by Tim Lebbon
“Got it. Seriously, I owe you.” Dropping the pen, she rinsed the picture and hung it to dry. The little girl stared at her. Where are you now? Weaver wondered, and she hoped the girl was well. She always felt a duty to her photographs but, strangely, rarely to their subjects. Weaver was there to record and share, in the hope that her work might prompt understanding and action from those who saw it. It was curious now that this girl’s plight returned to her with such an impact. It must have been her eyes.
It served to reveal the power of photography.
“What makes you think this is anything special?” Jerry asked.
“Huh? Jerry, when three sources tell you the same thing, word for word, you know they’re lying.”
“Not everyone’s a liar,” Jerry said, but she heard the smile in his voice and thought, Takes one to know one.
“There’s something else going on about this op,” she said. The girl in her photo watched with approval. “Something nobody’s talking about. This isn’t just a survey mission, and I won’t be on it just looking for nature shots.”
“Just take care,” Jerry said.
“You know me.”
“Yeah. I know you. So take care.” He rung off and Weaver was left in the darkroom, bathed in red light and staring at the information written on the back of her hand.
It was time to pack her kit.
FIVE
Captain James Conrad was wondering what he’d got himself into. Another mission, another paycheck, and while he had been happy with both, this was something bigger than he’d been led to expect. All that cloak-and-dagger stuff in the gambling house from the two civilians had painted a picture of a small, well-funded jaunt to some godforsaken island, with shovels, drilling equipment, and sample bags for whatever came up. A few people. Nothing major.
This was something else.
Bangkok docks was always a busy place, but this evening most of the hustle and bustle seemed to be directed around the ship he was heading for at Dock 62. The Athena was a huge weather-beaten transport ship, centre of a chaotic convergence of delivery trucks, swinging cranes, and people hurrying around on board and across the surrounding dockside. Piles of supplies and boxed goods were stacked on the dock, gradually being carried up several gangways. Several Hueys and a bigger Sea Stallion were parked on the Athena’s aft helicopter deck, rotors folded away and landing skids being tied down. There wasn’t a drill or a shovel in sight.
Conrad was also surprised to see a good helping of military clothing. It was hardly a surprise, with the helicopters being used as transports most readily available from the US Army. What was a surprise was the boxes of military hardware he saw stacked along the dockside. Others might not have realised what they were looking at, but he knew ammunition and weapons boxes when he saw them. He could even tell what some of the weapons were from their packaging. Someone here thought it necessary to bring the big guns.
Conrad shrugged his backpack higher on his shoulders and paused, trying to make sense of the scene. He’d done and seen a lot in his short life, both at war and at home, and he’d developed what he thought of as a healthy cynicism. It was often a case of self-preservation. Things were rarely exactly what people said, especially when there was money involved. In this instance, there was definitely real money behind this expedition. Randa and Brooks had shown that when they’d lobbed a wad of cash at him, and it was even more evident here.
Money twisted hearts and shadowed minds. Conrad knew that as well as anyone. He’d have to be careful.
As he headed for the Athena, an open jeep idled by. There were several military men in the back, and Conrad picked up from their insignia that they were chopper crew. He saw the griffin symbol of the Sky Devils. He’d worked with some of them before, although these guys were not known to him.
“A day away from going home,” one of them said. “Oh man, one day away. And now another damn island, another damn jungle.”
“Vietnam’s not an island, Mills, you dumbass,” another said.
“Key West is,” Mills said. “That’s where I should be right now, with a drink in my hand.”
“Key West isn’t an island either. It’s a key.” The man speaking caught Conrad’s eye and held it as the jeep pulled ahead.
Conrad followed at his own pace. These were experienced fighting men, close to shipping home now that their war was over. If this was a private mission it must have government backing of some sort. Great. With money and politics involved, things could only go from bad to worse.
Closer to the ship he saw the final helicopter being loaded, lifted by the heavy cranes, deposited on deck next to the others, and then quickly tied down and covered. There was security at the gangways, but as soon as he flashed his ID he was waved through. They were expecting him.
* * *
As usual, Weaver was late. Running along the dock, she saw that all but one of the gangways were already raised, tie ropes released, and the Athena’s smokestacks were billowing at the dark sky. Her kit bag banged against her hip as she ran, and across the other shoulder she carried her camera equipment bag. If she had to drop one, it would be the kit. She’d happily live in one set of clothing for several weeks if it meant she got the shots. It wouldn’t be the first time.
It was all about the shots.
Approaching the one remaining gangway, she dodged past a couple of dock hands and went to run up the metal walkway. A man stopped her.
“Woah, no unauthorized people beyond this point,” he said.
“I’m authorized… Steve,” Weaver said, picking his name from a name-tag on his weird blue jacket. Not military, still it had the appearance of a uniform.
Steve’s only reply was to hold out his hand. He held a clipboard in his other hand, and she had the distinct impression he was unused to bearing any sort of power. Well, if this was his idea of power, he was welcome to it.
