"The Closet"
November 12, 2557
Although the UNSC Detention Facility #410 didn't hold a lot of inmates, it certainly held its fair share of scum and villainy.
Situated in a classified location, the containment had enough space for five hundred prisoners plus personnel. Situated on the summit of a cold mountain of a distant moon that only saw sunlight once every four days, the dark place was rather lengthy to pronounce and its infamous reputation screamed out a nickname. Thus, the "Closet" was born.
Holding all the people the UNSC didn't want, but couldn't kill. Isolated from most civilization by a long shot, escape could be near impossible. The surface installation could instantly be cut off from the main prison located underneath the mountain's surface in case of an outbreak by immobilizing the twin elevator shafts that ran ten stories down. All of the service hatches and vents were monitored by sensors and could be locked down at a moment's notice. The control center was a long glass tower that resembled a saucer and viewed the two landing pads for transport. Surrounding the platforms were three SAM sites, with special missiles that targeted and disabled any engines of a ship attempting to escape.
When on alert, multiple detachments of AV-14 Hornet VTOLs could be launched. They were equipped with prototype engine suppressors, to limit their noise in flight. Because the snow all around reduced sound, it took a very keen ear to know that one was flying around somewhere.
Inside the main facility were infrared cameras, automated thirty caliber sentry turrets for elongated hallways and at the touch of a button from the prison's control center could lock a sector down and flood it with three different types of gases. Every prisoner also had a microchip inserted into their left arm. Powered by their nervous system, it broadcasted their location to a central hub in the control server every three seconds to track all the inmates' movement. A later update would also be able to track their pulse as well.
The isolation ward included being shut in a small room and exposed at a close range to halogen lights, dehydrating and disorienting those unlucky to having being thrown in. Within minutes, it was a new sort of hot hell. Even the metal floor would burn to the touch.
Every cell had double doors with a five foot span in between. The first one would be already opened and would not close unless the inmate's chip was detected within the span. It contained the basics, a sink, toilet and a cot in the corner.
The "Closet" was constructed in the latter half of the 2540s thanks to the growing age of the UNSC's previous high security prison. Its existence was known to the public, but many details of it were in obscurity, leaving the curious nowhere to even start. Even a ship heading to the facility would have a false flight log on its computer as cover. The real plan could be uncovered by ONI Agents having said security clearance.
This was Austal's first time to the facility; he and Tyrant were now escorting Gustafson to his brand new home. A cell in the "Closet".
Because of the heavy blizzards that constantly occurred at night, there was only one in four days or twenty-four of every ninety-six hours where aircraft could fly in or out. The wind made it too unpredictable and without some form of heat from the sun shining overhead. Flight plans had to be made and executed as quickly as possible, when the cold conditions were the warmest, ranging around thirty degrees Fahrenheit.
The pilot of the pelican was overall a very chatty older person, telling them some hair-raising flights he had done during his early time of the war. People like these were always appreciated. In a sense, despite him not being a Spartan, they still shared moments that defined who they were today. Silence would later overcome him as they were about thirty minutes away and he got right down to business. Both Austal and Tyrant were out of armor in combat fatigues. They stood on either side of the cockpit, watching their craft crest over an endless desert of white snow. Up ahead was the mountain range, the peaks all hidden by low hanging clouds. Through that they could see bright white lights shining down, their destination.
"Icebox this is Pelican Vile Niner-Two-Eight, heading one-eight-zero. Authentication code Black Fedora."
"Pelican Vile Nine-Two-Eight, this is Icebox. Black Fedora. Welcome to the Closet. Cargo contents?"
"Two interrogators and one prisoner."
"Roger that Nine-Two-Eight, turn four five and ascend to sixteen thousand. Platform Bravo is clear for landing."
"Turning four five, ascending to sixteen thousand. Landing at Bravo."
Tyrant turned to Austal, "Your first time here?"
He grinned, "Hopefully the only. Not to mention this freezing weather isn't to my liking."
The Spartan leader chuckled, "I grew up in Sitka, Alaska. Don't get all whiny about the cold with me."
