Jury Duty (First Contact)

by Peter Cawdron

  Eddie still flips omelets—storm be damned. Nick tries not to stare at his facial tattoos. They’re sacred. They speak of a culture beyond anything Nick could ever imagine. The soft green stripes mirror each other, being interlaced on either side of Eddie’s face. The design is organic, almost natural in its styling. It’s as though dozens of silk ribbons have been caught in the wind and rain. They’ve curled over Eddie’s cheeks and forehead, leaving their mark on his skin. Nick is fascinated by Eddie. There’s something regal in the way the cook carries himself.

  Bear continues playing around with Lucille in the equipment bay at the rear of the Te Kaha. The helicopter has been moved inside, so there’s not a lot of room to get around, but Bear doesn’t mind. If anything, life back there is less extreme. The weight of the engines and the design of the frigate is such that the stern is more stable than the bow.

  Nick wakes on the fourth day feeling unsettled. He sits up and hangs his feet over the edge of the bed. Jazz and Dmitri are both still asleep. No motion. He gets up, instinctively reaching for the walls and ceiling, trying to find a rhythm that no longer exists. The Te Kaha sways slightly. The diesel engines hum as the warship plows through the ocean.

  There’s a knock on the door. Nick opens it. Jazz stirs.

  “Commander Simonds requests your presence on the bridge.”

  “Oh. Ah. Sure,” Nick replies, grabbing some trousers and slipping them on. He shoves his feet in a pair of boots and tightens the laces as he steps out into the corridor. The ensign leads him along the now-familiar passageways with their pipes and conduits and takes him up the ladder to the bridge.

  Nick arrives to see a relaxed commander lounging in one of the chairs with a huge grin on her face. At first, he assumes it’s because they’ve ridden out of the storm, but she points behind him, saying, “I thought you might like to see a berg.”

  “Oh, wow,” Nick says, walking over and reaching for the windowsill.

  Jazz arrives on the bridge behind him.

  Stars dot the sky, breaking through the night. Lightning flickers through distant cloud banks low on the horizon. The ocean is choppy, being whipped up by the wind. Whitecaps dance across the waves, but it’s the backdrop that catches his eye. An iceberg rises from the depths. Rugged white cliffs lead up to a plateau easily a hundred feet above the waterline. Chunks of ice fall away from the leading edge, crashing into the sea, sending huge waves across the water.

  The iceberg is easily four times the length of the Te Kaha and twice as tall. Even though they’re hundreds of yards away, it towers over the warship. The water immediately around the base of the iceberg is an iridescent blue, highlighting the iceberg’s sunken base. It’s an ice mountain hidden in the ocean.

  To his delight, a bay opens out on the side of the iceberg. There’s a ledge nestled into the icy crag, curling around to what looks like a pearly white beach. Water laps at the smooth edge, slowly melting the ice.

  Cracks run through the iceberg, threatening to tear it apart, opening huge crevasses in the cliff face.

  The warship glides past.

  “Amazing!”

  “Yeah, quite something, huh?” Commander Simonds says.

  “Where are we?” Jazz asks.

  “We’re in the Weddell Sea, a couple of hundred kilometers off the coast of the Brunt Ice Shelf. We’ve sailed into the lee of Maud Land, so for now, we’re sheltered from the storm. It’s quite late in the season for icebergs. Normally, during winter, they’re much closer to land. They tend to get caught in the growing ice sheet.”

  A helicopter flies in low across the ocean. Its red navigation lights flicker in the darkness. The Sikorsky circles out wide around the warship before approaching the landing pad at the rear of the Te Kaha.

  Commander Simonds says, “We’ve run a couple of recon flights to scout our approach to the coast. There’s a lot of ice out there. Temperature’s dropping fast.”

  “What’s the plan?” Jazz asks as the commander rolls out a map on the navigation desk.