She dug out her credentials and handed them over. While he perused her press card and letter of appointment, she checked out the ship. The Athena was already looking like a much larger operation than she’d anticipated. It was a big vessel, with a helicopter deck wide enough to house six Hueys and a Sea Stallion, and supplies tied down beneath tarpaulins. Sure, it could have been a science operation, and at its heart it probably was.
The fully armed Hueys seemed to suggest it wasn’t only that. And the soldiers lounging by their helicopters spoke volumes.
“Mason… Weaver,” Steve said, obviously finding the name on his clipboard. He looked up at her. “Is a woman?”
“Last time I checked, Steve,” she said. “We good?”
He nodded. She plucked the documentation from his hand and stalked up the gangplank. She was used to the casual discrimination encountered during her work, and her first name often attracted raised eyebrows when someone finally met her. The fact that they assumed she’d be a he said an awful lot about attitudes towards people working in war zones. For many, women should be back at home keeping the bed warm. She sometimes took pleasure in their surprise, but more often it just pissed her off.
Another man stood waiting for her at the top of the gangplank, and as she approached she saw it was a colonel. This would be Packard, then. She’d already done her homework and knew he was a hardass.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
Weaver handed over her papers. If he was anything like she’d heard, he’d already done his homework on her, too. Still, he examined her papers. She was pleasantly surprised at the detail he picked on.
“Two years in-country. Where you been?”
“Embedded with MACV-SOG.”
“Which detachment?”
“CCS out of Ban Me Thuot.”
“You were in the shit.” He nodded. “I respect that.” He handed her papers back and she walked past him, pleased to be on deck at last. But she knew this conversation was not over.
“It’s people like you that lost us support back home,” he said.
Weaver sighed, stopped, turned aro
und. She’d heard this before. Usually from the people higher up the ladder, not those on the ground and in the shit. Not those whose blood and stress and injuries and deaths she recorded, week after week. To them, she was telling the truth.
“You’re blaming the people without the guns for losing you the war?” she asked.
“A camera’s more dangerous than a gun,” Packard said. “And the war wasn’t lost. We abandoned it.”
Weaver sighed, went to respond, then shook her head and walked away. She’d argued with too many men like Packard to think she could change his mind. His body was stiff and hard as if carved from stone, and his opinion would be the same. He might think a camera was dangerous, but men like him were the most dangerous of all. Men like him wanted to carry on fighting.
“Yeah, you walk away,” he said softly. “Me, I have to live with it.”
Weaver headed below decks to find her quarters. It was already becoming clear that this wasn’t a simple scientific expedition. Having someone like Colonel Packard along for the journey made it even more obvious.
* * *
Once on deck, Conrad paused for a while to sense the ship beneath his feet. Even docked there was the subtlest of movements. It was a while since he’d been at sea, and despite the mysteries still surrounding the mission, he found himself looking forward to the voyage.
He spotted Brooks and Randa across the deck, accompanied by a man who was obviously the chopper guys’ commander. Even without seeing the insignia, Conrad could tell that this was a man in charge. Tall, straight, confident, he stood slightly aside from the two civilians, as if wanting to keep his distance.
Crossing towards them, Conrad passed one of the tied-down choppers. It was a Sea Stallion, and it was fully loaded. Gatling guns hung suspended under its belly, .50 cals fixed at the side doors, and inside the open doors were stacked napalm canisters.
Conrad paused, his skin prickling. He’d seen the results of a napalm attack on a small village and the enemy troops using it as a base, and he hoped to never see anything like that again. The sight of the shrivelled, blackened corpses had been bad enough, especially when it became clear that many of them were civilians being used as human shields. It was the stench that had made it unbearable.
A research and survey trip, they said. Yeah, right.
Randa saw him and gestured for him to join them. Conrad’s trust for the big man was already filtering away, and he’d hardly trusted him to begin with.
Conrad made a good show of examining the Sea Stallion’s weaponry, just so that they all knew where they stood. It didn’t seem to bother Randa. As Conrad walked across the deck, Randa took the colonel’s arm.
“Colonel Packard, this is Captain James Conrad.”
Conrad was the first to reach out. Packard held back for just a moment, then he offered his hand and they shook. A good strong handshake, but not too strong. Conrad smiled.
“Commander in the sky, commander on the ground,” Randa said, already drawing lines.
“I’m a commander wherever I am,” Packard said.
“No argument here,” Conrad said. “I’m just along for the ride.”
“What outfit did you serve in, son?” Packard asked. He might only have been ten years Conrad’s senior but was already acting the father.
“Special Air Service, until a few years ago. Then I was brought in to train the Army Combat Trackers.”
“‘Who Dares Wins’ huh? Trained the jungle lost-and-found guys? I’m happy to say we never needed your services.”
“No man left behind. Your combat record is well known, Colonel. It’s an honour to meet you.”
“What kept you around?” Packard asked, voice softer. “War’s over.”
“I heard something about that,” Conrad said.
“We do what we know, I suppose.”
“Try as we might,” Conrad said. He gestured back at the Sea Stallion, then turned to Randa and said, “You told me this was a civilian operation.”