"It's damn impressive. How guaranteed is it escape proof?"
"They tested it out. Three ONI Agents at separate times to probe for flaws. Only one of the subjects named Trip escaped. The other two had to push their panic buttons to effectively end their careers."
"Details?"
"All of it is classified and you bet they put countermeasures in of what he exploited."
The commander of the 37th SSD constantly changed his callsign every so often. He was a solid built man, augmented like the other Spartans. He had short wavy black hair and slightly tanned skin with brown eyes. His jaw was firm and much of his body was toned by years of experience. Scars here and there and his demeanor often reflected prompt obedience, but he also radiated compassion as well.
He was just as proficient in battle as any other. Although his favored weapon was any of the sniper weapon systems, he often carried a custom M6 pistol with a polished obsidian handle, made from Alaskan volcanic rock.
The Pelican settled down on the large pad, being tracked by twin spotlights coming straight from the command center. A group of armed guards with equipment went out to greet them, decked out in white fur coats.
The three of them shielded their eyes as the cargo bay door was opened. At first, they couldn't feel anything different, but seconds later the chill from the outside world blew in, overpowering the heating provided by the Pelican.
"We've got an hour before the Pelican must depart again."
With one hand, both Austal and Tyrant edged Gustafson out of the ramp and onto the cold pad.
To their left was a second unoccupied pad that had previously housed a supply ship. The small windows of when to fly in often had supply ships in the loading areas more than anything. Should the weather get bad for weeks, the interior of the prison had enough supplies, power and electricity to last up to two and a half months.
A sergeant greeted and led them inside the entrance of the facility, the overhead lights tracking their movements as the doors were opened.
The interior was all a stark gray, lit by lighting that made it resemble a space station. The guards patrolling all wore Marine BDUs that were colored in darker silver. They all wore cloth masks covering their noses and mouths and a pair of polarized sunglasses. Guard details on the outside would have night and thermal sights, as it was impractical to wear shades at night. The standard service rifle was the MA5D Assault Rifle specifically made from Hannibal Weapons Systems. The company was licensed to manufacture the weapons and the security firm for the "Closet" was the only buyer. This way if a prisoner had stolen a rifle to aid in their escape, it would be easy to identify where they originated by their weapon.
Gustafson was quickly registered in the database and injected with his tracker chip. As they escorted Gustafson to his designated cell, Tyrant caught up with Bowman.
"What's the status?"
"Everything is all cleaned up on our end. Austal was right; Gustafson was using the hijacking of the CNRD as a distraction from his real goal. Information regarding future agency interests and locations of diamond mines newly discovered on the moons of Siroco."
"Interesting but effective tactic. Were they able to get away?"
"Negative, all of them fire upon us and we engaged the enemy. All seven of them are dead."
"Austal and I are about to ask Gustafson his motives on this attack, maybe we can get some answers."
"Ask?" Bowman said, "Sir, we're Spartans not an intelligence agency."
"We are an Intel and counter-intel gathering unit so this can pertain to us. It deeply concerns me how Gustafson managed to penetrate the security of the CNRD, seeing how they can be quite secretive at times."
"We'll be back aboard the Ferdinand and on station if you need us."
"Absolutely. You've earned it."
They reached one of the main cell blocks, a long hallway that housed smaller concrete formations with the actual jail compartments inside. At the end of the hallway was a closed hatch that could pop out one of its lethal thirty caliber machine guns and eviscerate anything unarmed. All the halls had only one side of cells to prevent other prisoners from seeing one another while inside. There were four cell blocks which divided a hundred and twenty five prisoners into five sections of twenty five cells. Gustafson's particular block had only nine of the twenty-five filled up.
The cell had a table and three chairs surrounding it this time, which would be removed once Austal and Tyrant were finished. The door in front was locked and it opened when it had sensed their approach.
A door slid behind them once they were inside the space, locking quickly.
Tyrant took a seat followed by Austal. The duo looked at a still Gustafson.
"Mr. Gustafson, please. Have a seat."
He remained unmoving.
"Oh that's right." Austal stood up, walking over. He placed a hand over the muzzle and waited for it to make a soft clicking sound before removing it. "I completely forgot about your inability to speak."
