Tracks (28 page)

As he thoroughly inspected the
fence he noticed a blinking red light pointing his way.  Focusing on the
red dot he realized it must be marking the gate.  Someone was out there,
signaling to them.  With no time to consult Harley who was with the
stretcher, he made his decision.

Rising up, the troop behind
him, he led them the final five hundred meters to safety.

PART
TWO

REVELATION

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX

The rat poked its head through
the crack, studying Jack’s can of beans with interest.  Its pink ears were
flapping and its dark eyes were darting around incessantly as it carefully
examined the surroundings, inching its way toward the food.

Jack lay on the cement floor
in the corner guarding his wounded knee, which had by now swollen to
distressing proportions and was causing his entire left leg constant throbbing.

Confinement conditions at the
A-Tur Prison facility were atrocious, much worse than Jack had seen in the
Dahab prison.

He had been thrown into an
undersized damp cell with twenty others with barely enough room for each to
properly lie down; most
were
crouching or half
sitting.  A gloomy crowd of villains, there were murderers, thieves,
druggies, and criminals of all sorts.  The place reeked of hashish blended
with urine, vomit, sweat and other bodily secretions.  Almost everyone
smoked the weed in the cell.  It was the one item the guards turned a
blind eye to, figuring it did a bit
to
calm
matters. 

Every now and then a fight broke
out, forcing the guards to poke their bayoneted rifles through the iron bars to
try and end it.  Mostly they would indifferently stand and watch until
blood was drawn or someone’s life would seriously be at risk.  “Everyday”
fights would just run their course until someone folded, his head bashed or his
arm broken.

Jack understood very little of
what was said in the cell.  His Arabic was mediocre at best and the
different dialects confused matters even further.

Confined space, overcrowding
and shortage of food were factors but mostly the prisoners fought over ego and
loyalty to the different backgrounds.  Bedouins from different tribes
stuck together, gang members watched each other’s back, and family members
looked after one another.  There were very few random prisoners like Jack
whose loyalty was to no one but himself.

In all the madness, he needed
to keep himself alive and it was proving difficult.

After the treacherous ride
down the Faran wadi, the soldiers from the Katarina Intelligence base had placed
him in the hands of the A-Tur police.

A-Tur was a small port town on
the banks of the Gulf of Suez halfway between Sharm el Sheikh and the Suez
Canal.  It functioned as a launching point for anyone venturing into the
high mountains.  Its prison served the high mountain area of
Santa-Katarina and Western Sinai
peninsula
. Suspected
criminals would be detained in A-Tur then sent for prosecution in whatever
district they were charged.  The Sinai had three district courts: in A-Tur
for the Northwestern region, in Sharm el Sheikh for the Southern district, and
in Dahab for the Eastern region.

Well into his third day in the
cell, Jack had yet to see a doctor or even visit the prison infirmary. 
His captors had thrown him in with the mob and seemed to have forgotten about
him.

His size and sturdy build
earned him a corner spot in the cell but Jack had no doubt he would eventually
be targeted.  His handicap was evident and it was only a matter of time
before someone found an excuse to gang up on him. He was a foreigner and a rare
sight to most of them.  The first day they eyed him suspiciously but
somewhat respectfully.  The second day they ignored him.  Now they
were becoming hostile.  He could see several inmates scrutinizing him, evaluating
whether he might have something of value.  Foreign currency went a long
way in these parts and Jack had two hundred dollars stashed in his pants -
money he now realized he had better put into use.

The rat was almost at his food
when he slapped it sending it reeling back into its crack.  He gulped the
cold can of beans down and called the guard.

Silence swept over the cell as
everyone became attentive.

It was the first time Jack had
spoken since he arrived.  In lame Arabic he asked permission to be
heard.  The guard looked him over disdainfully then motioned for him to
approach.  Jack stood up on his healthy leg and limped over to the front,
the prisoners making a narrow lane for him to pass.  In four hops he made
it to the cell railing and leaned heavily on them feeling faint.  He had
barely moved during the last seventy-two hours and the sudden burst drained his
energy.

“I need a doctor!” he said to
the guard, pointing at his left leg where the swollen knee stuck out of the
ripped pant covered with dried blood and dirt.

The guard looked unimpressed
and Jack knew he could not offer him the bribe in front of the on looking
crowd.

“Please,” he pleaded. “I feel
very bad.”

The guard was sitting on a
wooden stool an arm’s length from the iron bars.  He turned and spoke to a
second guard who was sitting opposite a second cell in the L-shaped corridor,
which housed four similar cells filled to the brim with detainees.

The two guards laughed and
gestured to Jack to go back to his place.

Jack would not budge.  He
had to get out of the cell.  Desperate, he motioned for the guard to come
closer.  Annoyed, the guard got up and whacked Jack’s outstretched hands
with his wooden club.  He meant to do it a second time when Jack caught
him by the neck and began to squeeze.  A roar went up from the cell behind
as the prisoners realized what was happening and began urging him on.  The
guard’s lips were turning blue as he fought for air, but Jack held strong
squeezing the windpipe.

Seconds later the second guard
appeared
,
whacking Jack on the head with his club but
Jack would not let go.  Then the barrel of a pistol appeared in his face
and he dropped the choking guard to the ground.

It took him a few minutes to recover
from his near death experience, and when he did, the guard, trembling with
anger and shame, unlocked the cell gate and ordered Jack out. 

Jack, out of breath and
panting from the incident, hobbled out.  The guard locked the gate behind
him to sounds of glee and hackling of the prisoners, turned and aimed a kick to
Jack’s ailing knee with all the force he could muster.

