by Tim Lebbon
“We did ask to arm those helicopters,” Brooks said. “Shouldn’t they know why?” Randa felt a surge of anger towards the younger man for breaking the moment, but he didn’t let it show.
“And raise an alarm? It’s purely a precaution, Brooks.” He slapped Brooks’s back and climbed aboard the chopper, turning to watch him, San and Nieves boarding another chopper piloted by Slivko.
He was relieved that at least he could enjoy the flight without Brooks complaining in his ear.
* * *
As deckhands untied the last of the securing lines, Conrad and Weaver ran crouched low towards Slivko’s chopper. Conrad spied Randa on the Huey with Cole and Mills, while Brooks, San and Nieves were on the Landsat aircraft. He realised that he and Weaver were late, the last two to board. That would likely raise suspicions.
Weaver pointed her camera everywhere, recording the departure even though the storm threatened to wash them all overboard. He had to admire her determination.
Once on Slivko’s helicopter they strapped themselves in and slipped on headsets. Weaver ensured her camera bag was stowed and secured beneath her seat, and she kept one camera in her lap, strapped around her left wrist.
Conrad checked his seatbelt several times.
“Come on,” Weaver said, “this is the fun part.”
“I have a preference for solid ground,” he said. “Water, at a push. Open air…?” He waved his hand from side to side.
Packard’s voice came over the radio. “Time to put on another show for the ants. Hold onto your butts, and follow my lead.”
Through the chopper’s windshield, Conrad saw Packard’s aircraft lift off, shake a little in a sudden gust, then drift away to starboard, climbing all the while. Slivko’s chopper shook as it lifted from the deck, buffeted by high winds and with blown spray and rain strafing the fuselage like machine-gun fire.
Conrad clasped his seat arms until his fingers hurt.
Six years before, he’d been in a chopper that had gone down after striking a flock of birds over Malaysia. He was the only survivor. He’d lain there for three days with the remains of the crew slowly rotting around and onto him, before rescue came. A regular soldier would have received a citation or medal for that. All he’d had was a debrief and four days’ medical leave before heading back into the field. Just because certain behaviour was expected of you didn’t mean it came easy.
“Fox Leader to Fox Group,” Packard’s voice crackled. “Grab some altitude and let’s get in formation.”
“He’s in his element,” Weaver said. She was right, Conrad could hear it in the colonel’s voice. This was his world.
“Combat spread,” Packard said. “Keep visuals. Fox Five, let me know when you’re closed.”
“Fox Five in the slot,” Cole’s calm voice replied.
“We’re gonna lose visuals, but hold course. It’s nothing we haven’t done before.”
“Comforting,” Conrad said. Looking from the side windows he could see the cliff face of the massive storm front as they approached it. Rain slashed across the windows, and twisting in his seat, he could just see the Athena behind them and below, slowly performing a wide turn as it headed away from the storm to hold position in calmer seas. Part of him wished he was still on board.
A bigger part of him—the part that kept him out here even though the war was over, the part that sought to tease death again and again for reasons he had never been able to explain—looked forward to what was to come. Once they were safely down on land, that was.
He turned back in time to see Weaver undoing her seatbelt.
“Weaver, what the hell—”
“Places to go, people to see,” she said, pushing forward between the pilot and co-pilot’s seats. They both glanced back at her. Slivko rolled his eyes and turned his attention forward again, scanning instruments and bracing himself as they approached the intimidating storm front.
It grew darker, and the chopper began to vibrate. It was a disconcerting sound and feeling, and Conrad was about to comment when they plummeted as if into a deep, dark hole.
Then the aircraft started to dance and shake through the air.
Weaver was taking pictures. Not of the outside, Conrad noticed, but of Slivko and the pilot as they nursed and jockeyed the Huey, recording their treacherous journey in stills that would speak volumes. Just visible for brief periods through the storm-lashed windscreen, he could see the flashing lights of the rest of the formation.