He urged Gustafson into his seat.
"Mr. Gustafson," Tyrant began, "We'd like to ask a few questions."
"What? About the attack?" He sneered, "I have no regrets."
"That is apparent. However, we are not here for that in specifics."
"You must be Spartans." It was a statement.
"We are intelligence operatives and we are searching for pieces to a puzzle."
Gustafson smirked. Austal wanted nothing more than to clock the smug asshole in the nose and have his skull caved in from the force. "Then what use am I to you? I just do whatever job I'm paid for."
"This job was to murder people. Was it worth it?"
"I don't know. I guess it wasn't after all, I'm here to rot for the rest of my life. I've told you guys already it's nothing personal. I swear."
Before Tyrant registered what had happened, Austal lunged out of his chair, seizing Gustafson's head and yanking it back. He wrenched open his mouth and grabbed his tongue hard enough to make the man begin to scream in an indistinguishable manner, which intensified as the Spartan squeezed it in between his fingertips. Tears began to form at the corner of his eyes, but Austal was beginning to feel sadistic.
"Austal, that's enough."
He finally relented, letting go and allowing Gustafson to massage his mouth. When he looked back at the Spartans, he showed one emotion that they had yet to see out of him; fear.
"Okay, you win. Jesus that hurt." He gave Austal a dirty look, "I'm guessing you must be the son of Steven and Loretta Austal."
"You did a sloppy job. If I were you, I'd gas the entire hotel."
"Yeah, I did a sloppy ass job. Still don't regret it though. Paid tons."
Marcus began to glower in retaliation.
"Is this about revenge for their deaths?"
"No." Austal answered, "I was never really close to them anyway, but this is all about the rest of those innocent who perished that day. Now if you don't mind, stick your tongue out again."
"That's enough." Tyrant snapped. He turned to Gustafson, "Now that you are aware of what my Spartans are capable of, I presume you'll be more cooperative?"
Gustafson nodded.
"Good. Now from what I understand from Vancouver was that you were hired to takeover the Colonial Natural Resources Department facility there. Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Austal."
"Dammit! I said yes it was!" Gustafson recoiled in his chair seeing the angry Spartan approach.
Marcus opened his mouth, this time grabbing the terrorist's head and pulling it back so that he was leaning against the backside of the chair and mouth tilted up. Gustafson's efforts to shut his mouth were easily bypasses as Austal kept his mouth open and grabbed ahold of the tongue.
"Mr. Gustafson, there's more to this than just a simple takeover. Austal here was able to deduce it by your lack of motives and frequent anxiety. It led us to the belief that there was a second team of gunmen undergoing a heist in the vaults below. The hijacking of the building was merely a distraction."
"Your men were attempting to steal sensitive and classified information from the agency. Mind telling us what it was and who it was for?"
Gustafson looked down at where Austal was pinching his tongue. In response, the Spartan released it.
"I don't know what we were completely after except that we were just given details on how to get it. I know part of it was about diamond mines."
"Details? So then who was this for?"
"Never identified himself, then again, I never asked."
"So you took a contract out of the blue," Tyrant asked, "Are you that good at judging people?"
Gustafson shrugged, "Mainly clients. I don't accept any illegitimate things."
"Well in that case, I got good news and bad news for you." The Spartan commander stood up. "Bad news is that we're now aware of your payment request and are now on our way to finding out what this little conspiracy is all about and then blowing it all up. Good news for us, but not so much for you."
He and Austal turned to leave.
"What's the good news?"
Marcus looked back and gave a smug look; the same one Gustafson had done to him.
"You get to keep your tongue."
I'm fairly sure that while Gustafson is one self-centered bastard, he would at least want his tongue!
Welcome to the "Closet" one of the UNSC's highest security prisons. All the details designed are just the tip of the iceberg. We may come back here, although it may not be under pleasant circumstances.
This chapter is out earlier than expected, which means that the next one may be a little longer as I'm catching up on updates compared to how far I am writing ahead.
Thanks for reading and reviewing. You give my writing purpose.