by Tim Lebbon
Brooks glanced across at Randa and raised an eyebrow. Randa expected a smartass response, but his companion continued driving. He had quickly become used to Randa waxing philosophical, never more so than occasions like today, when the future balanced on a fine knife edge—rich and revelatory, or shady and unknown. With so much at stake, Randa was well aware that he was diverting his own extreme nervousness onto the unsettled masses around them.
“At least some of them have a sense of humour,” Brooks said. He slowed at a set of traffic signals at a crossroads, and it took Randa a while to see what he was talking about. Across the street, on the crossroads’ far corner, a movie theatre’s announcement board had been vandalised. Alongside the title DELIVERANCE, someone had spray-painted, FROM NIXON!
Randa chuckled, but such public signs of dissatisfaction inspired a sense of deeper unease. The idea that society could not even take care of itself disturbed him greatly. What if it was confronted with some greater, deeper threat? Something cataclysmic? He liked to believe that the human race would step up.
He really tried to believe.
“They can hang banners and march, sure. But when the shit really hits the fan… what happens then?”
Brooks had no response. He drove, Randa sat in the passenger seat hugging his briefcase to his chest, and with every minute that passed he felt the stark future, and his true purpose in life, drawing close.
* * *
The congressional building baked in the scorching afternoon sunlight, and usually Randa would have taken a moment to admire the architecture, the grandness, and take in the atmosphere of this place, the heart of the country he loved. But not this time. Urgency drove him onwards, and an excitement and nervousness that was playing hell with his stomach.
He should have never had those pancakes for breakfast.
Eager to make his meeting, he hurried up the wide steps in front of the building, and Brooks worked hard to keep pace with him. He knew this was the young man’s first visit here, and he’d have liked to give him time to take it all in. But there was no time.
“It’s hard to imagine that there will ever be a more screwed-up time in Washington,” Randa said. “Politicians are at odds. And even if they weren’t, the boys on the Hill have their hands tied. They’re directed to cut budgets, but they have no money for infrastructure and basic needs. With all the noise around them, they can’t see how important our project is.”
“So maybe it’s not the best time to ask?” Brooks suggested.
Randa stopped three steps from the top and glared at the young man.
“I mean… we’re hardly infrastructure or… or basic needs.”
“Survival,” Randa said. “That basic enough for you? Monarch is on the cusp of being shut down, Brooks. We’re broke. Can you think of a better time to ask?” He continued inside the building and Brooks followed, both of them swallowed into the massive structure’s cool embrace. It was a relief to get out of the sun, but Randa was too focused on his reason for being here to take much pleasure from it.
They crossed the large lobby area, Randa picking his route from memory. Passing through a wide corridor then taking a left, they came to a smaller open area and faced a wide, deep reception desk on one side. As they approached the desk, and their meeting loomed, a nervous Brooks started to express doubts that Randa had been struggling to allay for the past few days.
“I’m not confident in our presentation,” the younger man said. “I mean, all our materials are loose leaf.”
Randa was about to give their names to the woman behind the desk when a TV flickering in the corner caught his eye.
“In one day I could have it organised and bound,” Brooks said, but Randa raised a hand to silence him.
Nixon’s face filled the TV screen, and as they watched, one of the admin staff behind the desk also noticed and flicked up the volume.
“—a ceasefire, internationally supervised, will begin at seven p.m. this Saturday…” the president said.
“We don’t have one day,” Randa said. He tapped the desk to attract the woman’s attention. Then he coughed, smiled, and tried to switch on his charm. “Hello there. Bill Randa, here to see Senator Willis.”
The woman seemed to freeze, looking from Randa to Brooks and back again.
“Is there a problem?” Randa asked.
“Oh, well, Mr Randa. I think… Actually, sir, we were trying to reschedule today’s appointment—”
A door opened behind her. She paused and glanced back, and Randa saw her shoulders slump. Perhaps she was seeing her job ending there and then.