  “The Brits are already in motion,” she says, tapping the map. “They departed Halley a couple of days ago, heading in toward the Shackleton Range. The idea is we’ll fly you as far as we can inland. To maximize our range, the chopper crew will return to Halley rather than the Te Kaha. That’ll give us an additional hundred and fifty kilometers to play with. The crew will winter at Halley. We’ll pick them up in the spring.”

  “And the fuel depots?” Jazz asks.

  “There are three dumps,” she says, tapping the map in three spots. “At the base of Fuji Dome, Argus Dome, and Amundsen-Scott, but Amundsen is off your route. It’s there if you need it, but it would be one helluva detour.”

  “Understood,” Jazz says.

  It’s only then Nick realizes Bear is peering over his shoulder.

  Bear says, “Lucille’s got the coordinates locked in. The challenge is, we’re only going to have the Brits with us as far as Fuji Dome.”

  “They’ll get you through the glacier field and up onto the plateau,” the commander says. “But they’re running smaller cruisers. They don’t have the range of your cat.”

  Jazz nods. “Thank you, commander.”

  “We’ve got about four hours before we reach our closest approach to the coast. My advice—get Eddie to cook you up some grub. That’s going to be the last decent meal you’ll get for a while.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Bear says, slapping Nick on the shoulder. They head back below deck as Jazz continues talking with the commander.

  The Te Kaha is a hive of activity. Sailors rush through the passageways, moving with purpose, pushing through doorways and down ladders.

  Eddie grins as they approach the galley.

  “Brother. You are going to Antarctica. Hot damn!”

  Nick barely knows Eddie, but he loves his unbridled enthusiasm.

  Bear smiles. “We came down here for some more of your world-famous Ōtāhuhu omelets.”

  “Awe, nah,” Eddie says. “You fellas are getting the prime cuts. Commander’s orders.”

  “Nice,” Nick says, squeezing into the bench seat running along the front of the galley, giving him a view of Eddie working his skillets. Eddie has four of them on the burners, cooking up sautéed mushrooms, fried potato scallops, onions, and a rich gravy.

  “How do you like your steak?”

  Nick and Bear reply in unison with, “Medium rare.”

  “Too easy.”

  Eddie uses a pair of tongs to turn roast pumpkin and zucchini over on a hot grill. He bounces between the various dishes, moving like an octopus with eight arms.

  “I am so going to miss this,” Nick says.

  “Oh, you sure are,” Bear replies, laughing. “Just wait till you’re scooping corn beef out of a cold can in the middle of a blizzard. Remember this moment. Remember the smell.”

  Eddie smiles. He lets the steaks rest on a wooden chopping board and cleans up with a cloth.

  “You fellas are going to love this,” he says, dishing up the vegetables onto a couple of plates. He slices the steak into strips, fanning them out on the plates.

  “That,” Nick says as the plate is slid toward him, “is a work of art, my friend.”

  Eddie has a deep, chesty laugh. “He, he, he!”

  Nick and Bear begin eating as Eddie excuses himself. He comes back several minutes later with a small blue box. To Nick’s surprise, a number of the crew have gathered around, blocking access to the galley from both sides.

  As they finish their meal, Eddie speaks with a level of pride and passion Nick has never known.

  “Nicholas James Ferrin. It has been our honor to serve you on board this warship.”

  Nick puts down his cutlery, giving Eddie his undivided attention as the big man continues.

  “Te Kaha means be strong. Down there in Antarctica, you must kia kaha, you must remain strong, for you represent not only America, but all of us. Nga Iwi Taketake o te Ao—all the people of this Earth.

  Eddi
e opens the box, presenting Nick with a Māori war club carved from jade. Unlike a European ax, there’s no head of iron or wooden handle. Instead, the ax unfolds like a wave on the ocean. There’s a knot at the base of the handle. From there, the ax fans out, with most of the weight forming a rolling curve. Nick’s never seen anything like this. To him, it screams of a lost world. The intricate carving suggests the ax is designed for precision blows. The rounded head has a thin edge, but it’s not sharp. It’s not difficult to imagine it cleaving a skull in two. Although this war ax is a miniature replica, it’s still six inches in length. This is something to be worn with pride.

