Shoggoth

by Byron Craft

  Sidetracked my ass; railroaded is more like it, he thought as he calmly returned the Admiral’s gaze. Ironwood tugged at his left ear lobe and looked around the room. There were four of them in all, including himself. Only two were in uniform; Admiral Hawkins and his Aide, an Ensign Turco, who never talked but was always taking notes on his smart tablet and Congressman Neville Stream. Stream was on Ironwood’s right and about halfway down the long, gray, Formica conference table. The Congressman was bald except for closely cut hair at the temples and the back of his head. His face was void of any facial hair as well. The fluorescent lights in the room reflected off the top of his head. The Congressman sat up straight with his hands folded in front of him on top of the table. He wore a three-piece, blue suit, white dress shirt and a red tie. Awfully warm clothing to wear while visiting the Mohave Desert, Ironwood thought. But then he decided that this was the Congressman’s uniform as well. He felt under-dressed. His tropical wool sports jacket, loosely knotted tie, blue jeans and western work boots probably stuck out like a sore thumb. Oh, what the hell, I bet I’m the only one here that is comfortable. Ironwood was prepared for the desert, not a full dress parade.

  Eastwater still hadn’t shown up. Hawkins drummed his fingers on the gray Formica and Stream just stared at the tabletop. Annoyed, Ironwood focused his attention on Ensign Turco. The young Ensign was neat as a pin; short dark hair and not a button out of place. Although no one was talking at the moment, Turco never looked up from his iPad. He was a nervous little man that avoided confrontations at all costs and followed orders like a robot. He seemed to sense the tension in the room and buried himself in his notes, an ostrich poking its head in the sand. Ironwood wondered if he had a girlfriend, he doubted it. It had been a while since Ironwood had been with a woman himself, he mused, a long while, not since before Connie died. Tonight, after this was all over, it would be painfully lonely. No matter how hard he fought he knew he was going to lose and there would be no one at home to be there for him.

  The absurdity of the silence got the better of Ironwood. “This is criminal!” he said out loud, and Ensign Turco looked up with a start. “I won’t allow it.”

  “You have no choice,” said Stream feigning boredom.

  Enraged, Professor Ironwood glared at the Congressman. “You are taking money that doesn’t belong to you, Congressman. These funds were originally allocated for the Space Guard Transmitter research, not some useless outmoded technology.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Ironwood, you are in no position to tell the United States Government how to spend money.”

  Demoted from Professor to Mister in one breath, Ironwood quietly observed, just a subtle change in verbiage to belittle and intimidate me. He was familiar with the Congressman’s background. Before Neville Stream went into politics, he worked as one of the top negotiators for the Teamsters Union, a community organizer, and later spent some time as the head of the Federal Employment Security Commission. Ironwood had watched him work his magic on C-SPAN during the General Petraeus hearings. Neville Stream was not the man to cross verbal swords.

  “Besides,” the Congressman added. “This is a pinhole in the defense budget that left unplugged could do the world a lot of good.”

  Minimize the issue, Ironwood’s inner voice raged. Reduce it to the ridiculous or make a mountain out of a molehill, whatever the situation calls for, you political opportunist.

  “Professor,” Admiral Hawkins piped in. “We are not here to gang up on you. The temporary setback of Project Sunshine is needed in order to let Project Firefly continue.” Hawkins pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and contemplated it for a while, turning it over and over in his hands. The Admiral looked up, his expression changed from a stern, military commander, to a compassionate, pleading look. “Your breakthroughs with solar pump lasers would be a shot in the arm to Firefly. This project could needs your help.”

  What tactic is this, good cop/bad cop? Ironwood wondered. Not falling for their less than adroit maneuver, he turned on the Admiral. “I am amazed at your use of the old top secret coded project name ‘Firefly.’ If my memory serves me correctly, it was part of President Reagan’s NATO strategy back in the early 80’s and had nothing to do with failed solar policies.”