Framed in the doorway stood Senator Al Willis. He was a big man, tanned, greying, and some might have called him fat. But beneath that fat was strength, and Randa knew more than most that he was definitely not a man to mess with. He looked agitated and angry, his face red and lips pressed tight. For a moment he didn’t appear to notice Randa and Brooks, his eyes seeing something much further away. But a senator’s preoccupations didn’t concern Randa right then. He coughed, shifted from foot to foot, and then Senator Willis saw him and froze.
“Oh, God,” he said.
“Al!” Randa said, putting on a big smile. “You’re looking well!”
Willis stared at Randa and Brooks for a few seconds, then seemed to dismiss them entirely. It was a trait that had always unsettled Randa in this man’s presence—he held the room, however many people were there, and with one look or word he could make everyone in it feel about three inches tall. He held out his hand to his assistant, and she knew exactly what he was asking for. She pulled open a drawer, dug around, pulled out a packet of Rolaids and handed them over.
“Didn’t you get my message, Randa?” the senator asked. He popped some Rolaids and swallowed them down. “To reschedule?” He continued looking at the Rolaid packet, as if far more interested in that than the two men standing less than fifteen feet from him. If he sought to disarm, he was succeeding.
“Reschedule for the fifth time?” Randa asked. “Sorry, I must have missed it.”
Willis looked up sharply at the sarcasm—probably not used to being talked to like that, not by anyone—but that was just what Randa wanted.
“Senator, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t pressing,” he said. “I know your plate’s full, and that leaves precious little time for our small but hugely important cause.”
The senator didn’t answer, but his passive-aggressive bullying techniques switched target. He eyed Brooks up and down. “Who’s this?”
“Houston Brooks, my colleague and an expert on Hollow Earth theory.”
Brooks stepped forward and leaned across the reception desk, hand held out and a shit-eating grin on his face. Randa sighed inwardly. True, the guy was young, but he had a whole lot to learn about dealing with people like Senator Willis.
Willis didn’t even look at Brooks’s proffered hand, and he was left standing awkwardly with his hand held out. After a brief pause he stepped back and rolled his eyes at the senator’s assistant. She threw him a quick smile.
“What is he, fifteen?” Willis asked.
“I’m twenty-two, actually,” Brooks said. “I just graduated from Yale. I’m an intern.”
When Brooks glanced back for Randa’s support, Randa just sighed and shook his head. This wasn’t going as he’d planned, and even though he knew the senator would have done anything to avoid meeting with him—last time, he’d seen the man hurrying away along a long corridor while his assistant swore blind that he was out of the country at a conference in Canada—he also knew that persistence would pay off. With Brooks acting like some starry-eyed kid on a movie set, they were giving Willis every excuse he needed to have them escorted from the premises.
Still, his naive air seemed to be hitting a chord with Willis’s assistant. She was very pointedly not looking at Brooks, and the kid didn’t seem to realise that this meant all of her attention was on him.
Yeah, he still had plenty to learn.
“Please, Al
,” Randa said. “For old times’ sake.”
The senator sighed heavily. True, they had a history, and its weight seemed to rest on his broad shoulders now, just for a moment. Recent history might have been regarded as rocky, but they’d gone to college together, played football in the same team, drank in the same bars, and mixed with the same crowd. It had only been for a year, before Randa’s family moved away to South America and the exotic lure of the Amazon dragged him with them. But it was a year of shared experiences that neither of them could deny, and Randa knew for sure that in private the senator would hold fond memories of those times, just as he did.
He also held memories that carried a share of guilt and shame. Fear too, perhaps. Randa had never mentioned any of those more edgy moments from their past, not once. He hadn’t even hinted at them. Yet Senator Willis knew that they were there, hanging between them like years-ripened fruits waiting to be picked, should the need arise. As it was, the need would only ever arise for Randa. His reputation was low enough, without revelations about drug-taking and decadent parties driving it any lower.
