Novel Excerpt: Faraway
You can read the first chapter of Hannibal Tabu's second novel, Faraway, broken into parts for mobile consumption.
What's the story about? The biggest problem with building the world's smartest prison is an inmate whose life's mission has been to get inside.
67.4 miles.
67.4 miles in every direction, farther than the human eye could see, there was nothing but desert and sand and nothing. In some directions it was farther than that, but that was the minimum radius of absolute desolation around Faraway Federal Penal Facility.
The building itself -- one, solid mass of sand colored stone spread over a square mile and jutting more than twelve stories skywards -- stood at the center of this circle like a discarded toy, forgotten when its owner went home from an unenjoyable vacation. On its exterior it had no balconies, no walkways, and only one enclosed rooftop lookout post. Completely air tight and self contained, its guards peered from rocket-proof windows fitted with perfectly sized slots for either rifles or other implements of "attitude adjustment."
Touted by the Department of Corrections as "the world's most intelligent and secure penal facility," the only way to get in was by helicopter, over those many miles of anti-aircraft weaponry and mines and punji spikes. Inmates were literally dropped in bundles from the rotary birds of prey. The trip was designed to graphically illustrate the separation of prisoners from the rest of the world. No visitors. Highly sporadic mail. Even chaplain service had been prohibited. There were zero escapes in the twenty-seven years of its operation under the United States government. faraway had supplanted Alcatraz in the global consciousness as the icon of incarceration.
It was more than a slogan, it was considered irrefutable fact, as if handed down from heaven above, a slogan that was at the top of every piece of letterhead and known the world over.
"Nobody gets away from Faraway."
* * *
Staring down over the illuminated central courtyard, Keniston Spaulding tapped an old-fashioned lead pencil on his knee rhythmically. A stack of half-filled out e-forms lay in six mostly neat piles of LCD tablets at his side, and Linda Ronstadt's voice came carefully from miniscule tweeters on the dented and bruised Panasonic radio, perched symmetrically atop a leatherbound bible on the edge of the desk.
The window, shatterproof glass laced with electrified titanium wire, gazed down on an area the size of two football fields snuggled side by side, where prisoners decked out in uniforms of black, blue, brown and red meandered to and fro in carefully observed activity. From Spaulding's perch, two hundred feet above the floor of the yard, he could see the dim green glow from the tranq shackles around the left leg of each and every prisoner, occasionally switching to red should one get out of hand and then be carried off by guards. Spaulding sighed, the worn blue of his blazer shuffling itself as he rubbed his hands together, and returned to the forms.
"Warden Spaulding," a steady voice intoned from just outside the door. Spaulding looked up, and through the door came a tall man in gray fatigues, smartly pressed with shining medallions and insignia meticulously placed on the chest and collar. The man snapped to attention before the warden's boxy metallic desk.
"Yes, Simpson," Spaulding replied, the gravelly shadows of his voice carrying no further than the periphery of his desk.
"Warden, the requested shipment of backup batteries for the stun sticks hasn't arrived," Simpson said evenly, his pockmarked face showing no worry nor excitement. "It was scheduled to arrive at 0930 hours this morning and we have received no transmissions as to the whereabouts of the supply 'copter."
Spaulding sighed and ran his rough, thick fingers through thinning slate-colored hair. "These batteries," he began, "they were backups, you say?"
"Yessir," was the staccato reply, still in that solid, even tone of Simpson's. "All guards replace batteries at the same time, as per the schedules I established upon my appointment to head of facility security, once a day. Our current supply is sufficient for operating at this level for two months, with our existing backup supply sufficient for a month beyond that. Rechargable batteries are used in emergencies, due to more limited life, and we have two weeks supply of them kept at full charge in ..."
"So what you're saying, then," Spaulding said slowly, "is that the insurance for an insurance policy on our insurance is ..." Spaulding glanced at his watch, a featureless turn of the century Timex with old fashioned clockwork hands circling an analog disc. "Two hours late. Is that what you're saying, Simpson?"
"Yessir," Simpson fired off again, "in a way, you are correct, sir. However, standard operating procedure requires the 'copter pilot to signal all delays to all intended parties and ..."
"Have you checked the weather reports near the last stop for the 'copter?" Spaulding said, sitting back in the worn brown chair. "Have you checked sunspot activity for transmissions error indices? Perhaps examined the scheduling manifests online?"
Simpson hesitated, for just a moment, his eyes darting back and forth between some mental decisions he didn't see fit to verbalize. "Nossir," he said quickly. "Not completely. Our immediate area is free from transmission interference but I did not research the status of other stops on the 'copter's course."
Spaulding looked evenly at Simpson for a moment, his mental database cranking. Bartholomew Arthur Simpson, named by all-too-liberal parents after some cult personality of the latter part of the previous century. Graduated summa cum laude from Evergreen State College in Washington, bachelor's degree in criminal justice. Failed law school examinations miserably, entered law enforcement shortly after and was transferred to prisons in the tail end of the transitional period when all law enforcement and penal systems came under the aegis of the Department of Corrections. Raised in suburban area of Washington State called Hillcrest by economically distressed parents, both school teachers, both allegedly killed by a particularly dangerous Faraway inmate numbered XV4012287 while Simpson was in high school. Completely obsessive compulsive, according to psych profiles, and prone to extremes when following regulations. Appointed Supervisor of Security Facilities nonetheless, January 2035.
"Go research the data I mentioned," Spaulding said finally, remembering who and what he was dealing with. "Send a secured email to DOC HQ in Omaha, requesting follow up data. When you have compiled your information, if the shipment has not arrived within eight hours, email me with a report. Do this by email, not by securetrans or via phones -- the Department of Corrections has enough to worry about with all the troubles since we lost D.C. to the riots."
Simpson almost smiled, then nodded almost imperceptibly. "Yessir. Permission to be dismissed, sir?"
"Dismissed."
Simpson fired off a smart, precise salute and turned on his heel, exiting the office.
Good, Spaulding thought to himself,
;that should keep him happily occupied staring at monitors for a bit, by which time said 'copter should arrive.
Turning back to the forms, Spaulding again sighed and checked spottedly down the line of yet another e-form.
| continue to part two | index |
