Siberia 10

By Clark Howard

As the Vietnam War rages, blood will be shed at a stateside Marine Corps prison, in this novel by a “superlative storyteller” (Publishers Weekly).

Siberia 10 is a military prison in California, and tensions are coming to a slow boil within its walls. Inmates are trying to escape; guards are practicing constant brutality; racial tensions are seething. Those confined to Siberia 10 have been trained to fight and kill—and in the midst of chaos, things could turn lethal.

Into this tinderbox comes Garth Hannon, pulled out of action in Vietnam and flown back to the States for a special assignment: to solve the problem of Siberia 10. But before Hannon can assess the situation and diffuse a time bomb, it may all blow up in his face, in this suspenseful military thriller by an Edgar Award–winning author.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Jun 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781504060691

Clark Howard

Howard Clark was a coordinator for War Resisters' International and embedded in civil peace initiatives in Kosovo throughout the 1990s. He is a founder of the Balkan Peace Team, and the author of People Power (Pluto, 2009).

Book preview

Chapter One

Eddie Zangari escaped from the Marine Corps prison known as Siberia 10 on a gray Thursday afternoon, in a drizzling rain.

It was not a spectacular escape—just clever. And lucky. Zangari was Master Sergeant Fessel’s slave—slave being a Siberia 10 term for a prisoner used by the prison brass as a personal servant. As a slave to Fessel, who was the ranking noncommissioned officer at Siberia 10, Zangari’s status was similar to that of a trusty in a civilian prison. The word Prisoner stenciled across the front and back of his dungaree jacket was in red letters instead of white, and this distinction permitted him free access to the prison compound at times when other prisoners were under guard.

Zangari had not been planning the escape very long—only since he had overheard two guards, Krebbs and Osterman, planning to kill Colucci, the kid from Chicago. He knew that Colucci did not intend to do anything to save himself; the kid was convinced he could take anything they could hand out. But Zangari knew better; he knew the kid was as good as dead unless somebody put a stop to it.

Finding out who Colucci’s grandfather was had been the real deciding factor, of course. Eddie Zangari was no hero—far from it. If an occasional body was slipped out the back gate of Siberia 10—well, that was the breaks, man. And if some green kid like Jimmy Colucci decided that making a point was worth getting killed over, then that was the green kid’s business and they could chisel Martyr on his headstone. All of that was strictly none of Eddie Zangari’s affair, and he would not have poked his fine Italian nose into any of it except for one thing, one very important thing, which made all the difference in the world: Jimmy Colucci was Sam Colucci’s grandson.

Of course, it would take an Italian, and a Chicago Italian at that, to appreciate the name Colucci. And it would take someone who had grown up in the Chicago tenements to realize just what helping Sam Colucci’s grandson stay alive could mean in the way of material reward. That realization more than anything else was what finally decided Eddie Zangari to risk ten years in the big Portsmouth Naval Prison by escaping from Siberia 10.

On that Thursday afternoon, the California sun disappeared at three o’clock and the rain blew in from the ocean an hour later. Zangari, having already formulated his rather simple escape plan, went about Master Sergeant Fessel’s room carefully collecting everything of a disposable nature that he could find: an empty shoe-polish tin, a few old magazines, a frayed web belt, a couple of six-pack cartons, a stack of old duty rosters, and a few other articles he was reasonably certain would pass Fessel’s inspection. He put everything into a cardboard box, left the flaps open, and carried it across the prison street to the quonset hut that housed the master sergeant’s office. A burly guard, wearing a side arm, was standing on the porch swinging a billy club from a leather thong around his wrist. He stopped Eddie at the door.

Where you going, slave? he asked. Zangari came to attention, holding the box rigidly in front of him. He riveted his eyes on the knot in the guard’s necktie.

Sir, the first sergeant said to clean out all the junk from his room, but not to throw anything away until he looked at it. This here is the stuff for him to inspect.

The guard glanced at the box and opened the door to the hut. There was a clerk at a desk just inside the door.

Fessel’s slave is here, the guard said. The clerk, busy with some papers, barely glanced up.

Let him in, he said absently. He nodded toward Fessel’s office as Zangari entered. Go on back, slave.

Zangari carried the box to the door of Fessel’s office. He knocked three times, entered, and braced himself at attention just inside the door.

Sir, he said, Master Sergeant Fessel’s slave requests permission to speak.