  Ironwood knew precisely what the old Firefly project entailed. It was the construction and installation of missile silos in the hills of the Black Forest of Germany as a deterrent to the Soviets. Of course, it couldn’t be a deterrent if the Russian’s didn’t know about it. So, by 1982, they let the existence of the undertaking leak to the press but not the intended locations of the silos. The project was scrapped after détente and later declassified when the Soviet Union imploded. Ironwood had become involved with Firefly shortly before its demise. Either these two guys hadn’t done their homework on me, he conjectured, or they think I am a fool. The re-use of an old project name intrigued him. Could it be that by keeping the old project alive on paper they could use the tax dollars allocated for it to create a new project and maybe even feather the nest with the funds from his project, and God knows what other sources? His project would render those anti-missiles obsolete and replace it with a mobile laser anti-ballistic system at a fraction of the cost.

  “It’s purely coincidental,” said Neville Stream, looking like he had smelled a foul odor. “The name was picked at random by a computer. But you are right about one thing. It was a strategic defense research project. ‘Firefly’ was a nickname as well as a code name for SDI. There was this Hollywood movie producer that laid claim to the old nickname. He threatened to sue the U.S. Government if we continued to use it, but as it turns out there are no objections to using it when it comes to renewable energy.”

  “That is a tough story to swallow, Mr. Stream,” Ironwood snapped back. “You two gentlemen wouldn’t be misappropriating government funds, now would you?”

  The Congressman, with his fuse, finally lit, stood up and leaned across the conference table in Ironwood’s direction. “Because of your vast knowledge of physics, Ironwood,” he said, spitting out the word ‘vast’ as if it was a bad taste in his mouth. “I won’t reiterate all the reasons for the further development of a vital EPA renewable energy system.”

  “That, Congressman, is a value judgment.” Ironwood couldn’t resist grinning. He enjoyed getting Neville Stream’s goat. “At the current rate that directional boring and fracking have dramatically increased the supply of crude oil and drastically reduced its price, your solar panels will become as useless as the Spruce Goose. I can see them ten years from now, sitting out in the desert collecting dust.” Inspired by his small victory, the middle-aged Professor pointed toward an imaginary desert expanse, outstretching a hand he turned a thumb down. “Tell me, Congressman, what is in this for you?”

  Stream took a step backward with indignation on his face and looked about the room. “We are all aware of the precarious position we occupy as a leading world power. We have commitments to other nations to prevent global warming. It is the fabric of our global initiative.”

  Ironwood had had enough of this crap. Rising quickly and squaring off with the Congressman, his face only inches from Stream’s. “I will take this to a higher authority.”

  Tension evaporated from the Congressman’s expression giving way to a smile. “I wouldn’t. The directive came from there.”

  “Professor,” said Hawkins stepping around the table, his voice becoming firm. “Your science group is needed on this project. I imagine that by pulling a few strings, you could break your contract with the government. I wouldn’t like to see that. Your people have given us valuable service in the past. But now it isn’t a question of your approval. Are you working with us or not?”

  Got me, Ironwood realized. He knew it would eventually come to this. He would be out of a job. He had a reputation for hard headiness and a tendency to not easily suffer fools. He had been fired from his last position, and with the state of the economy, it would be a bugger to find a research center that would take
him in. But what was even worse was the situation for the eleven other people on his team. He didn’t have any dependents, no debts; he could always find something to do until his pension kicked in, but there were others to consider. Most of them were young. Many with families. Ironwood felt like a helpless, caged animal. He glared at the Admiral and the Congressman, gritting his teeth in restraint of his anger, unable to reply. His ears buzzed and he thought he was going to explode. Then he recognized the buzzing sound. It was the Admiral’s intercom phone at the end of the conference table.

  Vice Admiral Hawkins stepped back around the table and pressed a button marked “mic.”

  “Yes, what is it,” he snapped, irritated by the interruption.

  A woman’s voice rose from the speaker in the faceplate of the phone. “Admiral, Captain Eastwater is on his way, and that man is here again, and he insists on seeing you.”

  “What man?” replied Hawkins.

  “Mr. Ward, sir,” answered the voice with a quiver.

  “How did he get in?”

  “He has a pass from the Maturango Museum.”

  “Tell him I am in a conference.”