“You must have lived through worse than this out in the jungle,” she shouted back to Conrad.
The helicopter hit another downdraft. Conrad clasped his seat even harder.
“‘Lived’ being the operative word.”
“Dear Billy,” Slivko said. “Today I saw a hurricane and flew right into it.”
“Dear Billy,” Mills’s voice continued over the radio, “have you ever looked into the darkness and felt the cold hand of death squeeze your guts until you can’t feel your legs?”
Conrad tried to get into the jovial mood but he couldn’t. He knew this was battlefield humour, brother humour, and he was no part of this tight-knit group of warriors. The ‘Dear Billy’ thing was a private joke between them, part of the bonding gel that kept them close even when they couldn’t see each other and there was a storm striving to force them all apart. It would have kept them close in battle, too, while bullets and rockets flew.
He sometimes wished he had someone he could ‘Dear Billy’ with.
He glanced at Weaver, but she was trying to frame a photo through the windshield with the pilot’s face and helmet also in view. Looking for the shot no one had ever taken.
Maybe she’ll find it on this expedition, he thought, and a strange, gloomy foreboding settled over him. He didn’t think it was anything to do with his nervousness in the air. It was all about what might be waiting for them ahead and below, down on the ground that no one had yet explored.
“Compass is all over the place,” someone said in his ear.
Packard replied, “Fox Leader to Fox Group, switch to inertial navigation. And remember the story of Icarus, whose father gave him wings made of wax, and warned him not to fly too close to the sun. But the exhilaration was too great, and Icarus flew higher and higher until his wings melted and he fell into the sea. Gentlemen, the United States Army is not an irresponsible father. They have given us wings of white-hot, cold-rolled Pennsylvania steel.”
“Very poetic,” Conrad muttered, not sure if anyone heard him.
Moments later they broke through. The buffering and battering ceased as quickly as it had begun and fresh sunlight streamed through the windows, diffracted through streaking rain and dazzling Conrad for a few moments. His grip on the seat handles lessened.
“Hey, Conrad. Our holiday’s begun,” Weaver said.
“Now let’s take it down, low and level,” Packard said.
Conrad opened the Huey’s side door and air rushed in, thunderous and loud, but the views it revealed were staggering.
The ocean rolled below, a deep blue and shaded with varying depths. Jagged white lines marked where reefs hid below the surface. Ahead of them, the waters broke against the shores of the massive island appearing out of the mists.
Conrad caught his breath. It was so strange, entering a storm and emerging on the other side to be confronted with such a scene. Stunningly beautiful, an untouched and unknown place exuding wilderness, it was almost intimidating. If everything Randa said was true, then this was a secret place, perhaps never before visited by humankind.
Sweeping beaches ended where dark jungle began, and inland there were tree-covered hills and mountains, sharp ridges, and the wounds of deep ravines, hidden from sight and immune to sunlight.
Weaver leaned across Conrad, paused for a moment to look, and then started snapping some photos. She glanced sidelong at him and grinned.
“Aren’t you afraid of anything?” he asked.
“Clowns.”
“I’ll keep that in
mind.”
The helicopters roared over the coastline, and below them the jungle might have been a million years old. This was primeval. There were no signs of mankind’s influence anywhere—no roads, clearings, buildings, or power lines. No indications of deforestation, footpaths, or communities. Conrad glanced behind them and saw leaves shaking in their wake, flocks of birds rising and scattering in shock at these new, noisy invaders. The ground rose sharply, then fell away again into a deep valley, its bottom marked by a dark channel that might have been a river, might have been an even deeper drop into darkness.
The island extended to their left and right, and ahead it rose inland towards a range of mountains and ridge lines. It was massive. Conrad had no idea that a place like this could have existed in the world without anyone knowing about it. The realisation made him feel small and insignificant. It was a feeling he often welcomed and revelled in, because being lost in the world was the place that he found most comfortable. But a location like this could make you feel lost in yourself. He was not a spiritual man, but he suspected some prayers were being whispered amongst the soldiers and civilians on this expedition right now.
