party leader in Scotland’s Parliament—”

A chorus of boos rises across the expanse.

“Hold on, now, I’m here today because I support your efforts, because I, like you, want to see change. I want to read something to you … a quote, from the International Court of Justice.” Jamieson removes a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket. “On July 8 in the year 1996, the International Court of Justice, in its advisory opinion, confirmed the general illegality of nuclear weapons, concluding that all states are under an obligation to bring to a conclusion negotiations in regard to all aspects of nuclear disarmament.”

Cheers wash over the catcalls.

Jamieson holds up the paper. “Despite this, despite very clear mandates from the population of the United Kingdom and members of Parliament, our government continues to participate in the illegal proliferation of these weapons of mass destruction.”

Jamieson pauses, the crowd growing attentive. The turbulence of the brisk October breeze rumbles in the microphone’s speakers. “What will it take to change Parliament? What will it take to change the world? Another Hiroshima, another Nagasaki? How many innocent people must die before our leaders realize the destructive path they have placed all of us upon?”

The crowd chants, “No more nukes—no more nukes.”

David exits the barracks to join Gunnar. “Sounds like some of the rallies we had back in college. Next thing, they’ll be chanting about saving the whales—”

Gunnar shoots him a look.

Jamieson raises his hands for quiet. “Within these very gates floats a vessel, paid for by taxes on our labor. Within the bowels of this submarine is enough firepower to incinerate every man, woman, and child in the United Kingdom. The United States, Russia, and China possess enough nuclear weapons to murder all of humanity a thousand times over. Britain and France, Israel and Iran, India and Pakistan and North Korea … all participating in the nuclear arms race—a race toward Armageddon, all proclaiming their own selfish need for nuclear deterrence as they push our species to the brink of self-extinction.”

Gunnar glances at the faces of Jamieson’s flock. Caucasians and blacks, white collar and blue, men and women, schoolchildren and seniors—all united in fear.

“Fellow citizens, I join you here today because, I, like you, am concerned about our future, and our children’s future. These are desperate times, my friends, and though our numbers are growing, we are still but an infinitesimal few compared to the complacent majority who willingly allow themselves to be manipulated and led to the slaughterhouse by the policies of our elected officials. Desperate times require desperate solutions. I stand here today to tell you that change is in the air. Now, one man—one man aboard one powerful vessel commands the world’s attention. Now, one man on a mission of salvation sends the world’s combined nuclear naval forces cowering back to their ports—”

David shakes his head. “This guy’s waving Covah’s flag.”

“Now, my friends, it is up to us to rally around this man’s actions. Now we must demand change. Now we must demand nothing less than total global nuclear disarmament!”

A roar erupts as the crowd swells forward. Men leap onto the fence, their suddenly revealed bolt cutters and hacksaws tearing into the steel links. The outnumbered riot police toss canisters of tear gas, then back away as the fencing collapses under the combined weight of the masses.

Gunnar and David hurry back inside the barracks. “We need to go—now!”

They hurry back to the jeep. Captain Botchin guns the engine, veering away from the crowd, as flaming bottles fly and the recreational barracks becomes an inferno.

The gray bulk of the HMS Vengeance appears in the distance. Piggy-backed to its deck is a small minisub. Several sailors continue securing it in place while dozens of others scurry across the deck, preparing to make weigh.

The crowd at the southern gate pushes its way onto the naval base, torching everything along its path.

The jeep screeches to a halt, nearly tossing Gunnar facefirst over the windshield. Botchin hurries them aboard the nuclear sub as sailors on deck hastily toss mooring lines over the side.

The Vanguard’s engines hum to life, its propeller churning sludge along the bottom as it pushes the vessel away from the dock. The mob races toward them from the pier. Bear pulls his daughter to the deck as Molotov cocktails smash and ignite against the moving steel hull.