  The name was familiar to Ironwood. He had known a man by that name when he was the head of the physics department at Miskatonic University. It seemed like a million years ago. “Is that Alan Ward?” he asked.

  Hawkins pushed the “mic” key again muting their conversation from the outside. “Yes. Do you know him?”

  Relieved to have changed the subject, for the time being, he answered, “Yes. We worked together years ago. I hear, that nowadays, he has become a leading scientific authority on terrestrial phenomena.”

  “A crackpot is more like it,” rang a voice from the back of the room. They all turned in time to see the rear conference room door close behind Captain Eastwater. The young officer marched across the room with an air of confidence equal of a war hero’s and tossed his briefcase onto the conference table. “I had to run him out of here last week. He has a petition. He is trying to save a few Indian rock drawings and an old shack that are in the way of the project.” Turning to face the Admiral, Eastwater acknowledged his superior and nodded with a slight bow in the direction of the Congressman. “Admiral, Congressman, I am sorry for being late. We were ground testing some new war heads for the A-12, and it ran over schedule.” Turning to confront the Professor, Eastwater notices the stress lines in his face. “I see that you have told him.” Eastwater deliberately talked past Ironwood as if he were oblivious to his words. “Good. What is done is done. Now that that’s over we can get down to work.”

  Ironwood gave the Captain a look that killed in reaction to his insulting, dismissive attitude. “I am not a thing, Captain,” he said, glaring at him face to face. “You’d be well off to remember who you are speaking to, I will not be disregarded by the likes of you.”

  Eastwater clumsily backed away, his arrogance diminished. Ironwood’s stature was that of a strong, powerful man. The Admiral, visibly irritated by their confrontation, raised his voice. “Professor, I cannot have this happen on my team! You will be working for, I mean you two will be working together for some time. I need cooperation. Is that understood?”

  Ironwood turned from the Admiral to Eastwater once again. The young officer had a smug look on his face. “Understood,” Ironwood said through clenched teeth. “For the time being,” he muttered.

  The intercom buzzed again, and Hawkins jabbed at the telephone. “What is it, yeoman?”

  The voice from the phone answered back with the quiver of fear more pronounced this time. “It’s Mr. Ward, sir. He refuses to leave. Shall I call for the Master at Arms?”

  “No,” he ordered. Turning from the phone and staring at Ironwood, he said, “It appears that he has a comrade in arms in here. Send him in.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” replied the speakerphone.

  Hawkins pressed the “mic” key once more. “Gentleman, let us try to finish the balance of this meeting with a degree of civility.”

  Eastwater straightened his tie and tried to remain nonchalant. When the door opened, Ironwood was pleased to see his old friend, but Alan Ward didn’t appear to notice him. His clothes were laughably out of style. A madras jacket, a blue knit tie slightly frayed and a pair of polished cotton slacks. Suddenly Ironwood felt overdressed.

  Alan scanned the conference room, looked past Ironwood with a distant stare, then glanced down at Ensign Turco who had remained seated. Turco’s head snapped down, and he buried his nose in his tablet again. Turning slightly to his left, Alan brought his hawkish features to bear on the Admiral. “Admiral Hawkins,” he said stiffly. “I am Alan Ward,” he said extending a bony hand.

  “Mr. Ward, what can we do for you this morning?” said Hawkins, taking the offered hand while putting on his best ‘how are you today’ voice.

  It didn’t look like they were shaking hands to Ironwood. Alan’s hand was swallowed by huge, stubby ropes. The Admiral had workman’s hands, thick, strong fingers that showed traces of oil and grease. Ironwood knew that his hobby was restoring old cars. He thought they were a comical contrast. The Admiral several inches over six foot and as neat as an ad on a recruiting poster, while frail Alan, with grizzled hair protruding over his ears and sloppy attire, looked like he came off the rack at Goodwill.

  “It is about the construction you will be starting soon in the area of the Coso Range.”

  “How can you know about the,” interrupted the Congressman, panic creeping into his voice. “project . . . the project is classified.”

  “I know nothing of your plans,” answered Alan to the man in the blue suit. “But, the intended construction of several concrete structures out there is common knowledge in town.”