“Fox Leader to Group,” Packard said. “Split into two groups. Survey your zones. Let’s get to work!”
Conrad held on tight as his Huey tilted and split to the right, dropping with two others into a valley and following a roaring river upstream. The sound of their rotors was even louder here, bouncing back from the steep valley walls to make a haunting echo. He couldn’t help thinking that they were disturbing somewhere tranquil and quiet.
Weaver seemed entranced, framing photos through the open doors. He wondered what she saw through the camera that he could not, and he promised to ask her about that when they had a chance.
Over the radio Chapman said, “Stick one prepared for landing.”
So this is when they start dropping bombs, Conrad thought. Now we’ll see what this place is really like.
TEN
As the Landsat Huey settled in a small clearing beside the river, Randa filmed their arrival from his hovering bird. This was a momentous moment, the culmination of years of dreams and hope, but he was also aware that they had work to do. Below, Brooks and San jumped from the landed Huey, and the Landsat crews started unloading monitors and other equipment. It was a slick, much-rehearsed process, and soon Randa waved as they lifted away.
He held on as the chopper rose and headed further upriver. The valley grew wider and deeper, and soon they broke left towards the first of the target zones.
“Ready for the seismic sources,” Nieves said over the radio.
Randa ensured his straps were secure and leaned closer to the open door. He knew they had to keep a safe distance, but he was eager to film what came next. It was a purely scientific endeavour, but it was also going to look spectacular.
Ahead of them he saw a Huey circling a pre-designated drop zone. Inside, the soldiers would be readying the first of the seismic charges. Sure enough, a few moments later he saw a cylindrical object drop from the door, small parachute fluttering open behind it, and heard the static-filled voice of a soldier saying, “Welcome to the world of man.”
Filming, Randa frowned at that. A curious choice of words. Revealing. We’re not typical men, he thought. We’re here to discover, not destroy. But these were soldiers, not scientists.
He followed the floating object as it disappeared into the jungle canopy below. His heart beat faster in anticipation. Moments later, the first charge exploded.
Trees bent with the force of the blast. Smashed trunks and branches were thrown aloft on a boiling mass of flame and smoke. A shockwave passed through the jungle canopy like ripples in water, startling birds into flight and shimmering far across the jungle.
Randa continued filming, his dawning sense of wonder giving way to a strange, niggling foreboding. Whatever they called these things—seismic charges, scientific instruments—in reality they were bombs.
Their helicopter circled the explosion site, and he continued filming the resultant smoke cloud. The blast zone soon settled back into jungle, and it appeared almost undamaged. It was as if the trees had swallowed the explosion and hidden it away. His low dread was fed by this sense that the jungle could shrug them off so easily. He had no wish to destroy, but he had come here to make his mark.
What came next brought that feeling of triumph he’d been craving since breaking through the storm front.
“Randa, the bedrock!” Brooks shouted into his ear. “You gotta see this. It’s practically hollow!”
Randa smiled, still filming the smoking site of the first explosion. “So how does that feel, Brooks?” he asked.
“Commencing second pass to drop charge number two,” a voice said from one of the choppers circling lower down.
Brooks had not replied. He was probably eager to absorb as much data as he could, he and San watching the monitors and ensuring that all recording devices were accurate and fully operational. But Randa could imagine the man’s mixed emotions. He was glad. Brooks should never have doubted him.
Cautioning himself, more than aware that they had only taken readings from one blast zone, nevertheless Randa felt a growing sense of excitement. He made himself more comfortable as he watched history being made through his film camera.
