Nick nods and sets his mind on the climb, reaching out and grabbing the rope. He positions his boots, rocking with the sway of the zodiac, and steps up. A couple of sailors wait at the top. As he comes level with the deck, they grab his arms and haul him up.
“Gidday, mate,” one of the officers says with a sense of warmth that surprises him. “Sorry about the climb. Normally, we’d bring you in beneath the helicopter deck, but we’re a bit busy down there.”
Nick looks along the length of the frigate. The helicopter hovers over the rear deck, lowering the snowcat. Sailors work with guide ropes to keep the cat from twisting through the air. Bear looks like he’s just conquered Mt. Everest. He’s loving this.
Once Jazz and Dmitri are onboard, the officer says, “If you’ll follow me.” He leads them along the side of the vessel.
Nick hangs back, saying to Jazz, “Um, they’re…?”
“They’re from New Zealand,” she says. “No one knows the Southern Ocean like the Kiwis.”
“They’re a long way from New Zealand.”
“They’re on assignment to support the Brits.”
The three of them are led through a steel bulkhead door and up a flight of steep stairs to the bridge. Nick is careful to step over the various bulkhead doorways so he doesn’t catch his shins on the plate steel. The bridge is a hive of activity. Red lights allow the crew to retain their night vision, painting both the controls and the sailors with an eerie dim glow.
“Commander Simonds,” Jazz says, saluting a woman in fatigues.
“Welcome onboard the HMNZS Te Kaha,” the commander says, returning the salute. “Well, you yanks are nothing if not surprising.”
Jazz laughs. “This is Nick Ferrin, bound for Vincennes.”
“Lucky you.”
“What are we dealing with?” Jazz asks as Dmitri waves hello to the commander. It seems they know each other quite well.
Commander Simonds leans against a broad console with a paper map unfolded before her. She brushes her hand across the worn paper, talking as she describes the journey.
“We’re just over fifteen hundred kilometers from Halley. This old girl is good for 25 knots in these waters. We’ll make good time while we’re sheltered by the South Sandwich Islands. Once we hit the open ocean in the South Atlantic, though, a lot is going to depend on the weather. The forecast is for gale-force winds coming off the ice. It’s going to be damn cold down there. Also, we’re going to lose daylight as we head south. That makes everything more difficult.”
Dmitri nods.
“ETA?” Jazz asks.
“I’d like to have you down there in five or six days. It’ll be tight, but if we don’t gun it now and the weather sets in, things are going to get nasty. We’ve got a short window we can squeeze through, but we can make it. Any questions?”
“Ah,” Nick says, raising his hand as though he were in school. He grimaces slightly, knowing this is a dumb question but wanting to ask it anyway. “What if we run into icebergs—I mean, I can see icebergs out there in the bay. Doesn’t that make it dangerous?”
Commander Simonds chuckles lightly, addressing Jazz as she says, “He’s a cute one, huh?”
She looks up from the map, saying, “Oh, we want to see icebergs. Lots of big white-tipped bergs dotting the horizon. Nothing would make me happier.”
Nick’s confused, so the commander clarifies her point.
“Because that means we’ve made it across the Southern Ocean. There’s going to be pack ice in close to Antarctica. The ice sheets are growing at this time of year, forming as the surface of the ocean freezes. Icebergs help calm the waters. They’re big enough to slow the swell. They deflect the wind. Besides, you’re on a warship. This ain’t the Titanic. There’s nothing I love more than sailing among icebergs.”
She taps the open ocean on the map, pointing roughly halfway between South Georgia and Antarctica, saying, “This is the danger zone. Right here. In this region, we’re going to get hit by circumpolar storms. As we pass through here, you’ll be praying for icebergs.”
“Gonna be rough, huh?” Jazz says.
“Oh, yeah, but we’re up for it.”
She folds up the map, saying, “Johnson will show you to your quarters. Anchor’s up at twenty-three hundred, once we’ve got your equipment stowed.”
“Thank you, commander,” Dmitri says.