Air horns sound as the Coast Guard cutters move in. Within seconds the late afternoon is violated by hundreds of rounds of machine-gun fire. The thunderous warning scatters the protesters, forcing them to take cover as two of the cutters and a tugboat escort Vengeance into deeper water.

Gunnar watches from the bow as the rabble return to line the pier, several protesters firing pistols into the air. Captain Botchin wishes the general luck as he departs aboard one of the Coast Guard vessels.

A half mile out to sea the sub’s crew grows silent. Faslane Naval Base smokes in the distance. A few smug smiles crease the submariners’ faces as they observe several dozen protesters being forced to leap into the sea—the flames, set by their own hands, engulfing the pier beneath their feet.

Norwegian Sea

Aboard the USS Scranton

Captain Tom Cubit slumps in his command chair, the hypnotic sounds of machinery pushing him deeper toward unconsciousness, his eyelids growing heavy from lack of sleep. After several minutes his eyes close, his head leaning back …

Cubit’s neck snaps back against the too-short headrest, jolting him awake. He wipes sweat beads from his forehead, then slips off his chair and staggers toward the galley to grab another cup of coffee. Halfway there, he changes his mind, turns back, and heads forward to the sonar room.

Sonar technician Michael Flynn is anything but refreshed from the seventy minutes of sleep he barely grabbed last night, on the floor by his station. Only his full bladder keeps him from falling back into dreamland. He looks up as the captain approaches.

“Anything?”

“Sorry, Skipper. It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack the size of New Jersey.”

“When was your last break?”

“Twelve hundred hours, but I’m fine—”

“You’re relieved. Ensign Wismer, take over at sonar.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Skipper, really—”

“Hot-bunk it, Michael-Jack. That’s an order.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Conn, radio, incoming message on the VLF.”

“Radio, Captain, on my way.”

Communications Officer Drew Laird hands his CO the folded message. Cubit rubs his eyes, trying to get them to focus as Commander Dennis joins him.

“New orders from COMSUBLANT?”

Cubit nods. “We’re being ordered to abandon our search and head to Spain, to the naval base in Rota.”

“A Med run?”

“Yeah.” Cubit hands the message to his second-in-command.

Dennis scans the orders. “They want us to join up with the Sixth Fleet’s Task Force 69. They must think the Goliath is heading for the Mediterranean.”

“We’ll never find that sub in the Med,” Cubit states. “Sonar conditions are terrible, warm water impinging on cold, salt water with fresh.”

“Naval Intelligence obviously thinks this Covah character may launch a nuke at Yugoslavia.”

Cubit thinks for a moment, then pulls his XO aside. “Plot a course to the Mediterranean, but don’t take us in. Before joining up with the fleet, I want to camp out a bit in the Strait of Gibraltar and give Flynnie another shot at finding that sub. The Strait’s pretty narrow. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

Aboard the HMS Vengeance

Commander Paul Whitehouse is a no-nonsense veteran of the Royal Navy’s submarine force. In seventeen years, he has never questioned authority—until now.

The British officer leads his four guests into his ready room, mentally preparing his verbal assault. Stay composed, Whitehouse. The Yankee general’s ego won’t take kindly to questioning his judgment.

“Well then, hope you enjoyed that little send-off. Captain Botchin will issue a statement later today announcing how the nuclear demonstration forced the Royal Navy to assign Vengeance to the Mediterranean. That should play well with what you’re intending to do.”

“Agreed.” General Jackson removes his cap, running his fingers through his short-cropped, auburn Afro. “The SEAL sub is ready to go?”

“Aye, sir, as per your orders.”

“Good. Now, if it’s all right with you, Commander, my team needs to get some rest.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve got you and your daughter in the XO’s stateroom across the passageway. Mr. Paniagua can bunk with my XO. As for Mr. Wolfe, I’m afraid the only open bunk we could find is in the torpedo room.” Whitehouse offers a false smile. “Sorry, best we could do.”

Gunnar looks at the Bear, but says nothing.