“Oh, those? We just ordered the aircraft. The guns came extra.”
Conrad saw Brooks’s reaction—a slight widening of the eyes, then turning aside so that he was looking elsewhere. They knew about the weapons, and had likely ordered them. You don’t hire a man like Colonel Packard if you’re going on a leisure cruise.
“Fair enough,” he said. It wasn’t worth getting into now, and he wouldn’t likely change his mind about coming along. All it meant was that he’d approach the whole voyage with a lot more caution, and that was no bad thing.
“Briefing soon, main wardroom,” Randa said. “Why don’t you take a look around?”
Conrad bid the men good afternoon and walked to the railing to watch the rest of the loading operation. If they were going to be at sea for the next week or so, he wanted to make the most of this view of dry land.
It was at times like this, with a new mission dawning, that he thought about Jenny. She’d been seven years old when he’d gone in to find her. Kidnapped by a rogue unit of Indonesian troops and held to ransom, the Malaysian government had refused to pay. They’d turned to the British Special Forces for help, and Conrad and his team—already used to liberally interpreting the border between the two countries—had gone in to find her. Their orders had been to bring her back alive at all costs. She was, after all, the illegitimate daughter of a British embassy worker and a local woman.
Their mission had been troubled from the beginning. Conrad had quickly begun to suspect that while their efforts were expected, their success was not necessarily desired by some of those in power. A high-profile rescue would have been more troublesome than the simple discovery of a body, but he and his men knew that there was a little girl’s life at stake. Huddled one night around a camp fire close to the heavily jungled border, the six of them had made a vow that whatever new orders might come through, the girl’s life came before the mission.
It was a vow some of them had died for, and others had lived to regret.
They’d gone in hard and fast, spending the first few days discovering the girl’s kidnappers’ whereabouts, tracking them to a remote mountain stronghold, assessing the situation, making plans, then launching the rescue operation just seven days after entering the country.
They knew what they were doing. Conrad and two others formed a distraction, destroying a hidden arms dump a mile down the valley from the rogue troops’ base. The other three members of the platoon made their way into the stronghold, killed the guards, and extracted the girl.
She was brave and sweet, and frighteningly intelligent. She’d known that they were there to help her, and did everything she was told. She hadn’t started crying, shaking in fear and terror, until an hour later when they were away from the stronghold and heading back towards the border.
Their mistake had been radioing ahead.
The ambush took them by surprise. It happened a mile into Malaysia, in an area supposedly safe from border skirmishes between the troubled nations. Still alert, still cautious, they fought back, but in the crossfire two of the platoon were killed.
When the shooting died down and the ambushers disappeared as quickly as they had arrived, Jenny lay dead with a bullet in her head. Conrad had examined the wound and identified its cause as a sniper’s rifle. This was no accidental death in a heavy crossfire. It was an assassination.
He had lost a vital part of himself that day—trust in the country and government he worked for; and trust in himself. It was the first time he’d ever lost someone he’d been sent in to find. It was also why he chose his freelance missions with the utmost caution. Conrad didn’t take jobs where the odds were already stacked against him.
That had been his last mission as a soldier of the Special Air Service. The rest of his life had begun on that day, and almost eight years later he was still trying to decide how that new life would be built.
Looking out over the dock and contemplating the journey to come, he tried to assess these odds. Without knowing the specifics of the mission
it was difficult. Yet he still felt that familiar frisson of excitement about this new undertaking. Cautious though he was, there was still that part of him that craved adventure, and this looked like it had the makings of an epic.
He guessed it was like Packard said—they did what they knew.
SIX
Randa felt his excitement building. This had been a long time coming, but now the expedition was underway. So much organisation, so many arrangements to be made—above board, and a few under the table—and now they were sailing.
Sailing for the island.
A chill went through him, and he looked around at the rec room filled with sweaty, uncomfortable men and women. The chill was nothing to do with the temperature. It was everything to do with this, history in the making.
Some who knew him would say that he’d been working towards this for five years, but in truth it was all his life. He had always felt the need to push boundaries, lift the veil of reality and generally accepted science, and look beneath. Beyond the veil lay wonders. He had always known that, and finding such wonders had been the driving force in his life ever since he could remember. As a boy he’d been the one with his nose in a book. While his friends were out on their bikes or exploring old mines in the Arizona hills, he was at home or the library, reading Jules Verne and Jack London and imagining his own, even wilder stories.
He’d never written them down. From a young age he’d sworn to himself that his own far-fetched tales would find their way onto the page only when they were known to be true. He enjoyed his flights of fancy, and they fuelled his desire to travel and discover. But reality was always his play space, science his mentor.
During World War Two he’d been posted to North Africa and then Italy. Even though he wasn’t the oldest in his unit he’d quickly attracted the nickname Prof. While the rest of the men enjoyed the local wine and women, Randa tracked down books about the blasted areas they passed through and consumed their histories, as if to discover what those places had been like before bullets, bombs and blood had changed their landscapes forever.