Te Kaha
Nick wakes a few times during the night, relieving himself occasionally, but dawn never seems to come. He goes back to sleep, but not because he’s tired. Depressed would be a better term. His life has spiraled out of control. For once, the madness is not of his own making or his own obstinate stupidity. A dim light glows over a metal sink in his shared quarters. It must be four or five in the morning by his reckoning. He’s tired of sleeping—something he would have never thought possible.
The ship sways. Somewhere deep within the superstructure of the vessel, two massive diesel engines drive the frigate on. A slight hum reverberates through the steel walls.
Dmitri and Jazz are already up. Early birds.
Nick runs some water up through his hair and stares at the ghostly image in the mirror. There’s a note taped beneath the glass.
Come up to the bridge when you’re ready.
Ready?
For what?
The end of the world?
An alien invasion?
Nick brushes his teeth. Hah, what a distinctly human thing to do when faced with the unknown, but routines calm his weary soul.
As much as Nick would like to, he can’t grow a beard. After the last few days, his cheeks and chin have grown a little bit of bumfluff. A rather pathetic mustache has appeared over his lips, but no beard. If anything, it’s as though someone’s pranked him and stuck pubic hair on his face. Nick lathers his face and shaves. Mentally, that act gives him a lift.
Warships are built for battle. Every wall is a bulkhead. Nick pushes down on the stiff metal handle and pulls the watertight steel door open. The lights in the corridor are blinding. He steps over the rim, closing the door behind him. A sailor standing beside the cabin stiffens, coming to attention.
Nick’s unsure of the protocol. Is he a guard? As if in response to the confusion on his face, the sailor says, “Ensign Temuera. I’ve been assigned as your aide.”
Okay, so a polite guard. Got it.
“Ah.”
“The bridge is this way, sir.”
Ensign Temuera leads him down a series of nondescript corridors, seemingly turning at random and darting through bulkheads before leading him up a ladder pretending to be a set of stairs. Pipes run along the walls. Bundles of wires hang from racks lining the ceiling. The walls have been painted so many times the scratches reveal older coats of grey paint rather than naked steel.
“Ah, there you are,” Jazz says as Nick is led on to the bridge.
“Just in time,” Dmitri says.
“For what?” Nick replies, seeing them seated in raised chairs at the back of the bridge. In any other context, these would be industrial-grade bar stools but with seatbelts hanging to either side. They’re conveniently out of the way, allowing the crew to move around without interference.
Dmitri points at the windows. “Sunset.”
“What time is it?” Nick asks, seeing the sun off to the side of the frigate, sitting low on the horizon, lighting up clouds as it dips toward the sea.
“Just after two in the afternoon.”
Commander Simonds asks, “Coffee?”
“Ah, yeah. That would be great. Thanks.”
The ocean is like glass. A broad swell undulates across the surface, rolling into the distance.
“We’re making great time,” the commander says, handing him a Styrofoam cup. Vapor rises from the pitch-black coffee. “Hitting thirty knots. We might just edge out the coming storm.”
“I sure hope so,” Nick says, sitting at the rear of the bridge and warming his hands against the cup.
“Sleep well?” Dmit
ri asks.
“Like a log.”
“Good.”
“Ah,” Nick says, speaking under his breath. “How much does everyone know?”
“Don’t worry. We’ll let you know if we’re in an insecure environment,” Jazz says. “Everyone here is in the loop.”
“Really? Everyone?”
“You’re surprised?” Commander Simonds says, taking the central chair by the navigation desk.
“I figured this was like beyond top secret. You know, to prevent rumors.”
The commander says, “The best way to stop rumors is to keep people informed.”
Nick is stunned. She continues, saying, “We’re military. We’ve sworn an oath to do our duty. You don’t think we can keep a secret?”
“But aliens?” Nick says. “That’s kinda big news. What if it gets out?”
“Oh, it gets out,” she says. “But no one believes it. And anyone that actually knows is quick to dismiss it. You see, if it was a rumor, they’d have doubts. My crew have no doubt. They know. And because they know, they’re quick to scoff at the idea in front of outsiders.”
Nick is speechless. The commander’s confidence is baffling.
“By knowing, they’re in a position to protect that information.”
