‘Leave that to us,’ Wilms replied. ‘We have enough influence to subvert even military monitoring of the local environment for a limited amount of time. The DIA is already in motion on this, so we must act fast. Forty eight hours, Gordon, to gather the forces required and deploy them to the Antarctic.’
LeMay felt a quiver of alarm at the limited time to perform such a gargantuan task, but knowing that money was no object would smooth the process and he was loathe to show any sign of weakness before Wilms at such a crucial moment.
‘The force will be deployed on time,’ he promised.
‘Good,’ Wilms said as he stood. ‘You may use all of the facilities here at your disposal to arrange the deployment. All of the phones have been provided with suitable electronic shielding. Call me, when it is done.’
Wilms left the apartment without another word, leaving LeMay to ponder the magnitude of what he was being asked to do.
‘Whatever the hell it is you’re after, I hope it’s worth it,’ he uttered to himself as he picked up the phone and began to dial.
VI
Byron Thomas drove north along Highway 67 as the sun rose to the east across the barren deserts. The sky was a flawless light blue, and although the cool of the night still lingered he knew that within an hour or so the deserts would be once again scorched by the sun, the temperature forecast to be in the nineties.
He wore a prim tweed suit, a small bow tie against his tightly buttoned collar and square-rimmed glasses shielding his dark eyes, their arms resting alongside his gray temples. Although a physically imposing man, partly due to his African American heritage, Byron was an academic through and through, a student of both law and psychology and a career psychologist who had made his fortune rehabilitating some of the most violent criminals the world had ever known. But today, he was afraid.
Beside him on the passenger seat of his Prius lay a slim folder, within which were the medical history and doctor’s assessment of a patient so dangerous that they had been incarcerated without charge in the most secure prison in all of the continental United States. The final words of the physician who had begun treatment on the patient some years before, written in bold letters across the bottom of his psyche report, sent a shiver down Byron’s spine.
Aaron James Mitchell is without a doubt the most powerful and dangerous man I have ever attempted to treat.
ADX Florence, as it was known, was America’s most secure Super-Max prison, designed to house the most feared inmates within the country’s prison system. Sited on a thirty seven acre complex, the majority of the facility was above ground with a subterranean corridor linking the cellblocks to the lobby. Enshrouded both in secrecy and endless glittering razor wire fences, few journalists or outsiders were ever permitted entry. Its inmates were among the worst that humanity had to offer; mass murderers, terrorists and cult leaders with the blood of hundreds of people on their hands, Mafia dons and other hardened convicts so repulsively violent that it made Byron’s stomach clench at the mere thought of being in the same building, let alone confronting them. And yet, today, confront them he must.
The low, white buildings and watch towers loomed before Byron on the side of the road, bathed in warm orange sunlight but still somehow clinical in their appearance, indicative of a place where memories and hopes went to die. Byron pulled slowly into the parking lot, stopped at the security gates and showed both his identification and his letter of admittance to the guards there before being waved through and parking in front of the southern block.
Byron killed the engine and took one last look at the file, even though he had read it a hundred times before. He knew that he was merely delaying the inevitable, but he could not help himself as he flicked through the pages.
An image of a dark skinned Afro-American, born August 12th, 1955 — Aaron James Mitchell. Mother; Florence Mitchell, nee Spencer, an American by birth, Detroit. Father; Jackson. J. Mitchell, former soldier, service record; Pacific Theatre, Iwo Jima, decorated veteran. Devout Catholics, both now deceased. No other siblings. Aaron Mitchell, service with United States Marines, Vietnam, decorated twice, two tours of active duty, two further tours as instructor…
Byron, as he suspected like many others, had initially felt a sense of relief upon first reading the file’s opening pages. He’d believed that he was reading the operational file of an all American boy and veteran, a man whom he could harbor some hope of liberating from whatever madness had consumed him.
Wife; Mary Allen Mitchell. Daughter; Ellen Amy Mitchell, born 1972, Oakland, California…
Byron’s relief had quickly turned to melancholy.
… died, 1978. Interred Oakland, California.
Aaron James Mitchell; Diagnosed with acute anxiety and depression, revised as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Original PTSD from combat service enflamed via suppressed grief after loss of family. Two years medical hospital, San Diego. Released 1981.
Mitchell’s record vanished into vagrancy sometime after his release from hospital, as had sadly so many of America’s Vietnam veterans, before being mysteriously picked up by the CIA and maintained under strictest security. Byron scrolled down rapidly toward the physician’s report near the bottom of the file, written some years’ previously.
Physically impressive. Doctor’s note: Aaron J Mitchell is without a doubt the most powerful and dangerous man I have ever attempted to treat.
The rest of the medical report was heavily redacted, no doubt as a result of Mitchell’s work within the military. Byron could only guess at the horrors faced by this patient in the steaming jungles of South East Asia, and then again perhaps in foreign countries undercover as an operative of some kind, perhaps a spy.
Byron took a deep breath as he looked up at the walls of the prison, unmarked, bleached it seemed, scoured of any trace of humanity and compassion. He only hoped that his mission here today would be worth it, worth more than the tremendous sum of money that had been deposited into separate bank accounts belonging to Byron over the last two months.
Byron stepped out of the air conditioned vehicle and into the hot sunshine, already flaring off the asphalt as the heat began to rise. He walked across to the block entrance, where the first of many security gates opened and then closed behind him as he walked through. Pinned between two steels gates, he was searched thoroughly by prison security teams. The guards checked his letter of admission in his pocket, his file and his pockets before waving him through to a reception area where he was required to leave his cell phone, wallet and other personal belongings.
An alarm sounded that made Byron flinch as the next set of steel gates rumbled open and he walked slowly forward, hating every footstep as he eased into the darkened maw of a sally port that led into the prison’s interior.
‘This way, Doctor Thomas.’
A sergeant, his khakis perfectly pressed, his hair immaculately combed, gestured for Byron to follow him as they walked through a cool corridor that descended beneath the block walls and led to more security gates. Each was governed by operators in remote stations and covered by security cameras — there were no keys, no means for a prisoner to escape even if they did get somehow manage to out of their cell.
They passed through the gates, and Byron saw an X-Ray machine sunk into a revetment in the wall that scanned him as they moved by. No alarm was emitted and Byron continued under the sergeant’s guidance until they emerged into the cell block proper.