Jack rolled over causing the
kick to miss and the guard to lose his balance and slip to the floor to more
exultant laughter from the supportive crowd.

While the second guard managed
to land a kick to Jack’s side, the first took out his pistol.  In rage, he
aimed it at Jack.

“Shoot!” the hoard of
prisoners shouted in unison.  “Kill him!” they bellowed in frenzy, banging
in the prison walls.

The guard cocked his pistol
and took aim at the helpless Jack when two officers burst into the corridor,
astonished at the scene revealed to them.

They hollered commands at the
two guards, saving Jack’s life in the process.  The humiliated guard stood
shaking as he lowered his pistol and handed it to his superior who whacked him
on the head with it and sent him
away.       

Next the two officers
conferred with the second guard who animatedly described the incident,
then
they stooped over Jack.

“Once your knee is tended to
in the infirmary you will be put in solitary confinement for a week,” one of
the officers informed him.  “Attacking a guard is a serious offense. 
It will be added to your rap sheet when you are tried.”

The officer helped Jack up and
escorted him out of the cellblock to the sound of cheers from his
cellmates.  Jack limped along the spiraling stairs on one leg supported by
the officer.  They came out in the bright sun to an internal
courtyard.  Jack blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light.  They
crossed the yard diagonally and walked into an entrance with a red cross
above. 

The infirmary was lively with
activity.  Jack could spot two nurses tending to a sorry looking bunch of
individuals lined up in front of their two counters.  In another room he
could see a line of beds with patients tucked in them.  The officer pushed
his way to the front of the line to a storm of resentment and objections,
demanding to see the doctor.

The young nurse, dressed in
white with a red-cross bonnet like someone out of a red-cross ad, was busy
measuring a patient’s blood pressure.  She looked up at the officer then
at Jack as the officer gestured at Jack’s knee.  When she saw it, she
immediately rushed through a closed door behind her counter to alert the doctor.

Minutes later Jack was called
in.

The doctor was a short, thin
man dressed casually with a short sleeve shirt, who seemed on edge as he washed
his hands in a sink, his stethoscope slung around his neck.  He had small
clean hands, was clean-shaven and looked like a worried bird as he approached
Jack who had been propped up on his treatment table.

He took a pair of scissors and
cut the pants around the knee then asked the nurse to gently wash off the dried
blood with soapy water, a feat that caused Jack great pain.

“I’m Doctor Shalabi,” the
Doctor introduced himself in Arabic, “and this is nurse Juman.  How did
this happen?”

Jack told him.

“And how long ago did all this
occur?” the doctor questioned as he gently tested the area.

“This happened six days ago,”
Jack said.

“And
had you been looked at?” the doctor queried.

“You are the first,” Jack said
looking contemptuously at the escorting officer by his side.

The doctor raised his face
questioningly at the officer who heaved his shoulders helplessly.

“This neglect could cost this
man his leg,” Doctor Shalabi retorted.

“He is a child kidnapper,” the
officer pointed out.

“Has he been tried and
convicted?”  Shalabi questioned.

“I have not been tried yet,”
Jack stated.

“No man deserves such
treatment,” Nurse Juman pitched in.

The knee was extremely swollen
and hemorrhaging.  The doctor checked for movement but Jack cold not bend
or straighten it from its position.

“We need x-rays,” Doctor
Shalabi said to the nurse.  “It might be broken.  There could also be
blood poisoning.”

“This means the Hospital at
Sharm,” Nurse Juman said.  Both she and the doctor looked questioningly at
the officer.

“This man just attacked a
guard,” the officer exclaimed. 
“Nearly killed him.
 
The only place he is going from here is solitary confinement.”

“Then I’m afraid you’ll have
to deal with the consequences if he loses his leg or worse, dies,” the doctor
threatened. 

The officer looked uncertain.

“I am an American citizen,”
Jack declared, pressing his case.  “I should be able to at least contact
my embassy.  They could look after my knee.”

“You keep him here in the
infirmary until I get back,” the officer said, ignoring Jack.  “I’ll have
to consult the commandant.” 

He turned and marched out of
the room.

Juman and the doctor gently
cleansed the knee and taped it as best they could then escorted Jack to the
sick room where he was placed in a bed and was asleep within minutes.

He awoke to a light shining in
his face.  It was dark outside.  He had no idea how long he had
slept.  As his eyes focused he noticed the party around his bed. 
There was Juman, the doctor, the officer who escorted him, and a higher-ranking
officer, most likely the commandant.  They were talking among themselves
in hushed voices periodically shining a light on his knee and face.

Doctor Shalabi was vigorously
objecting but his protest seemed futile and weak.  He was arguing for
sending Jack to a Sharm el Sheikh Hospital for treatment.  The commandant,
a typical prison warden - heavy set, bald, intimidating and impatient - was
disagreeing.

When he made his decision, the
commandant gave instructions to the assembled group and abruptly left the
room.  Jack was propped up to a sitting position by Nurse Juman.

The officer explained the Commandant’s
decision.  In plain terms Jack was going into solitary confinement for
assaulting a guard.  They would re-evaluate matters when he got out in a
week.  The commandant had agreed to provide Jack with painkillers,
bandages, ointment and cleansing materials for his knee. 

Doctor Shalabi’s displeasure
was evident but there was nothing he could do.  The decision was made
against his professional advice.

Jack slid off the bed and
stood on one leg placing his hand on the officer’s shoulder.  At least he
had managed to avoid the cell, which he viewed as most threatening to him, and
had his knee looked at.

Juman placed a blanket around
his shoulders.

“Take it,” she said.  “It
will help you.”