Assistant Warden Glynne of the Florence Administrative Maximum Corrections Facility greeted him with a snappy salute he did not return. Military personnel were not supposed to salute civilians and vice versa andClark already knew enough about Glynne to know the man had never been a soldier.
'Welcome to the Big One,' the Corrections Officer said, unfazed. The man hadn't shaved in days and his tie hung loose from an unbuttoned collar. 'I'm glad you came so quickly. Things are degenerating and we could really use some help.'
'I understand you have a riot on your hands, Mr. Glynne and that it's been going on for three days. I'd appreciate knowing why I'm here, though. Surely this is a problem for a SWAT team or the CBI. The National Guard shouldn't be called in unless''
Glynne spoke over him. 'This isn't a riot, Captain. This is a complete protocol failure. It's been going on for seventy-nine hours. You're here because this is something we've never seen before. Follow me, please.'
They passed through the main gate of the prison and into a well-lit series of rooms painted and repainted so many times the light switches and doorknobs had taken on a softened, rounded look. Glynne lead him through a series of tight passages with heavy iron doors that had to be unlocked manually and which snapped shut and locked with an electronic buzz once they were through. 'There are ten thousand doors in this facility, Captain. In an emergency lockdown all of them close and lock automatically. Nobody ever gets in or out unless we know about it. We've got eyes everywhere, even in the CO areas. That's the good news.'
'All I see here is bad news,'Clark said, glancing around in distaste at the dusty corridors.
'This is a supermax prison, Captain Clark, where the real dead-enders go. Violent inmates who can't be allowed to mingle in a normal prison environment. We impose twenty-three hour per day solitary confinement. Prisoners have to wear leg and wrist shackles when they go to eat. They get one four-inch-wide window in their cells and the toilets had to be designed so you couldn't fit a human head in them. They do that, you know. If you give them an opportunity to do something, no matter how sick or perverse, they'll do it. Just to fuck with you.'
Clarkmade a grunt of understanding. Beyond one last door lay a control center, a red-lit claustrophobic space filled with computer monitors and desks and half-empty coffee cups. A dozen men and women in Corrections uniforms sat slumped in uncomfortable chairs, most of them gathered around one dimly flickering monitor. Two other men stood before what looked toClark 's eyes like a black wall until his vision adjusted and he saw it was a slab of transparent polycarbonate (more bullet-and impact-resistant than glass). The men wore image enhancement optics'AN-PVS 7B night optic devices'and were rapt by what they saw on the other side of the window.
When Glynne spoke again it was in a whisper as if he were afraid something on the other side might hear him. 'This is where the real bad guys go, one of our special housing units. The inmates call it the Black Hole. There are a hundred and forty-eight punishment cells down there which we keep darkened and sound-dampened at all times. Nobody can stay violent for long in an environment like that. It's been psychologically proven.'