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General John McMillan said nothing as the motorboat sped across the waters of San Francisco Bay, heading toward Alcatraz. He was in a foul mood thanks to a wasted week of traveling and searching. He had called in every favor that he could think of but no one had heard anything about a Prisoner 112. Then he had finally opened the letter that Doreen Casey had given him at the wake.
It was John’s handwriting, he saw it right away. But there was no greeting, none of John’s usual blunt words of advice. There were only two short sentences: Go to Alcatraz and talk to Williams. He knows. McMillan had to spit out a string of ugly curses, fill his flask, pack a bag, and hop on a late flight to San Francisco.
He had arrived two hours earlier in utmost secrecy just after eleven o’clock at night and nobody had been all that happy to see him. The base commander, a dyspeptic-looking middle-aged Colonel had been cagey, even rude, and had been reluctant to assign him two soldiers and a boat to go out to Alcatraz.
McMillan had insisted and here they were speeding away across the dark waters, the bulk of the iconic island rearing up ahead of them as they drew closer to the main dock. The two soldiers that had been assigned to him cast nervous glances over their shoulders at him now and again and were met with nothing more than his impassive, unemotional stare. He felt a ripple of amusement at that. It was the best poker face he could muster and had intimidated many an officer out of their hard-earned money over the years.
The roar of the boat faded a bit as the young soldier behind the wheel throttled the engine down to a slower speed as they began their final approach to the main dock at Alcatraz. Someone, McMillan noted with displeasure had called ahead because an official welcoming party had been hastily assembled and was lined up in perfect military precision along the main dock.
The boat easily slid to a stop alongside the main pier and McMillan easily ascended the ladder and, once safely on the dock, straightened out his uniform. “You, what’s your name?” He pointed at the driver of the boat.
“Private Garrison, sir.”
“Garrison, stay with the boat,” he said. “You, what’s your name?” He pointed at the other soldier who had accompanied them.
“Private Ramirez, sir.”
“Ramirez, you’re with me,” he said and noted the alacrity with which Ramirez got himself out of the boat and onto the dock beside him with approval. He gave the kid a moment to catch his breath and then turned to the waiting welcoming party. “Let’s go,” he said. “And Ramirez?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You play poker?”
“Little bit, sir.”
“You got a good poker face?”
“I won $300 bucks off the Colonel last week, sir.”
“We’ll call that a yes,” McMillan said. “Whatever I do and whatever I say while we’re here, keep your poker face on. Are we clear?”
“Crystal, sir.”
“All right,” McMillan said. “Let’s do this- and try and keep up.” Then he started walking towards the waiting retinue, lengthening his stride.
“General McMillan, it’s a pleasure to have you here on Alcatraz,” the rather portly officer at the head of the greeting party said. McMillan kept walking so he had no choice but to fall in step with him or get left behind at the dock. “I’m Colonel Williams.”
“Colonel,” McMillan said. “I’m here to conduct an inspection of the north wing.”
“The north wing?”
“Yes, the north wing,” they were past the old gift shop now, the outlines of the old National Park Service signs still evident on the worn facade, as well as decades-old graffiti from the occupation by the American Indian Movement. “I’d like to start there.”
“Sir, we’re not prepared for an inspection at this late hour,” Williams protested, already winded as they began to climb the stairs to the main complex. “It’s been lights out on all the main cell blocks for at least two hours now.”
“I don’t want to go to the main cell blocks,” McMillan said, “I want to go to the north wing and conduct an inspection.”
“This is a highly unusual request,” Williams protested. They had reached the main entrance to the complex.
McMillan screeched to a halt. “Lucky for you, Colonel that I am considered to be a highly unusual General. Now open these doors and show me the north wing.”
“General-”
“That was an order, Colonel,” McMillan snapped. “I can still give them, you know.”
Williams swallowed, his eyes darting as McMillan leaned closer to the man. “Colonel,” he said. “I’m not the Red Cross. I don’t care if the bruises on the prisoners are showing and I know,” he glanced down at his watch, “that it’s one in the morning but believe me, I wouldn’t care if it was three in the morning. Now open the damn door.”
Williams broke. Stepping forward to the entrance, he punched in his access code and the first of the heavy steel doors began to swing open. “Right this way, General,” he said and led them into the darkness beyond. There were only two more doors to go through and a security checkpoint after that but with Williams walking ahead of them, they merely walked through the usual checkpoints with ease.
Then they were in the dimly lit cell blocks beyond. Williams walked with authority now and McMillan accorded him some grudging respect for that. The man knew every inch of the facility he was running. Then they were through the main complex and out another entrance onto a well-lit, newer-looking sidewalk that led down to the north end of the rocky island.
“You’ll have to excuse the state of the exterior of the building,” Williams said. “We were limited as to how much renovation we could do to it.”
“Limited by whom?”
“General Casey,” Williams said. “We wanted to renovate the New Industries Building,” he gestured to the long building ahead of them, “But General Casey wanted some distance between the high-value prisoners and the main populace so we were forced to renovate the Model Industries Building instead.”
The path was sloping downwards towards the water and McMillan could see their destination ahead of them. The perimeter around the North Wing as it was called was lit with floodlights. “The building’s exterior remains more or less the way it was when we took over,” Williams said. “It looks terrible but the only thing we could was stabilize the structure by extending the seawall.”
