With my other arm I seized the bearded Taliban fighter by the shoulder and plunged the 8 inch black Ka-Bar bayonet into his heart.
He died instantly, and I lowered his heavy, dark form to the rough concrete of the alley floor.
As I set him down, my eyes alit upon his face.
The once bearded face was fresh faced and clean shaven now. The form was no longer that of a human man but that of a child.
My eyes sprung open and my back exploded in pain from where the rubber bullet had impacted the fleshy portion of my lower torso the day before.
I was covered in sweat and my eyes were heavy.
How long had it been since dinner? I wondered.
In jail, the world without time, I had no idea.
The sun was just breaking through the tiny East facing window of my cell. I thanked God for that small mercy.
It was morning.
I lay in that position as the sun came up fully, too sore to do my traditional workout.
It wasn't long before the buzzing began and the guard opened my cell door.
It was the chubby white kid again.
"Breakfast time." He said, a small smirk touching his face.
I groaned and rolled to my side, my feet touching the floor for the first time since the guards had unceremoniously dumped me on the floor of my cell the night before.
I glanced at the young Petty Officer's name for the first time. "Thank you, Petty Officer Borger."
Fitting name for the rotund little guy, I thought as I stepped through the heavy steel door of my cell and into the long hallway to the mess hall again.
He smiled a sardonic grin. "You're welcome. By the way, your friend from last night will not be a problem for you this morning." His chubby little hand guided me down the hallway into the too bright fluorescent lighting of the sterile dining hall.
This morning instead of hostile stares from the tables around the room, I sensed something different. A grudging respect, perhaps even fear.
I picked up my plastic tray and walked through the line. Something that looked like oatmeal and toast was slung onto the tray, and I picked up a box of orange juice and sought out the only face in the room that didn't avert his eyes when I scanned for a seat.
The thin man was sitting alone again, near where he'd been the evening before. He nodded slowly to me from across the room, and I traversed the shiny floor to an empty seat at his table.
When I set my plastic tray on the cold steel of the table, he just nodded. Unlike the other men in the room, he did not avert his eyes.
His steely gaze met my eyes without blinking.
"Quite a show you put on last night." He said quietly.
I nodded and dug into the oatmeal in front of me. My stomach growled aloud. The attempt on my life last night had meant I hadn't eaten in almost twenty-four hours.
He pushed his own tray across the table as I shovelled watery oatmeal from the tray into my mouth. When I finished my own breakfast, I nodded my thanks and dug into what was left of his.
When I finished, both trays were wiped clean, and the man sat with a small smile on his face as I downed what remained of my small carton of orange juice.
"Feel better?" He asked, a smile in his voice.
I nodded again. "Thank you. That asshole last night made sure I didn't get to eat dinner."
He grunted. "I noticed. At least you won't have to worry about him anymore."
I set the empty orange juice carton on the edge of my tray and looked up.
"Why is that?" I asked.
"You didn't hear?" The man responded.
"Well, how could you. They've got you all by yourself on the other side." He was speaking to himself now, and I interrupted.
"What happened?"
"The big man killed himself in solitary last night. Not an easy feat. Guards say he pounded his head against the concrete wall. Brained himself."
My mouth hung open in shock. "Why?" I managed to stammer.
The man was deadly serious now. "I've been in here for a long time, Mr. Pike. Going on ten years. I've never in that time seen someone attacked in the galley. The showers, the exercise room, sure. But never the galley. It's too public, too well supervised."
He paused, and took a drink of coffee from a flimsy Styrofoam cup. "No offense, sir but you are also a non-entity around these parts. Sure, people know you from the news stories, but you haven't been convicted of a crime. You are being held in pretrial confinement."
He looked around the room. "That's the other thing that bothers me. I can't for the life of me remember the last time someone in pretrial confinement ate in the Brig galley. They usually bring food to your cell."
I looked around the room. The guards paced near the exits, two of them near each of the exits. Another standing towards the center of the room.
"What are you saying?" I asked, my gaze fixed back towards the stranger.
He laughed softly and without mirth. "Like I told you yesterday, Lieutenant. Watch your back in here."
He began to collect his tray and stand up. As he did, his uniform pulled away from his arm, exposing the faded black trident that marked his forearm and wrist.
"You're a SEAL." I said.
"I was, Lieutenant." He leaned across the table.
"Now I'm just a convict. Like you'll be, that is, if your case makes it to trial."
I stood up and held my tray. I was a pace behind him as he walked towards the scullery.
I finally got up the courage to ask. "So you think the guards planned the attack?"
He turned around for a moment and looked me in the eyes. "I don't know, LT. But they made sure you were here in the galley."
He took another few steps and placed his tray on the edge of the scullery counter. As he walked by he paused one final time. "I definitely don't think the big guy brained himself on a concrete wall without… encouragement."
"Wait." I said, as he stepped away.
He turned.
"What's your name?" I asked quietly.
"Pete." He said simply. "Pete Rogers."
I nodded and stepped in the opposite direction. The thought that the man who had attacked me last night had been murdered in solitary confinement sent a shiver down my spine.
My feet fell quickly towards pretrial confinement, anxious to return to the relative safety of my cell, my back aching the whole time, my head spinning.
Chapter 13:
My mind raced.
The cell that had confined me seemed smaller and more isolated. The lack of neighbors was now more disconcerting than quiet.
I paced the cell, my footsteps echoing across the cool concrete floor as I replayed the conversation with Pete over and over in my mind.
Why was I eating in the common mess hall?
Why had that man tried to kill me?
And most importantly, who had killed him when he had failed?
There were just too many questions.
My back ached and I stopped, leaning my forehead against the cool concrete wall.
The cold hardness reminded me of what Pete had said.
My attacker had brained himself, crushed his skull against the wall rather than speak to the guards about why he attacked me.
Whether he indeed caused the injuries himself, or someone had helped him didn't matter.
Either prospect was terrifying, for altogether different reasons.
If he'd done it himself, it meant he knew that worse ends awaited him for failure.
If he'd had assistance, it meant that at least one of the guards was involved in the attack.
I shuddered and continued to pace.
Think, Jackson, THINK! My brain ached with confusion.
The frustration was starting to get the better of me.
I paced like that for hours, until the familiar buzzing sound greeted me once again and I was led to meet my attorney in the small beige room down the long desolate hallway.