Nick feels as though his head is about to explode. “And everyone’s okay with that?”
Commander Simonds smiles, saying, “Don’t underestimate the value of camaraderie, especially in the navy. When it comes to it, no one gives their life for something as abstract as a country or a flag. Whether it’s a foxhole, a helicopter, or a warship, they give their all—right up until their last—for the guy or gal next to them. After all, what is a country other than its people?”
“And then there’s pride,” Jazz says. “The crew know they’re making history. They know they’ll look back on this and tell their grandkids they were there when First Contact became a reality.”
“And no one’s broken ranks?” Nick asks, feeling incredulous at what he’s hearing.
“A few have tried,” Jazz says. “And, from all accounts, they’re enjoying their extended time in solitary.”
Nick sips his coffee. Apart from being black, it’s quite good. It’s an improvement over the sludge he was given by the US Air Force.
Jazz says, “I’ve got a bunch of stuff to run through with you about your role as a juror and the precedence of past decisions.”
Dmitri’s deadpan expression must suggest now is not the time as she adds, “But there’s no rush.”
Nick gets to his feet. He’s hungry. Ensign Temuera starts moving as well.
Nick gestures to him, asking, “Is this really necessary?”
Commander Simonds points out at the vast, open ocean, saying, “The water temperature out there is five degrees. The average survival time in these conditions is under four minutes. Our mean time to respond to someone overboard is three minutes. In that time, we need to sound the general alarm, secure for an emergency turn, cut the throttle and throw the Te Kaha into a two-to-three kilometer wide U-turn while simultaneously launching multiple search and rescue teams on high-speed inflatables. By the time they hit the water, we have less than sixty seconds to get to you. And all that assumes we know the exact moment you hit the water, so yes, I want someone watching you twenty-four hours a day.”
Reluctantly, Nick nods.
“Besides,” the commander says. “How else are you going to find the galley?”
“Good point.”
“This way,” the ensign says, leading him back downstairs to the mid-decks.
The galley is a slightly wider portion of the main internal corridor, with fold-out tables off to the side. No thought has been given to aesthetics, although there are colored prints of the New Zealand forest stuck to the aluminum cupboards. Ensign Temuera explains how the crew eat in shifts. The kitchen runs sixteen hours a day with self-service available twenty-four hours. He introduces Nick to Eddie, the head chef.
Eddie’s a Māori with the build of an NFL linebacker. Given how narrow the kitchen is, Eddie’s surprisingly agile, moving about with ease. His face has been intricately tattooed. Back in the US, Nick’s seen the odd facial tattoo, but they tend to be scrappy. If anything, they speak of a criminal underclass, but Eddie’s native tattoo is different. Its appearance is fearsome, majestic. Dark green lines form intricate patterns swirling around his cheeks and curling over his nostrils. There’s a hypnotic symmetry to the design. Lines bend over his brow and down toward the bridge of his nose.
Eddie smiles warmly in defiance of his tattoos, rattling off a quick greeting with, “Kia ora, kia ora, bro!”
“Ah, hi.”
“So you’re the new kid, huh?”
“Yeah. I guess so,” Nick replies. It’s been a long time since he’s been called a kid.
“Watch chew won?”
It takes Nick a moment to decipher a coherent statement from Eddie’s thick accent.
“What do I want?” he replies, stunned at how his mind struggles to interpret a question spoken in his own language. “Ah, I dunno. Do you do burgers? Or an omelet?”
“For you, I can whip up an omelet,” Eddie says, pointing at an open carton of eggs on the stainless steel benchtop. “You hungry? You want sex?”
“I what?” Nick says, struggling to process what’s being said. He recoils, shaking his head in disbelief, but Eddie seems oblivious to how uncomfortable he feels.
“Four, five, or sex?”
“Oh, the number of eggs?” Nick says, laughing. “Ah, three. Thanks.”
He holds up three fingers to make sure there’s no misunderstanding.