As they drew closer, McMillan saw that Williams was correct. The exterior of the building looked rusted, ancient, and old- but there were fresh windows evident throughout and lights were on inside, indicating some kind of human habitation. They were at another checkpoint now and a quick wave from Williams had them into the perimeter surrounding the building. Maybe twenty, thirty yards after that, they were at the entrance when Williams hesitated again.
“The kid stays with me,” McMillan said.
“Sir, he doesn’t have clearance.”
“This isn’t up for discussion,” McMillan said. The two men locked eyes again before Williams surrendered and punched in his access code. The steel door to the building slid open again and Williams led them inside. There was a brief pause as a second door swung open but then Williams gestured for McMillan to step through.
The inside of this building was far different than the dimly lit, cramped cell blocks of the main complex they had just seen. The place felt warmer, more inviting and the anteroom they were standing in felt more like a waiting room in a Doctor’s office than a prison.
“Well, here we are, General,” Williams said. “Where would you like to start?”
“Take me to Prisoner 112.”
Williams’ face went white and his eyes began to dart back and forth again. The man looked like he wanted to be anywhere but standing in front of McMillan and for one brief instant, McMillan felt sorry for the man.
“General, I-”
“Take me to their cell,” McMillan said, cutting Williams off. Reluctance pouring off of the man, he turned on his heel and, punching in an access code, opened a door and led them into a long hallway. These cells were different, McMillan saw. Bigger, more open with more furnishings... most inmates were asleep. Down the long, then they turned and turned again to a shorter hallway where Williams came to a halt.
“Where is Prisoner 112?”
The steel door to the cell stood open and he could see the cell was empty. McMillan had expected that.
“She... she was transferred,” Williams said.
“To where?”
“I don’t know.” McMillan’s eyes bored into Williams and he watched the man writhe under his gaze. He was breaking, McMillan saw, his resistance crumbling all it would take is one little- “Private Ramirez!” McMillan barked, not taking his eyes off Williams. “Give me your sidearm.”
“Yes, sir!” Ramirez barked back. Williams’ eyes went very wide indeed as Ramirez offered his gun to McMillan. McMillan took it, cocked it, and watched in satisfaction as Williams’ eyes went crossed as he pushed the barrel of the gun between the man’s eyes. “Not. Good. Enough.” McMillan enunciated every word. “Where is Prisoner 112?”
Williams went white. “Homeland Security,” he swallowed hard. “They came and took her last week. They transferred her to another facility.”
“Who came?” McMillan asked, pressing the gun into his forehead a little more. “Some mid-level paper pusher can’t authorize a transfer like this.”
“Needles,” Williams gasped. “The man they call Needles.”
McMillan lowered the gun. “Do you know who Prisoner 112 is?”
Williams shook his head. “The identities remain secret even from us,” he said. He watched as McMillan considered that for a moment. “You have to believe me,” he said.
“Here’s the problem, Colonel,” McMillan said. “I don’t. Did General Casey come to visit Prisoner 112?”
“H-h-how did you know that?”
“He left me a note,” McMillan said, grinding the gun into the man’s forehead. “He told me to come to Alcatraz and talk to you. He said that you knew.”
“All right, all right, I’ll tell you,” Williams said. “But just you.” Rolling his eyes, McMillan lowered the gun and stepped forward to stand next to the man. Williams leaned in and told him the name.
McMillan froze. That explained everything. Why John had pushed for negotiations, why he had visited Prisoner 112. And it explained why Miller and Homeland Security were terrified of anybody finding out the true identity of Prisoner 112- so terrified that they might be willing to start a war over it. He stepped back and handed the gun back to Ramirez, who popped the bullet out of the chamber and holstered the sidearm again.
“Thank you, Colonel,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful. I think that’ll be all.” He glanced at Williams who was still looking very pale. “Why don’t you radio ahead and let them know we’re on the way back,” he said, a note of sympathy in his voice. “Private Ramirez and I will show ourselves out.”
Williams stiffened. “That won’t be necessary, General. But there is one other thing,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“You’re not the first person to come looking for Prisoner 112,” Williams said. “Admiral Jones was here just last week.”
McMillan said nothing after that and remained silent as Williams led them back out and up the hill to the Main Complex and through the Main Complex and back out and down the stairs to the pier, where their boat was waiting. Williams came to a stop at the top of the stairs leading down to the docks. “General,” he said, “It’s been a pleasure having you here on Alcatraz.”
McMillan shook himself and straightened to return the man’s salute. “Colonel Williams,” he said. He almost turned to go but then he stopped himself. “Williams, you seem like a straight shooter who knows what he’s doing running this place,” he said. “Can I ask you one more thing?”
“What’s that?”
“You said Admiral Jones was here- did he know who he was looking for?”
Williams nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” McMillan said and then turned to go. He walked down the stairs, Ramirez just beside him.
“You know what I hate, Ramirez?”
“What’s that, sir?”
“I hate being played,” McMillan said. He felt the anger come for the first time then and that made him smile even more. The Admirals thought they had found a pawn to play their game but he wouldn’t be so transparently manipulated. He knew who Prisoner 112 was now. All he had to do was find her and he could end Miller and bring down the Federal Council once and for all.