Fireplay, Steve P. Vincent [best fiction books of all time txt] 📗

Jack pressed against the wall, hoping that the cold stone might somehow hide him from the beam of light that snaked towards him, left and right, ever closer as a marine approached with a flashlight. After all of his effort to stay at Camp Navitas overnight, he’d barely made it out of his room and now it looked like the gig was up. Ortiz wouldn’t be impressed if Jack was busted, nor would Jack’s editor. He took a deep breath.

“Hey, Mike!” a voice shouted. “Major Brinson wants you posted outside the journalist’s door.”

Jack closed his eyes. He hoped the new voice was calling out to the guy holding the torch.

“I’m rostered on to B wing.” Another man, closer to Jack, called back and then let out a long sigh. “I wish he’d make up his mind. Who’s taking over from me?”

“Nobody. Now get moving.”

Jack’s eyes shot open and locked onto the beam of light. It had stopped moving towards him. He heard another sigh and then watched as the light shifted direction. The marine’s boots gave dull thuds as he walked away, the sound growing fainter with each footstep. Finally, after going so close to being exposed by the guards, Jack was alone in the darkness.

He took a couple of deep breaths and then pushed himself off the wall. He stuck his head around the corner and then moved down the hallway as quietly as he could. At the end of the corridor he turned left and made his way toward one of the three detention blocks he’d been walked past but not allowed to enter when Brinson had given them the tour. Brinson had told him that each block housed twelve detainees.

He reached the heavy steel door that barred the way into the cell block. Luckily, it was more focused on keeping inmates in than snooping reporters out, meaning he could open it with the turn of a handle. He walked inside and closed the door behind him. No guards were posted inside, but there was always a chance one would happen along. Whatever he was hoping to find, he had to find it quickly.

The light on his cell phone was all Jack could use to search. It was hard to get used to walking around in the dark, but many American firebases and camps on the fringe of insurgent territory went dark at night. Navitas was no different. As he walked deeper into the cell block, the smell was the first thing he noticed, followed by the cries and whimpers of broken men from behind simple but effective grilled steel cell doors.

He hesitated and then decided that if he was going to trespass he may as well go the whole hog. “Hello? Does anyone speak English?”

He was met with silence, though the whimpering stopped. He tried again. “I’m an Australian reporter. I’d like to talk about Hewad.”

He stood still as some of the inmates chatted amongst themselves in Pashto or Dari – Jack wasn’t sure which. It was a long shot that any of them would be able to understand him, know Ghilzai, and be willing to speak with him, but he had to try. The alternative was to search aimlessly through the camp and risk getting caught with no guarantee of a story.

The chattering increased and, finally, one of the Afghans approached the door to his cell. He gripped the bars with his hands and spoke. “You know Hewad?”

Jack flashed the light towards the man. “I met him. He’s dead now. He blew up an American vehicle and they shot him.”

“Trust him to do something like that.” The detainee’s English was patchy, but good enough to understand. “We thought he was crazy.”

Jack’s mind started to fire, but he kept calm. The surest way to scare off a source was to jump too excitedly at a lead. “You knew him well?”

The other man laughed and then suppressed it, as if he’d momentarily forgotten where he was. The few teeth he had left were rotten. “I should. He married my sister.”

Jack smiled. He shouldn’t take a liking to the man, but it was hard not to. “Hewad had American boots and a weapon. He told me if I came here I’d find answers.”

The prisoner laughed. He took a step back, pulled his tattered shirt over his head, and turned around. Even in the pale light offered by the phone, Jack could see fresh wounds alongside scars. He could see welts and burns, angry and red, and bruises as dark as the night. The man’s whole body was broken and wounded. Jack had seen combat injuries before, and these weren’t that. This was something else.

“How long have you been here?” Jack kept his voice low, feeling as if the man’s revelations made his snooping even riskier.

The prisoner shrugged. “Many months. Nearly a year. Who knows? I’ve been here the longest though.”

So the wounds could only have been caused by one thing. “And they mistreat you?”

Another shrug. “They do what they do. To me and everyone else until we die. Except Hewad. He was the most devout. God freed him and he struck back.”

“Do you mind if I take some photographs? I’ll report this to the world.”

“Do what you want. I’m a dead man anyway.”

Jack spent a few moments photographing the man’s injuries with his phone. The shots weren’t great, but they’d suffice. Jack was surprised when the prisoner called out to other detainees to show him their wounds. He gathered dozens of photographs of the nine men before deciding he’d pushed his luck – and that of the prisoners – far enough. He noted down the names of each prisoner and then moved to leave the cell block.

On a whim he paused and turned back to the prisoner who spoke English, still standing at the bars of his cell. “Which cell belonged to Hewad?”

The man pointed. Jack walked over and flashed his light inside the cell. Not surprisingly, it was empty, though there was an enormous bloodstain on the sandy floor of the cell. He looked up and saw clearly how Hewad had escaped, through the giant hole in the wall. He took some more snaps and started to piece it together in his head. Camp Navitas was a giant torture chamber.

He’d risked enough and had enough for a story. There was nothing else to be gained, but plenty to be lost by sticking around. With one final glance at the prisoners he