“General, before you go, if I could have a word with you in private?”

Jackson nods to Gunnar. “Wait for me in sick bay.”

Whitehouse closes the door after him. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Go on.”

“With all due respect, General, I don’t like this assignment, don’t like it one bit. Using the Vengeance as bait recklessly endangers my ship and my crew.”

“Duly noted, Commander. Is that all?”

Whitehouse’s face flushes red. “No, sir. I take it as a personal insult that Mr. Wolfe has been brought aboard my vessel. As far as the officers and crew of the Royal Navy are concerned, this man is a traitor to every sailor in the Western fleet, and should have been hanged for treason six years ago.”

The Bear exhales deeply, then eyeballs the British officer. “Commander, Gunnar Wolfe served his country under my command for the better part of a decade. Special Ops missions placed his life in jeopardy no less than a dozen times. His Ranger extraction team saved the lives of thirty men in Somalia, at which time he was wounded in battle. To this day, I firmly believe that he was and is innocent of all charges, and his presence on this mission is critical to its success.” Jackson stares hard into the man’s eyes. “As such, I highly suggest that you and your men allow Captain Wolfe to carry out his assignment without prejudice. Is that clear, Commander?”

“Perfectly clear … sir.”

Gunnar is waiting in sick bay, watching the ship’s medical officer stow plastic bottles of pharmaceuticals into cabinets.

General Jackson enters. “You ready?”

“I suppose.” Gunnar stands, then drops his trousers to his knees and climbs on the table. “Does Rocky or David know about this?”

“No, and let’s keep it that way.” Jackson hands the medical officer a wafer-thin dime-shaped piece of hard plastic. “Insert it in the quad, just below the hip.”

The medical officer swabs the spot with alcohol, then makes a small incision with his scalpel. Several minutes and five stitches later, the homing device is set into position.

The medical officer leaves.

“The device is designed to relay signals at predetermined intervals, making it more difficult for Sorceress to detect, assuming the computer is active,” Jackson says. “Have you selected a code name?”

Gunnar finishes dressing. “Joe-Pa.”

Jackson nods. “Coach Paterno would be proud.”

The former Penn State tight end shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

The designers of a nuclear submarine must optimize every cubic foot of space, often at the expense of the crew’s comfort. Sleeping racks, affording spaces no larger than small coffins, are stacked three high, and are often time-shared by several crewmen, one man sleeping while the other is on duty. As a result, the bedclothes are always kept warm, giving meaning to the phrase “hot-bunking.”

Seniority plays a large part in where submariners bunk. The worst sleeping assignment aboard a sub can usually be found in the torpedo room, where claustrophobia-inducing shelves are stacked beneath racks of explosives.

Gunnar enters the torpedo room, favoring his right leg. His commando sense jumps into overdrive as members of the crew gather behind him. The Chief Petty Officer looks up, offering a Cheshire cat smile.

“Wolfe, right? You’ll be bunking here, on the very bottom.” The chief playfully slaps a Tigerfish Mark 24 Model 2 torpedo, one of several stacked and secured to racks above two empty metal shelves, a thin mattress and bedding lying on each.

Gunnar can feel the eyes at his back as he ducks down to the floor and crawls in. He pulls up—too late, as the wetness soaks his arm and back, the smell of urine suddenly overpowering.

Gunnar rolls out of the bunk. The crewmen snicker, a few in the back mumbling the kind of venom he has heard too often over the past ten days. He stands, eyeballing the chief, fatigue fueling his anger and killer’s instinct.

“Sorry, Wolfie old boy, should ’ave warned you. Ensign Warren’s a bit of a bed wetter.”

More laughter.

Gunnar glares at the smaller man. Let it go, G-man. Remember, discipline is a higher form of intelligence. He removes his soaked shirt, then turns, and heads back the way he had come.

The crew closes ranks, refusing to part.

