Houston Landing
(5)
The following is an excerpt from the War Journal of the RAFian known as Seal, describing the events that took place at the mod Headquarters in Houston, Texas.
I like plane rides. They’re neat. Ever since I was a kid I was fascinated by how the managed to stay up in the air, just like real birds. Things like that made me appreciate mankind’s technological capabilities. And I never could understand those people with a phobia of planes. I mean, really, what was there to be scared of? You were more likely to die in a car crash than you were a plane crash, so what was the big deal? Besides, flying was an adventure. It was the closest thing a lot of people would ever get to the real thing.
A lot of people. RAFians aren’t a lot of people.
We managed to book seats on the next flight to Houston at an airport outside Niagara Falls. Jess figured we caught a lucky break, but I think somewhere in the back of our minds we all knew that the mods had something to do with it. That’s the thing about us RAFians: we don’t look like much, but we have some influence in this world of ours. I guess air traffic control was just one of those things.
We waited for about five hours before boarding the plane. We made attempts at conversation, but we always ended up twiddling our thumbs in silence. Bear and I sat across from Donut and a sleeping Rad—resting her head on her hand—while Jess looked out the window at the planes. I hadn’t brought much with me—just my diary and a pen along with a change of clothing—and so I kept myself entertained by watching Bear work on a crossword. Admittedly, he wasn’t very good.
Eventually a woman called over the P.A system, announcing that the 6:00 flight to Houston was preparing for flight. The group of us looked at each other for a moment before making our way to the terminal, where a pretty woman, probably in her mid-twenties, took tickets.
RAF didn’t have so much influence as to get us business class seats. We only managed to get seats with the ordinary folks. I didn’t mind. I was just glad we all got seats together. I mean, I would have been fine if we hadn’t. I just prefer sitting with familiar faces; especially given the current circumstances. I sat in between Jess and Bear, and two seats down from Donut and Rad. Donut had this faraway look in his eye—the soldier’s stare. I guess he was thinking about what he’d tell the mods. This wouldn’t be a casual visit; this would be a congress, like Vienna, or Versailles. We would be discussing the possibility of war. That was something nobody wanted to think about. But somebody had to. I was just glad it wasn’t me.
The plane landed three hours later in Houston. Customs was a pain, but we all got through it without any trouble. Donut rented a car, paid for with a credit card, and we made the hour long trip to mod Headquarters.
I had to admit, I was pretty psyched, all things considering. I had never been to the Headquarters before; none of us, save for Donut, have ever been there. To be honest before now there had been little reason to ever go to Headquarters. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity for an ordinary RAFian to see all of the moderators in the same room at the same time. And they would be there in the flesh, too; not just present via hologram like Donut said happened at ordinary meetings.
Well, maybe Richard wouldn’t be there. Richard was far too important to be there in the flesh.
The Headquarters was kept a secret from the public eye. The only way to get to the place was through a tunnel, and that tunnel was accessible through an everyday parking garage. I’m not allowed to say when or where; it would be far too dangerous.
We parked the van between a cherry red SUV and a silver Mercedes. Our plain green rent-a-car looked pretty pathetic by comparison. I almost felt sorry for it, having to sit between those two models. Jess said more or less the same thing:
“Jeez, Donut. Why couldn’t you spring for something fancier?”
“I’m sorry, Jess,” he mumbled, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Next time you can pay for the car and I’ll be the one to critique the model.”
We got out of the van and made our way towards one of the parking lot exits. Behind those doors lay a set of staircases—one going up and one going down. According to the sign the upper floor had the entrance to a mall and some small business offices; the bottom floor had the restroom.
We went downstairs.
There were three bathroom doors: one family restroom, and the conventional male and female. The female restroom was apparently out of service.
“Gentlemen, close your eyes.” Rad joked before entering the female restroom. We followed her inside.
It was an average sized restroom. There was water on the floor to give the impression that the restroom was undergoing maintenance. This was false. There were six stalls, and none of the six toilets inside the stalls was operational to begin with. Nothing in that restroom would work. Nothing but a single faucet that would open the entrance to the mod Headquarters.
Donut turned the faucet of the middle sink. It functioned like a lock: two turns left, one turn right, half a turn left. He paused, having turned the faucet the right way. We waited for the entrance to reveal itself. Nothing happened.
“Maybe you made a mistake.” Bear suggested.
“No. This is supposed to happen.” Donut said. “Just keep looking at the mirror.”
We all did as we were told and looked at our reflections in the mirror. And before long an infrared beam was scanning our faces, just like in those spy movies, but without the automated voice saying “visual identification recognized. Welcome to RAF.” Instead, the sinks sunk into the restroom floor, and the wall opened up to reveal the secret passageway to the Headquarters.
“Quickly,” Donut instructed. “Before it seals itself.”
We followed him, one by one, into the dark hallway. I was last in line after Bear. Behind me, the passageway sealed itself.
For a moment we stood in complete darkness.