* * *
Weaver wished she was piloting this thing. With three more blasts shredding the canopy and throwing flaming, then smoking fingers skyward, there were far better angles she could be getting on this. Still, she did her best. A series of shots through the cockpit with the pilots framing one huge explosion. Another of the impassive-faced pilot with an explosion reflected in his aviator glasses. More snaps through the open doorway, catching some of the shockwaves tearing through trees, up slopes, and losing themselves down in shadowy ravines. She couldn’t help thinking it was like throwing rocks into a lake—the initial eruption, then ripples spreading, and finally a gentle lessening of the repercussions, until there was little evidence at all. It was as if the island was swallowing the explosions, and she hoped her series of photographs would illustrate this strange effect.
She felt excited, not scared. For her, lately, that was an unusual experience on a photograph assignment. There was something very liberating and freeing about taking pictures of explosions not designed to kill, but to discover.
She glanced back at Conrad, still sat in the doorway and staring down at the blasts. He looked worried. Maybe his fear of flying went deeper than she thought. He sensed her watching and looked at her.
“Gonna make a nice brochure,” she said, lifting her camera and taking a shot of him.
Another explosion erupted outside, but this one was different. It started low and grew, rather than fading from an initial loud blast to mere echoes. She saw in Conrad’s reaction that he sensed the same difference, and both of them leaned closer to the doorway, Weaver hanging onto one of the straps swinging from the ceiling.
“What the hell…?” he said, but if anyone heard him they did not respond.
The roar continued, swamping echoes from the seismic charges, growing, loud and primal like the island shaking itself awake and angry at their intrusion.
Looking down towards the drop zones, and at the three Hueys circling the smoking remains of the initial explosions, they both saw the shape flung from deep down in the jungle canopy.
Conrad tensed beside her, and Weaver heard a pilot’s panicked shout: “Incoming!”
The massive splintered tree trunk struck a Huey head-on, shattering the cabin, spearing the chopper and making minced meat of the pilot, sending the aircraft into a spiralling, deathly spin.
“Delayed explosion?” Weaver asked.
“That was no explosion,” Conrad said, and that made no sense, she couldn’t comprehend what he meant. No explosion? Then how?
Frightened voices merged over the radio, a chaos of confusion that sang the chopper down to its fiery, terrible end.
“Fox One is hit and do
wn!” someone shouted.
Weaver felt Conrad grasping her arm as if keen to hold onto reality. She held onto her camera.
The thing she saw rise from the jungle canopy and smash down a second Huey looked like a giant black hand.
The chopper span from the impact, one rotor spinning off into the air. Weaver saw a shape fall from the open doorway and plummet, limbs waving as it disappeared into the suddenly deadly jungle. The out-of-control Huey ploughed its way down towards the canopy. The pilot struggled to retain altitude, but it was a lost cause.
“Mayday, mayday, we’re going down!” he shouted over the radio.
Conrad clasped her harder, half-standing and pulling himself closer.
“You seeing this?”
“Yeah, but not believing.”
The Huey jarred to a halt, as if held upright above the canopy by heavy tree limbs. Watching from their own circling chopper, Weaver dared to hope that the survivors on board might be saved. One man clung to a landing strut, arms and legs wrapped tightly around the support, probably trying to make sense of his miraculous escape.
The jungle beneath the halted helicopter burst apart as a huge, dark shape rose up from below the trees, standing from a deep crevasse and thrusting the crippled aircraft aloft in one giant hand. Smashed trees and a million shed leaves floated around it as Weaver tried to make sense of what she was seeing. Some sort of sense that might pin her to the world, the reality she knew.
But she could find none.
The shape was a massive, impossible gorilla, perhaps a hundred feet tall. It shook the stricken Huey it held in one mighty hand, and as she saw the man tumble from the landing gear and drop into the beast’s open, roaring mouth, she felt a cool flush of utter terror go through her, chilling her heart and flooding her stomach with ice.
She sat down heavily next to Conrad, camera forgotten, everything forgotten other than what she was witnessing at that moment. She had no history and no future, only this dreadful, impossible present.
Weaver struggled to remember her name.