The senator, on the other hand, had plenty to lose.
Old times’ sake was as close as Randa had ever come to referencing the skeletons in the senator’s closet, and the fact that he held the key.
“Jane?” the senator said.
“You really don’t have long,” his assistant said. She flipped a diary page on her desk and scowled at Randa and Brooks. “Really.”
“We’ll be quick,” Randa said, and he was already skirting around the desk and approaching Willis where he stood in his office doorway. Brooks followed. “You’re putting on weight, Al.”
“You too, Bill.”
“It’s called getting old,” Randa said.
“Speak for yourself. I’m sixty this year, but I feel forty.” Willis turned and led the two men into his office, and Brooks closed the door gently behind them.
Randa had been here before, so he knew what to expect. He smiled as he heard Brooks draw in a sharp breath. This was the first senator’s office he’d ever seen, and although he’d probably harboured some idea of what to expect, the truth was as surprising as it had been for Randa the first time he’d stepped foot in one. That had been sixteen years ago, another senator in a different age. The men changed, but it seemed their love of the finer things did not.
The office was almost forty feet square, with a large oak desk placed before two floor-to-ceiling windows, the chair facing into the room so that natural light bathed the desk. It held two phones, several stacks of bound reports, a writing pad, pots of pens, and a small statuette of a diving mermaid that Randa guessed was worth more than he made in a month. Across the office were two sofas set facing each other across a wide, low table. The glass table was strewn with magazines and newspapers, several used coffee cups, ashtrays and a crystal decanter and glasses, the decanter half-full of a deep bronze liquid that Randa knew would be a good single malt. It paid to know what the senator’s tipple was.
Paintings hung on three walls, several more small sculptures sat on wooden pedestals, a large TV was placed before four chairs in one corner, and there was another well-stocked drinks cabinet beside one of the large windows.
Randa remembered just how much Willis liked a drink.
Behind the desk, the senator grabbed a jacket from the back of his high-backed chair and slipped it on.
“I’m already late for a meeting,” he said. “You’ve got five minutes.”
Randa sat in a chair before the desk and gestured for Brooks to do the same. He was still hot from rushing across town, every part of his journey haunted with the fear that they’d not get in to see Willis, he’d have security primed to turn them away, he might really not be here. Now with five minutes, Randa knew he could make it ten if he had to. Sitting and taking a deep breath helped prepare him for what he had to do.
If it came down to it, he was ready to plead.
Willis shrugged himself comfortable, then placed both hands on his desk and leaned forward.
“So, what imaginary monsters are you hunting this time?”
“I appreciate the humour, Al,” Randa said. “Reduces tension. One sec…” He opened his briefcase on his lap and pulled out a cardboard file. Placing this carefully on the desk before him, he also extracted some loose sheets and a few illustrations, shuffled them together, leafed through them and handed one to Brooks.
While Randa took items from his briefcase, Willis packed his own, ready for his imminent departure. Randa noted the sturdiness of the senator’s case, the metal corners, combination locks, and the reinforced handle able to take a pair of handcuffs if the need arose. Al sure had come a long way. For that, Randa was glad. He hoped that by the end of the day, he’d be happier still.
Randa half stood and held out a large photograph to Willis. The senator took it, glanced at it, then fixed his gaze on Randa. One raised eyebrow said, Well?
“This is a satellite photo of an uncharted island in the South Pacific, east of Kiribati,” Randa said. “It has remained unexplored, and virtually unheard of, until now. Rumours of it persist through history, if you know where to look. Spanish explorers called it Isla de Craneo. Skull Island. There are also writings referring to it as ‘the island where God did not finish creation’. It’s notorious for the number of ships and planes that have gone missing in the area.”
“Like the Bermuda Triangle,” Senator Willis said, chuckling.