“You’re a bantamweight,” Eddie says, chuckling. He cracks two eggs at once, striking them on either side of a skillet and dropping them on the sizzling cast iron. He tosses the shells in the waste and cracks another two eggs all within a fraction of a second. Nick’s about to point out that’s four eggs when Eddie splashes a little milk on top of them along with a handful of cheese and then proceeds to mix them in the pan.
“The secret,” Eddie says, tilting the pan and whipping a steel whisk around at a frantic pace, “is to aerate. Keeps the mixture nice and fluffy.”
Handfuls of bell pepper, diced tomatoes and ham are tossed into the skillet. Eddie flips the omelet like a pancake, sending it sailing into the air and catching it with aplomb before returning it to the burner.
“Smells good, huh?”
“Smells great,” Nick replies.
Eddie slides the omelet onto a plate. There’s so much grease he doesn’t need a spatula. Eddie almost loses the omelet as the ship rocks with the ocean swell, but he recovers, tipping the plate with care.
“Thanks.”
Nick sits at a bench facing Eddie as he works. He’s fascinated by the big man.
“So, where you from?” Eddie asks, chopping carrots as though he were a ninja. Somehow, he never hits his fingers. When he moves on to tomatoes, Nick does a double-take to ensure there’s no blood in the red pulp.
“Ah, South Carolina.”
“That’s in America, right?”
Nick laughs. “Yes.” It’s never occurred to him that his home state is anything other than renowned, but he can see how it must seem like some foreign, obscure place to someone from the other side of the planet.
Bear walks up, greeting Nick with a pat on the shoulder and taking a seat beside him as he says, “Hey, I see you’ve met the most important person on this rust bucket.”
“Damn straight,” Eddie says, chuckling. He points at Bear with his oversized chopping knife, adding, “Coffee?”
“Sure.”
“What are you up to?” Nick asks Bear as Eddie serves him a drink.
“Stripping Lucille.”
“The snowcat?”
“She’s a beauty, but she’s got to lose some weight. You wanna help?”
“Sure,” Nick replies, inhaling the last of his omelet and glancing over at Ensign Temuera, who’s doing his best
to remain invisible.
“Thank you. That was awesome,” Nick says, acknowledging Eddie. “Man, you are one helluva cook.”
Eddie’s face lights up with a smile. “Haere rā, my friend.”
Nick has no idea what that means, but he waves goodbye. He’s fascinated by the big man.
Bear leads Nick through the rabbit warren of corridors within the Te Kaha, through a hatch and down a ladder leading to the hangar bay. With each rung, the temperature seems to fall by ten degrees.
Bear hands him a heavy coat and a pair of gloves, saying, “Cold, huh?”
“Like a freezer.”
“This is the maintenance bay for the chopper.” Bear points at the windows on the sliding garage doors at the rear, saying, “The flight deck is out there.”
Floodlights illuminate a helicopter sitting on the pad. Ordinarily, it would be rolled inside the bay to protect it from the weather. Instead, dozens of straps hold it on the deck. They extend from the skids, the tail boom and even the rotors, fixing them in place. Icicles hang from the fuselage. There’s no railing around the flight deck, but there is netting to catch anyone that falls off the edge.
“Once I’ve stripped this baby down, we’ll push her to one side and wheel the chopper back in here.”
“Ah,” Nick says as though he understands.
“Can you hand me that torque wrench?” Bear asks, pointing at a tool kit.
Nick hands it to him, saying, “You’re trying to conserve fuel, right?”
“Yep.”
Bear removes the short ladder leading up to the cab of the snowcat.
“On a long haul like this, shedding weight will improve speed and mileage.”
Nick nods.
“Help me with this guard rail,” Bear says, standing on the flatbed back of the snowcat. “We’ll use straps to hold fuel barrels in place.”
Ensign Temuera stands back, out of earshot.
Nick tries to put on a brave face, but his heart sinks lower.
“What’s the matter?” Bear asks as they start working on the flaring over the rear treads.
Nick lets out a solitary laugh. He’s not sure why but he feels he can trust Bear. Perhaps it’s because they’re both mechanics. Maybe it’s because Bear’s the only person that hasn’t asked anything of him. Bear seems genuine.
Jury Duty (First Contact) Page 8
