Tim Lebbon - Kong - Skull Island

“Yeah.”

“He’s wound pretty tight.”

“The man’s a decorated war hero. That’s the package they come in. So, isn’t shooting a mapping mission a step down for you? I get the impression you’re someone who’s seen real action.”

“I begged for this gig,” she said. “The war’s over but there’s a sudden interest in a remote Pacific island and we’re going in with military choppers, machine guns and explosives? I see dirty Pentagon fingerprints all over this op.”

“And you want to expose it and win a Pulitzer?”

“If you’re not there you can’t get the shot,” she said. They were standing closer now, and hidden down in the hold it felt to Conrad like they were having the most important conversation on the ship. “The right photo can alter the course of things. It can shape opinions.”

“And win you a Pulitzer.”

She smiled. “So what about you? How did a British Special Forces legend get dragged into this?”

And there it is , thought Conrad. Of course she knows who I am . He’d suspected it anyway, and she’d probably followed him down here to corner him for this talk. He didn’t like the idea of someone stalking him like this without him knowing, but he guessed he wasn’t the first person she’d followed. She was as serious about her work as he was. He could only respect that. He was also pretty certain that they were on the same side, whatever side that was.

“You know more about me than I know about you,” he said.

“I’m a journalist. I ask questions, Captain Conrad.”

“Just Conrad. I’m retired.”

“Sure, it looks like it.”

He shrugged.

“So when I ask questions, more often than not people give an answer, even if they’re lying.” She waited. Conrad looked around, listened—still alone.

“They offered me money,” he said.

“Really? That’s it?”

“A lot of money.” She raised her eyebrows. Conrad continued, “I don’t get too invested in outcomes.”

“You don’t strike me as a mercenary,” she said.

“You don’t strike me as a war photographer.”

“ Anti -war photographer.”

That surprised him. He’d rarely heard such distinctions from the correspondents he’d encountered, and he was about to ask her more about that when he heard the soft, regular tread of footsteps.

Conrad and Weaver crouched down between the crates. They were close now, so close that he could smell her subtle perfume and faint perspiration. He sensed that she had plenty of questions for him, and she intrigued him, too. She’d worked hard to get on this expedition, and was already more ahead of the game than him. He’d work hard to catch up.

Hidden in shadows, Conrad peered around the edge of a crate and watched two soldiers enter the hold. They seemed casual and relaxed, chatting and laughing. One of them picked up a small box, and after a quick look around they left the hold.

“They gone?” Weaver asked.

“Yeah. Don’t worry. We’re just killing time.”

Weaver smirked and left, stealing away across the hold, through shadows, and out through a different door.

“I could so get used to this.”

It was almost like a holiday. Mills had soaked up plenty of sun during his time in Vietnam, but getting scorched whilst lying next to your chopper, waiting for the call to get skyborne and possibly fly to your death, was far different from this.

This was almost luxury.

The Sky Devils were splayed across the Athena’ s deck. Mills sat with Cole and Reles, shirts off, playing cards and drinking beer that Slivko seemed to be able to find just about anywhere. Reles was ten bucks down, and Mills knew from experience that playing poker with Cole was never a good idea. The guy probably had a poker face when he was coming. Maybe he’d smiled once, but few of them could recall when, or under what conditions. Mills guessed even his mother would have trouble remembering.

Weaver was taking photos of the men at play. They all pretended not to notice her, but Mills could see guys drawing in their guts, tensing their muscles, whenever the camera looked their way. She sure was hot. They all agreed on that. Mills also silently suspected that she could take on any one of them in a fight, and probably come out pretty good the other side. A reporter like her didn’t make her way through the war without being hard as nails and twice as sharp. She’d already proven that she took no bullshit.

He’d noticed how she often sat with the camera close up to her face, even when she didn’t appear to be taking pictures. Weird. Lots of things were weird about this trip.

“Oh, man!” Reles said when Cole revealed his hand. He’d won with two sevens. He swept the notes into his small pile, face barely changing.

“Hey, Major!” Mills called. Chapman was leaning back against a pile of kit, writing pad balanced on his knees, pen in one corner of his mouth as he thought about what to write. “Another letter to Billy?”

“Yeah, Mills. What of it?”

“Nothing of it, Major,” Mills said. He smiled and stood, hands slapping and drumming his stomach to get everyone’s attention. “Dear Billy!” he said, loud enough for all the guys to hear. A few were already chuckling. “I know I promised you I’d be home by now, but the world is too big, and the smell of sweaty men too damn irresistible.”

More laughter greeted him, and Chapman offered his usual patient smile. Mills said no more. He left the major to his letter-writing. They knew how important it was to him, and that made it important to them all.

“Hey, Mills,” Cole said. “Another hand?”

“Sure,” Mills said. “I’ve got seventeen dollars you haven’t stripped me of yet.” He sat back down and glanced across at the reporter. She hadn’t moved, and had barely seemed to notice his quick performance. She kept the camera to her face, focused on Chapman where he sat writing. Waiting for the perfect shot.

Once, he’d spent a couple of days with a sniper from the Marines, a middle-aged guy who’d just volunteered for his third tour. The guy was called Max, and the VC had nicknamed him Viper because of the snakeskin he wore around his hat. With over forty confirmed kills under his belt, and by his own calculation over a hundred unconfirmed, Max had become something of a legend on both sides. Mills had been fascinated, but quickly came to realise that Max was not a well man, nor a happy one. On a mission, with a target in mind, he was utterly focused on everything around him—the sky, the grass, a leaf, a spider, his quarry. Everything came down to the mission. He’d told Mills that the only life he could ever really, truly live was viewed through his scope. Anything else was just waiting.

On parting company, Mills had been profoundly unsettled. He’d seen the result of war on many men, but never quite like this. Max, the Viper, had lost the ability to see the world through his own eyes.

Mills wondered just what Weaver saw through her lens.

When the Athena hit the first rough patch of ocean, the mood changed aboard ship. Much of the team became seasick and went below, taking to their bunks, but finding little respite there. Randa was surprised that even some of the Sky Devils turned green and disappeared to puke in private. He’d have thought that helicopter crews would be used to lurching, jumping, and leaping stomachs, but only Packard and Mills seemed immune, standing on deck close to their moored birds and watching the magnificent views.

Randa loved the sea. He liked it when it was millpond flat, and he loved it even more when waves broke over the bow and smashed against the hull. It gave the ocean character and texture, and was a reminder that humans were only passengers here. He was not superstitious, and did not attribute any real emotion to however the sea was behaving. But he liked when it was rough. It seemed more natural, more honest, like a giant beast writhing to shed parasites from its hide.