Fessel did not answer. Zangari stared at an imaginary spot on the wall behind Fessel’s desk. An agonizingly long minute passed. The bottom of Zangari’s left foot began to itch. Sometimes, if it pleased him to do so, Fessel kept prisoners standing at attention for half an hour at a time. If that happened now, Zangari thought, it would blow his escape plans good. He swallowed dryly. Come on, you son of a bitch, you—

What is it? Fessel said quietly. He looked up from his work, a big, square-faced, thick-lipped Marine veteran of twenty-five years service. From between his teeth he removed a fat black cigar. He glared at Zangari. Well, are you deaf? I said what do you want?

Sir, said Zangari, finding his tongue, the master sergeant’s slave blitzed the master sergeant’s quarters and would like permission to throw away this here box of junk.

Bring it here, Fessel ordered.

Zangari hurried forward. He resumed his brace squarely in front of the desk. Fessel placed his cigar back between his teeth and rose to come around the desk. He stood very close to Zangari and peered into the open box. He sucked in on the cigar slightly and exhaled a small puff of white smoke that drifted as if by design directly into Zangari’s face. Zangari, who had not been allowed a cigarette in sixty-two days, blanched and felt his noon meal churn warningly in his stomach. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he thought, if I heave on Fessel, he’ll have me castrated with a rusty bayonet—

The big master sergeant reached into the box with one finger and delicately pushed aside the frayed web belt. He let out another puff of smoke that immediately followed the first.

Slave, he said easily, "I am by nature an extremely neat and orderly person. As a matter of fact, I am fastidious almost to a fault. I don’t know where you collected this assortment of junk but it wasn’t in my quarters. Is that clear, slave?"

Yes, sir. Clear, sir, said Zangari. May the master sergeant’s slave have permission to throw it away, sir, since we don’t know where it came from?

Permission granted, Fessel said around the cigar. A little more smoke drifted between them. Zangari was feeling sicker by the minute.

Sir, the master sergeant’s slave requests permission to leave—

"To what?" Fessel growled.

"To withdraw, sir, Zangari corrected himself. The master sergeant’s slave is sorry, sir."

You’re sorry, all right, Fessel said. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be in here. He sighed quietly. Get your ass out of my office.

Yessir. Thank you, sir.

Zangari executed an about-face and carried the box out of the office. He shifted the box under one arm and quietly closed Fessel’s door behind him. Wetting his lips nervously, for he was about to cross the point of no return, he balanced the box on one hip and went over to a table behind the clerk’s desk. He unplugged a chrome coffee pot that was on the table and started for the outside door with it.

Where the hell you going with that coffee pot, slave? the clerk asked. Zangari froze and snapped to attention again.

Sir, Master Sergeant Fessel ordered his slave to bring a fresh pot of coffee from the mess hall.

The clerk glanced at Fessel’s door and pursed his lips briefly. Zangari rolled his eyes heavenward. Hail Mary, full of grace—

All right, the clerk said, move it.

Yessir!

Zangari balanced the coffee pot on the box and held it with his chin to open the door. Outside on the porch, he breathed deeply of the moist fresh air and felt the nausea in his stomach begin to subside. He put the box next to the steps and snapped to attention in front of the guard.

Sir, Master Sergeant Fessel ordered his slave to leave this box of junk here to be picked up by the brig rat on garbage detail.

Leave it, said the guard. What are you doing with that coffee pot?

Getting fresh coffee for the master sergeant, sir.

Get going then, the guard ordered.

Yessir! Zangari was down the steps and hurrying around the building before the guard could even resume his nonchalant stroll along the porch.

The mess hall was half a block away. Zangari skirted the front of it, where he knew another guard would be stationed, and cut around to the rear where the loading dock was located. He paused for a moment at the corner of the building and looked almost lovingly at a garbage truck backed up to the dock. It was an old flatbed, probably the oldest vehicle in the entire Marine Corps. It had metal stakes spaced around its splintery wooden bed, with two strands of chain strung between them. Within the boundary of chain, in rows of four, stood sixteen battered aluminum garbage cans. Four more cans, which would form a fifth row, were lined up on the dock. A garbage detail inmate, commonly called a brig rat, was working on the dock. Wearing filthy dungarees, he was wearily, mechanically, dragging the cans from the dock onto the truck.

Zangari tried to spit but his mouth was too dry. He muttered an obscenity instead and, squaring his shoulders, walked up the ramp to the dock.

Hey man, where’s the driver of this here truck? he asked. The brig rat paused and wiped his face on a greasy sleeve. He bobbed his head toward the kitchen.

In there. Havin’ coffee.