A bare-chested ensign steps forward. A large man, he is two inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than Gunnar, Heavily muscled, his chest and arms sport tattoos advertising his rugby team, his mother’s name, and the Christian religion.

“Lot of sailors died ’cause of you—” The index finger stabs Gunnar’s chest, the man’s chocolate brown eyes spewing hatred. “You got some set of balls coming aboard our—”

Gunnar snatches the index finger in his left palm, snapping the appendage backward until it dislocates, then, in one motion, he steps forward and slams his elbow down across the bridge of the taller sailor’s nose. The viciousness of the blow sends the nearest crewmen sprawling backward, allowing Gunnar to slip behind his would-be assailant, locking his forearm against the injured man’s windpipe.

“Back off, chaps, or I crush sailor-boy’s larynx.”

Threatening looks, but the crew steps back.

Gunnar feels warm droplets of the man’s blood on his arm. “Just for the record, I never sold Goliath’s plans to the Chinese. But I won’t hesitate to cripple or kill any man who tries to fuck with me.” He motions to the ringleader. “You, take off your shirt.”

The sailor grimaces, but removes his shirt, tossing it at Gunnar.

Gunnar releases his grip, pushing the tattooed ensign away from him. He backs out of the torpedo room, grabs a blanket and pillow from a nearby berth, then heads forward, the men parting as he passes.

The sixteen vertical launch tubes holding the Trident II (D5) nuclear missiles are set in two rows of eight, the towering pairs of silos containing the sixty-five-ton rockets that line the compartment like steel redwoods. Gunnar moves past the vertical columns, stopping at tube number seven.

Just need a few hours sleep …

He positions the pillow and blanket between the seventh and eighth silo and lies down, curling himself in a ball. He closes his eyes, fatigue dragging him quickly into dreams.

He is back in Leavenworth, lying on his mattress, staring at the bare cinder-block walls of his cell. Animal-like cries echo through the halls as yet another inmate bugs out, losing his mind, going ballistic.

Ten years …

One of the inmates had called the sentence Buck Rogers Time—prison slang for a release date so far in the future that it becomes too painful to imagine.

Alone, Gunnar grinds his teeth in the darkness beneath the sheet. Tears of anger and frustration and fear roll down his face, pattering softly on the bare mattress. The internal voice of the farm boy, the victim—begs God to awaken him from his hellish nightmare.

Ten years …

No Rocky, no Bear, no family, no friends, no comrades, no country—just animals, preying off each other’s fears. Animals, waiting for him to let his guard down, animals, waiting to sodomize him in the showers, to gut him in the yard …

Gunnar’s eyes snap open, his heart pounding. He looks up, gazing at the tight confines of the missile tubes, the claustrophobic surroundings reminding him of his time spent in solitary confinement. He recalls his experience in isolation, the punishment following his confrontation with the inmate known as Barnes. As he lay naked, on the stone floor in the dark, his tortured mind had been unable to cope with his sudden fall from grace. Stress and fear had caused the shadows to close in upon him, suffocating him …

On the brink of madness, his Special Forces training had taken over, his Ranger mentality becoming his compass, his salvation within the oblivion. Thrust into a world where he had no one, he realized he still had himself. Solitary became a blessing, giving him the time he needed to reroot his sanity.

Ten years …

One hundred and twenty months …

Five hundred twenty weeks …

Three thousand, six hundred and forty days …

Eighty-seven thousand, three hundred and sixty hours …

Five million, two hundred forty-one thousand—

STOP!

As Gunner paced naked in the stench-infested dungeon, his mind finally released him from the burden of hope. Yes, in the eyes of God he had sinned, committing crimes under the guise of war. Yes, he had hoped that by destroying the Goliath’s schematics he might achieve some sense of atonement. Perhaps Leavenworth was his real punishment. Perhaps one day, if he survived his sentence, he would have another opportunity to make good before he died. What mattered now was staying alive. Like it or not, he was in the jungle. Survival depended upon his ability to accept his fate and adapt to his new surroundings. Survival meant shoving his shame and guilt and anger into a lockbox and swallowing the key.