  “Congressman,” spoke up Eastwater as he placed himself between Ward and Neville Stream. “Mr. Ward here envisions himself breaking up the project.”

  “Captain Eastwater, I have entertained no such thoughts. For the present, I only object to the choice of the location.”

  “What is wrong with the locale?” continued Stream. “From an ecological standpoint, we have found nothing of danger to the environment. You aren’t a naturalist, are you?”

  “No sir,” said Alan, trying to contain a smile. “Not exactly a naturalist.”

  Ironwood had to smile too. Being familiar with Alan Ward’s background, he knew that calling him a naturalist was only part of the word. It was an inside joke. In Alan’s days at the University, he was widely known as “the super-naturalist.”

  “The area South of Darwin, predominantly in the scope of the Coso Range, is of historical value.”

  “Bull,” roared Eastwater as if he was firing the opening shot of a salvo.

  Ironwood returned to his seat as group shouting ensued and leaned back in his chair. It was music to his ears. A nasty part of him enjoyed watching their world fall apart. Content to see them squabble amongst themselves. Most of all, he was able to observe a side of Neville Stream you didn’t see on C-SPAN. Was the Congressman this easily rattled?

  “Admiral,” Stream challenged, “You never told me that the project site had historical significance.”

  “It doesn’t!” interrupted Captain Eastwater. “Can’t you see he is making it up?”

  “Captain,” entreated Alan. “You have never bothered to substantiate my stories.”

  “And stories are just what they are,” Eastwater snapped back.

  “Gentlemen,” implored Ironwood from his chair. “I am interested in what Professor Ward has to say.”

  Alan turned at the sound of Ironwood’s voice and noticed him for the first time. The dawning of recognition crossed his features. His mouth dropped open and then slammed shut, resembling the wooden jaw of a marionette.

  Thomas Ironwood smiled, “It’s been a long time, Alan.”

  “Thomas,” he gasped. “Are you mixed up in this?”

  “Not altogether,” Ironwood replied, eyeing the Congressman. “Gentlemen,” he said again, only lo
uder, pleased that the tables had been turned. “Mr. Ward, here, is a Professor of English Literature at Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts and, of late, an expert on uncovering ancient civilizations . . . a long way from home, Alan.”

  Alan looked lost for words, possibly overcome, surprised at seeing an old friend at such an out of the way place. Poor Alan, thought Ironwood. He is trying so hard to be proper all the while looking as if he doesn’t have two nickels to rub together. He wondered if he had fallen on hard times. His appearance certainly suggested it. “Please continue,” he said.

  “Thank you, Professor,” Alan stammered. “This base and the region comprising the Coso Range were once crossed by a roadway used by tradesmen and settlers. In 1871, during the great western push, Isaac Morley came with a pair of Narragansett Indians and built his house on the edge of this range, overlooking the desert. Morley was a curious man with a rather mysterious background.” Alan’s hand shook as he tried to smooth back a stubborn, outcropping of hair on the right side of his head. “Ever since the construction of his house,” he continued, “life in that region has not been normal.”

  Eastwater yawned, and Vice Admiral Hawkins looked embarrassed. Ironwood knew his old friend was losing his audience.

  “The Native-Americans have countless legends about the territory,” he added.

  Ironwood could see that this was difficult for Alan. He wanted to help, but this was all new to him. The shaking in Alan’s hands increased. “Shoshone myth tells us of an ancient place beneath the desert where lived ‘he who would never die.’”

  Neville Stream made a sour face. “And this is your historical reference? I am sorry, Admiral, Captain, I owe both of you an apology.”

  “But there is more than that,” pleaded Alan. “Let me continue.”

  “I warned you about him,” Eastwater said.

  “The area has always been known for its unusual happenings. I have a list.” Talking too fast and moving too quickly, Alan produced an assortment of papers from his jacket pocket. Several scraps fell to the floor. Getting down on his hands and knees, he started to collect his precious notes. “They go as far back as 1883. A man named Clervi heard strange noises coming from the ground. There is one from 1934 where the people of Darwin plainly heard the cry of a flock of birds for several hours on end, and there wasn’t a feathered creature within miles of the town.”