Zangari glanced quickly around. You know where Master Sergeant Fessel’s office is at?

The brig rat nodded.

Well, run over there quick and get a box of junk off his porch. Bring it back here and see that it goes out with today’s garbage.

The brig rat hesitated, glancing toward the kitchen door. I ain’t supposed to leave the dock—

Look, said Zangari, can’t you see these here red letters on my dungarees? Don’t you know what they mean, man? They mean I’m on special duty, see? I’m working for Master Sergeant Fessel who is one very mean son of a bitch and is in charge of all enlisted men in this joint. You understand that, man?

The brig rat shrugged. I guess so—

Good. Zangari smiled benevolently and, suppressing his distaste, laid a friendly hand on the brig rat’s greasy shoulder. As if displaying the Medal of Honor, he held the coffee pot up for the brig rat to see. You know what this here is?

For a reason that escaped Zangari, the brig rat squinted. Coffee pot, he said.

Yeah, but not no ordinary coffee pot, pal; this here coffee pot belongs to Master Sergeant Fessel. He sent me to get him some fresh coffee. And he said on my way to tell the first guy I seen to haul ass over there and get that box of junk. Now, you’re the first guy I ran into, so I’m gonna have to say I gave you the order, you know what I mean? Now, if that box of junk ain’t moved by the time I get back with Master Sergeant Fessel’s coffee—well, I wouldn’t want to be you, man. Know what I mean?

The brig rat stared stupidly at Zangari. It was clear from his expression that he was fighting a difficult battle in his mind. Finally he scratched his head and shrugged his shoulders in resignation. It’s all right for me to leave the dock then?

Certainly it is, pal, Zangari lied with a smile on his face.

Okay then, I’ll go.

A wise choice, Zangari complimented. He watched the filthy-dungareed prisoner hop down off the dock and hurry toward Fessel’s office.

As soon as the man was out of sight, Zangari stepped quickly to the back door of the mess hall. He peered inside. The truck driver, a PFC, was leaning against a chopping block sipping coffee and talking with a white-clothed baker who was rolling dough on a counter. Zangari grinned tightly. Just keep rapping, boys, he thought. For about two more minutes.

He set Fessel’s coffee pot on the dock and hoisted one of the four remaining cans of garbage onto the truck. He dragged two others out of their places and relocated them, then stepped back to the dock and, in turn, put two more cans aboard. He now had space for one can in the third row on the truck, and he had one can left on the dock. Quickly he carried that one can to the far end of the dock, removed its lid, and neatly tipped it partway over the edge. The garbage spilled into a disgusting pile on the formerly neat lawn that edged the mess hall.

Zangari hurried back to the truck and placed the empty can in the vacant space. He scrambled over the full cans and squeezed down into the empty one. Holding the lid from the inside, he was about to cover himself when he saw Fessel’s coffee pot still on the dock.

Goddamn son of a bitch of a bastard!

He put the lid aside and crawled back over the other cans to the dock. Snatching up the coffee pot, he looked at it indecisively for a moment, not quite sure what to do with it. Finally, in a burst of resentment, he rushed to the end of the dock and flung it furiously onto the pile of garbage he had just created.

Zangari got back aboard the truck and concealed himself in the empty can just seconds before the truck driver and the mess sergeant came out onto the dock.

Now where in hell is that stupid shit that’s supposed to be on garbage detail? the mess sergeant asked testily.

Dunno, Cookie, the truck driver said, but it looks like he’s got me all loaded so I’ll hit the road. Thanks for the mud.

Yeah, yeah, the mess sergeant muttered, looking around impatiently. Sweet Jesus, just wait until I get my hands on that dumb shithead—

Inside the can, Zangari could feel the truck lurch slightly as the driver climbed behind the wheel. The cans vibrated violently when the motor turned over, and their load displaced slightly to the rear as the truck started forward.

That brainless bastard, he’ll go to the Icebox for this— the mess sergeant was saying loudly as the garbage truck pulled away.

Minutes later, Zangari could tell from the speed and smoothness of the ride that the truck had passed through the brig gate and was cruising down the ocean highway. And shortly after that he knew from the plip plop plip on the lid of the can that it had begun to rain.

It was dark and drizzling steadily when he got to Angela’s apartment. He went around to the back, which faced the ocean, and crept across the courtyard to her door. He huddled close to the door and knocked gently. She answered from inside.

Who is it?

Angie? It’s me. Eddie. His answer was a whisper, tight and tense.