Naked, stripped of everything he had held dear, Gunnar Wolfe allowed his thoughts to change gears, his mind to settle into the mental pace of doing hard time.

Sleep tugs at his body, yet his mind refuses to let go, the hatred of the Vengeance’s crew still echoing in his thoughts. In the jungle, death is a numbers game, for both predator and prey. Zebra and wildebeests run in herds, as do prisoners. Gunnar might have been a lion in the outside world, but a single lion alone on the Serengeti still ends up food for the vultures. Survival in prison meant choosing sides, finding allies—families, who would watch your back, or so you hoped. Gunnar’s retaliation to Barnes’s attack had earned him the respect of a group of lifers, an older, more established prison gang, one that had the clout to keep Barnes and his Aryan Brotherhood away. Necessity forced him to join their group. On the inside, their company made him sick.

After three years, Gunnar had no idea who he was anymore.

The prison riot that took place during Gunnar’s fifty-seventh month at Leavenworth began at breakfast. Somehow a .22 caliber Beretta had been smuggled inside the compound, ending up in Anthony Barnes’s hands. The con knew the warden would be speaking to the inmates that day. The Aryan Brotherhood was ready.

In the melee that ensued, two guards were stabbed, another shot in the face. Cellblock C was sealed off, with Barnes threatening to kill the warden if he was not released.

The law of the jungle says you move on when your herd is not involved. The law of prison says an inmate does not intervene to save a boss.

The laws of Leavenworth state that a warden is no longer a warden if captured.

Barnes, left without his bargaining chip, decided to go out with a bang.

Whatever Gunnar was, whatever he had become in prison, the thought of the warden, a father of four, being tortured and killed by one of the cons struck at every fiber of his being. Without thinking, without any thought of repercussion, Gunnar allowed his commando instincts to take over as he made his way through the cellblock, stalking his enemy. After taking out half a dozen of the rioters, the former Army Ranger went after Barnes, snapping the man’s neck, never feeling the two bullets as they entered his abdomen.

Hooah.

Lying in his own blood, struggling to breathe, he smiled as the riot squad looked down at him and shook their heads in disbelief. The warden was whisked off to safety while the guards stood around, in no rush to save his life.

I am an island …

Two days following surgery, Gunnar opened his eyes, his head still in an anesthetic fog. The guard with the swastika tattoo—the one who had smuggled in the gun—winked at him, then left.

He was alone and vulnerable, his wrists strapped to the bed rails. Tense minutes passed. And then the outer doors of the infirmary opened and the two cons entered, each brandishing a razor. Gunnar’s cries for help were muffled by his pillow as the razor blades opened his veins. Desperate, he kicked his legs free of the sheets, then flipped backward, lashing out blindly until his heel connected with one man’s jaw. Rolling over, he caught his second assailant’s head in a leg lock, slamming the man’s skull repeatedly against the iron bed rail until he felt it crack open like a coconut.

His two would-be assassins dead, his body gushing blood, Gunnar once again used his Special Ops training, this time slowing his pulse in the hope that his nurse would arrive before he bled to death.

Gunnar sits up. He pulls the blanket tighter across his shoulders and leans back against the exterior of the cool steel cylinder, the memories of his years in prison causing his skin to tingle. He stares at his forearms and the scars left by the razor blades.

What am I doing here?

Breathing becomes rapid and shallow as he begins to hyperventilate.

Stay calm and breathe. Closing his eyes, he meditates, his pulse slowing as he imagines the serenity of the mountains surrounding Happy Valley. The setting sun turns the horizon lavender; his lungs inhale the brisk autumn breeze like a long-lost friend.

Saving the warden’s life had been a blessing. Fate, long his enemy, had finally lent a hand. Two weeks after the riot, he had limped out of the gates of hell, a free man, a survivor.

Out of the frying pan, into the fire …