The ice pack Turner had given him earlier had thawed, the green ice inside the clear plastic sleeve now looking like a lime Slurpee left in the sun. Jax threw it into the sink and sat on his bed, dreading breakfast as much as he’d feared his first military engagement.

Arriving at the mess hall deliberately late again, Jax grabbed toast, cereal and a serving of milk and filled his plastic mug with OJ. He ignored the pain in his shoulder and carried his plate in his left hand as usual. Holding his arm up and bent at the elbow lit a fire in his shoulder socket.

The mess hall was louder than usual. Buzzing. Excitable. Jax kept his head down as he made his way to the least threatening table but zoned in on a conversation as he passed a motley-looking crew.

‘They won’t know what hit ’em,’ one of them was saying. ‘We’re gonna smash ’em, boys.’

Jax overheard more tough talk after he took his seat.

‘We can take them,’ a man at his table said. ‘They might have a few big boys, but they’ll be gassed after five minutes. We’ll go straight through them then.’

A riot?

‘And Simmo is out,’ the inmate continued.

‘Really?’ said another man. ‘Yeah, injured,’ the first man replied. ‘Shanked. Owed Marsh coin.’

‘You beauty,’ said the other man. ‘They’re a one-man team. Easy beats without Simmo.’

Football. Today was Saturday. He now knew that Saturday meant footy. Inmates were allowed to use the grassed recreation yard on both Saturday and Sunday, as opposed to the caged concrete quadrangle that was only good for handball – Jax had thought it would have been perfect for cricket, if cricket bats weren’t lethal. The flat green fields were ideal for rugby league.

Jax was safe for now, the entire mess hall consumed with teams and tactics.

SITTING alone on a grass hill behind one of the four full-sized football fields, freshly marked and all sporting hybrid posts that could also be used as soccer goals, Jax felt the most vulnerable he’d been since getting off the bus. After all, the fields measured 27,200 square metres, and you needed twenty guards to cover that area – not three.

The armed guard in the tower above where he sat was basically useless, as he only came out of his box four times an hour to do a quick lap around the 360-degree landing. Jax couldn’t make out the exact model of his rifle, but it looked like a Ruger. Maybe a .233 carbine. Whatever it was, the weapon was no Austeyr F88, the dependable all-rounder he’d been issued in the army. The guard’s old rifle would have an effective range of 150 metres at best – and an accurate range of no more than fifty metres.