Eddie—? The door opened several inches on a safety chain. A young woman peered out. He put his face close to the shaft of light. For a moment she stared at him. "My god, Eddie, it is you—"

Angela quickly let him in. He stepped just inside her tiny living room.

I don’t want to come no farther, he said. I just took a ride in a garbage can.

Angela frowned and then her confusion faded into disappointment. You broke out? Oh, Eddie, Eddie—

I had to, Angie. I got a good reason for it, Zangari said in quick defense. She started to turn away but he grabbed one of her hands. Listen, Angie, you gotta believe me! I’m doing this to save a guy’s life. They’re going to kill this guy in Q-Max if I don’t do something.

Q-Max?

Yeah. That’s what they call the Maximum Quarantine unit at Siberia 10. That’s where they put the real problem cases, see; and they got this kid in there, named Jimmy, that they’re giving the full treatment to because he won’t take nothing from the guards, see. I mean, he’ll work and all that, but he won’t let nobody humiliate him; he won’t get down and lick their boots, see—

"They actually make you do things like that?" Angela asked. Zangari shrugged.

Yeah, sometimes. They make you do anything they want you to. One day a couple of weeks ago this one guard named Krebbs told Jimmy to get down on the ground and lick the dust off his boots. Jimmy told him to go screw himself in the ear. Krebbs slugged him in the gut and had him thrown in Q-Max. He’s been in there ever since.

Angela put one hand to her mouth fearfully. You really think they’re going to kill him? That’s why you escaped?

I swear to god it is, Angie, he said with as much sincerity as he could muster. I know I promised to do my brig time and the rest of my enlistment without causing no trouble, but I just got to help this kid, baby. If I don’t, they’re gonna kill him sure.

Angela studied Zangari’s face for a moment, not quite sure whether to believe all or part or none of what he said. He was a wild one, as she full well knew, and if she had any sense she would have rid herself of him a long time ago. But some men—well, some men just got to you, especially if you enjoyed life and love and sex the way Angela did. Eddie Zangari was one of those kind; once he got to you, got inside you that first time, then you were his, any time, any place, and no matter what he did to you, you’d always let him in when he came to the door. So really, it was somewhat of a moot decision Angela was attempting to make; she was going to do what Eddie wanted whether he was telling the truth or not.

All right, get out of those stinking clothes, she ordered. I’ll get a bag to put them in and run a tub for you.

Zangari began undressing. He smiled widely. Hey, you’re great, baby. You believe me, don’t you? You know I wouldn’t lie to you, huh?

I don’t know any such damn thing, she said, walking away, but it doesn’t make a hell of a lot of difference one way or another. Don’t let those cruddy things touch the furniture.

I’ll be careful, baby, Zangari promised solemnly.

Angela put bubble soap and bath oil in his tub and Zangari languished in it luxuriantly. With a towel folded behind his head, he lay back and dizzily smoked his first cigarette in sixty-two days while Angela scrubbed him from head to toe.

Man, he said thickly, I never thought a guy could get high on a plain old Lucky Strike. Hey, wash me there again, that felt good—

Never mind. How are you going to help this Jimmy kid you were talking about?

Got it all figured out, he assured her. I’m gonna call his grandfather long distance in Chicago—

He’s from Chicago, huh, same as you? Is that why you kind of took to him?

Yeah. Yeah, sure, that’s it exactly. Him and me, we’re from the same old hometown. We got something, uh—like mutual.

In common.

Exactly. We’re in common. So I’m gonna call his grandfather and tell him he’d better get out here quick and bring a lawyer and a doctor and demand to see his kid. ’Cause if he don’t, baby, if he don’t—

His words trailed off, his voice growing sad. Angela had never heard that quality, that feeling, in his voice before. As if it made any difference, she decided to believe his story.

She took the cigarette away from him before he finished it and made him stand up so that she could rinse him. Then she had him step out onto the bath mat and began drying him. When she got down low with the towel, she could tell that his cigarette jag had passed. She felt his fingers opening the back of her blouse and unhooking her bra, and in an instant she was bare to the waist. One light touch of his hands brought her nipples out stiff and seeking. She dropped the towel and bent to him quickly, and she almost was not quick enough.

He had civilian clothes at Angela’s; a couple of pairs of slacks and some loafers, plus several shirts she had bought for him. He ate a sandwich and drank a cup of coffee while he dressed.

How much money do you want? Angie asked, getting her purse from the closet.

Just a dime.

A dime?

Yeah, Just a dime. I’m gonna reverse the charges, you know.