Brooks shifted in his chair, ready to retort, but Randa grabbed the sheet from his hand and nudged him in the process. Shut up. He knew how to handle Willis, and confronting his sarcasm with anger wasn’t the way. The senator had to believe he was steering this conversation.
“In a way,” Randa said. “But we think it’s much more than that.” He glanced at the photo he’d taken from Brooks, pausing for an instant, as he did every time he looked at this image. He’d seen it hundreds of times before, and would look at it countless times again. Searching for its secrets. Wishing, somehow, that by staring at those blurred lines, the out-of-focus waves and skin and spines, it would become clear to him.
He slid the photo onto the desk and pushed it across to Willis. The senator stopped it with one finger, turned it slightly, and looked. He smiled. He had also seen this image before, and Randa knew very well that his own take was very different.
“The nineteen fifty-four Castle Bravo nuclear tests weren’t tests,” he said. “They were trying to kill something on Bikini. I firmly believe that, and I think you do too, Al. I think you know it.”
Willis glanced up, still smiling. Giving nothing away.
“To co-exist with these creatures, we need to know where they are. And where they are, we believe…” He glanced at Brooks. “I believe… is this island.”
The room fell silent. Willis looked back and forth between them, as if expecting something more. Then he laughed, slid the photo back across the desk, and clicked his briefcase shut.
“Point one, Bill. That ‘creature’ has never been proven to be anything other than a whale blown up by the blast. It’s a fairytale.”
“Harry Truman didn’t think these creatures were fairytales when he funded Monarch in nineteen forty-six.” Randa held his briefcase up and tapped the Monarch design on its front.
Willis ignored his comment and did not even glance at the design before continuing.
“Point two, even if it was something unknown, we haven’t seen it since. In terms of sheer waste, Monarch ranks right up there with the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence.”
“Yeah, now those guys are nuts,” Randa said.
“The answer is no.” The senator picked up his briefcase and strode from the office, leaving the door wide open and never once looking back.
Brooks raised his eyebrows. “Good try,” he said.
Ignoring him, Randa stood and hurried from the room after Willis. He felt opportunity slipping away, and he couldn’t help remembering those other times he’d been here
with the same pictures, the same requests. He was certain that Willis knew more than he let on, and almost certain that he believed some of it, too. But how to get past the senator’s shield of disinterest and scepticism was something he had yet to work out.
With Brooks behind him he paused by the reception desk, looking left and right. A few people were milling in the wide lobby or walking across it, but none of them were Willis. Randa’s heart sank. He really had just shunned them and left them sitting there sucking their thumbs.
Old times’ sake, he thought, and he remembered a couple of those old times that Al Willis would never want brought up again in private, let alone in public.
But Bill Randa wasn’t that man. He’d never do anything to ruin the senator’s career. Thing was, Willis knew that. In believing he was playing the senator at his own game, Randa was being played right back.
“Bill?” Brooks said. He was standing close to the assistant’s desk. She was looking down at a blank sheet of paper in front of her, pen poised, fingers of her other hand drumming on the desk. Brooks nodded once towards a door tucked back in an alcove just a dozen feet from the office door. “Thank you,” he said to the woman, then he headed off and Randa followed.
Through the door, into the wide corridor beyond, and he could see Willis walking ahead. He must have thought he’d shaken them, because he was hardly hurrying. It seemed his meeting wasn’t that urgent after all.
They caught up quickly, and Willis only noticed when they were level with him. He cursed softly and shook his head.
“This is an opportunity that won’t exist in a week,” Randa said.
“You can quit chasing me, Randa. You’re not getting any money for this.”
“Who says I’m asking for money?” Randa said. It was a calculated response, designed to surprise the senator into stopping. It worked. They had his attention. “Well, maybe some, but—”
Willis started walking again.
“I got this,” Brooks said, shoving past Randa and grabbing the big man’s arm.
Willis spun around, glaring down at where Brooks held his jacket. But the young guy wasn’t easily fazed.