Don’t you think you ought to take a little extra, just in case?

Just in case what?

Hell, I don’t know. Just in case anything.

Zangari shrugged. Okay, give me two dimes then.

Angela shook her head in exasperation and slapped some money down on the table.

Here’s two dimes and five dollars, she said determinedly. Just in case.

Okay. Where’s the nearest phone booth at?

A Conoco station at the second corner down. I’ve used it a couple of times to call Helen to work for me when I was having a bad period. Some new chain bought the restaurant a couple of months ago and only the two of us can handle the register now. We had to be bonded.

Maybe after I make that call in a little while, you can quit that crummy job and we can cut out of here.

It’s not a crummy job—it’s a good job. And what makes you think a telephone call to that kid’s grandfather is going to change so much?

Zangari shrugged innocently. I dunno. I mean, you never can tell, his grandfather might be a rich banker or something; he might give me a reward for saving the kid’s life.

Angela tilted her head suspiciously. Eddie, you haven’t got something up your sleeve you haven’t told me about, have you?

Me? No, course not, baby. You know I level with you. I just didn’t want you to be surprised if something good should come out of this, that’s all. He put his arms around her. And I wanted you to know that I want to share things with you.

Angela pressed herself against him. I want to share things with you too, lover. Go on down to that Conoco station and make your call and hurry back.

They kissed and Zangari left the apartment the way he had come, by the rear door.

The rain had stopped but the highway was still wet, and the night air smelled of the ocean and a little of the offshore oil. Zangari walked briskly toward the station, one hand in his pocket curled around the five-dollar bill and two dimes. He had no idea what time it was but he was sure that by now Fessel would have the guards after him. He wondered, with another pinch of guilt, what had happened to the brig rat he had conned away from the mess hall dock. Probably better off than me, he decided after a moment. At least he’s not a goddamned fugitive.

The Conoco station came into view: a brilliant splash of light at an otherwise dark intersection. Zangari crossed the highway and approached it from the unlighted side away from the street. The telephone booth was near the edge of the apron and he got to it unobserved. As he looked in the directory to find out how to get long distance, he tried to remember how Jimmy spelled his last name. He was almost sure that it was C-o-l-u-c-c-i, without the double-l the way the non-Sicilians spelled it. Jesus, he thought suddenly of Angela, she’d have six fits if she knew that the man he was calling, the man who was Jimmy Colucci’s grandfather, was a Mafioso don, one of the highest ranking commissioners of the Cosa Nostra.

He cleared his throat, deposited a dime, and dialed.

Long distance. May I help you.

I want to call Chicago, he said. Person to person to Mr. Sam Colucci. That’s C-o-l-u-c-c-i.

Do you have the telephone number or address, sir?

No, I don’t know neither one of those.

One moment, please.

The line went dead for several moments. Zangari leaned against the wall of the booth and watched the light traffic on the ocean highway. He shivered slightly from the dampness and wished Angela had bought him a sweater too.

Sir, the operator returned suddenly, Chicago Information shows two listings for a Sam Colucci: one in Park Forest and one on Lake Shore Drive. Which number would you like to try first?

Lake Shore Drive. And listen, operator, make this a collect call, okay?

Yes, sir. May I have your name, please.

Edward Zangari. That’s Z-a-n-g-a-r-i.

Thank you, sir. One moment please.

The line went dead again. Zangari felt colder. He hunched his shoulder to hold the receiver to his ear and briskly rubbed the palms of his hands over his bare arms. He thought about Angela and the bathroom, hoping it would warm him up.

Sir, the operator came back again, there’s no answer at the Lake Shore Drive number. We did get an answer at the Forest Park number but we are unable to reach your party there. We have a number in Miami where he might possibly be. Would you like us to try there?

Miami? Zangari frowned. Yeah, sure. Go ahead and try.

For the third time the line went dead. This time Zangari waited a full three minutes before the operator returned.

Sir, we still aren’t able to locate your party; he’s left the Miami number and is at sea somewhere on a fishing trip. We checked with the marine operator but apparently the boat he’s on is not equipped with a ship-to-shore telephone. Do you wish to speak with anyone else?

No, said Zangari, I guess not. Thanks for trying.

You’re welcome, sir.

The line went dead permanently and Zangari hung up. His dime, which he had forgotten about, dropped noisily into the return slot. Zangari sighed and picked it up.

He stepped out of the booth, feeling slightly sick to his stomach and not a little afraid. He had not counted on being unable to contact Sam Colucci. He had not made