  The inscription inside the box reads:

  Te kaha wahaika mana

  Kia kaha, kia whakahaere

  To be powerful, be in control

  “This is the wahaika,” Eddie says, pointing at the words inside the box. “It is made from pounamu or greenstone. It’s on the coat of arms for the Te Kaha as it represents our mana—our pride, our integrity, and our humility.”

  There’s something regal about the way he speaks. Being American, Nick would pronounce mana like nana, but Eddie says mun-nah with the emphasis on a low, guttural m.

  “Do not be mistaken. The wahaika is a symbol of both war and peace. My great grandfather was from the Ureweras. He would tell me that mana was: Te mūrau a to tini, Te wenerau a to mono, Te manu tīoriori.”

  The crew close ranks, swelling around them, filling all the various areas within the galley, listening intently to Eddie. Nick has made a lot of dumb mistakes in life, but dismissing Eddie as being just a cook is not one of them. Eddie clearly has the respect of the crew. For them, he’s a spiritual leader. There’s no doubt Commander Simonds understood this when she sent Nick down here for breakfast.

  Eddie strikes his chest with his fist as he translates his great grandfather. He hits with such aggression and passion his chest reverberates like a kettle drum.

  “The dread of all, the scorn and envy of thousands is the songbird that dances in the trees!”

  Nick has no idea what that means.

  Eddie removes the ornate club from its plush velvet padding and hangs it around Nick’s neck. The jade is stunning. A thin black cord runs through the handle, forming a necklace.

  “This is mana,” Eddie says. “When my people would go to war, there was no mercy. No surrender. We took no prisoners. All would die. And so we developed the haka—a war dance. It was an alternative to war. A deterrent.

  “The haka was a song. A chant. A threat. The beating of the chest. The flex of muscles. The rush of passion. We would dance with our weapons—the patu, the taiaha, and the wahaika. Such is the dance of the songbird. These displays were a chance to avoid war. Sometimes, the bravest thing is not to fight.”

  Nick nods, swallowing the lump in his throat.

  “When you’re down there,” Eddie says, “don’t forget us. Do not forget why you are there. Do not forget the Te Kaha. Do not forget your mana.”

  “I won’t.”

  Antarctica

  Icebergs dot the sea.

  Spotlights illuminate the flight deck.

  Icicles hang from the railings running along the Te Kaha.

  Bear hangs out of the open side of the Sikorsky helicopter as it hovers above the deck of the frigate, allowing the wind to whip inside the cabin. Nick hunches against the chill. His zipped-up jacket and fur-lined hood struggle to keep his cheeks warm. Jazz is beside him. Being thinner, she feels the cold more. She’s adopted a posture with her legs up on the seat and her arms pulled in close to her body. She barely moves, not wanting to lose heat. Damn, it is cold with the helicopter door open.

  Bear is wearing a harness with a climbing rope anchoring him to the fuselage. He’s stepped down, half out of the chopper, with one boot on the skids. He holds his arm out, signaling for the pilots to drift slightly further forward.

  A steel cable hangs from the underside of the helicopter. Down on the deck of the warship, sailors attach chains to Lucille, leading them from the four corners of the snowcat to a central hook. Over the radio, a sailor talks through the approach.

  “Ten meters out… Slight crosswind… Steady… Down five.”

  Although the frigate is at anchor, vapor billows from its twin chimneys as hot air collides with cold. For Nick, it’s unnerving to be so close to the Te Kaha. The gunmetal grey warship is imposing from the air. Radio masts reach up from the mid-deck. The Sikorsky is below the height of the antenna array and radar domes on the bridge.

  “Albatross, you have four points of contact. You are clear to take the weight.”

  “Copy that, Te Kaha.”

  The pilot eases the Sikorsky higher, gently taking up Lucille’s weight. Sailors use guide ropes to control the motion of the snowcat as it clears the deck.

  “Albatross, the package has fifteen meters separation. You are clear of the Te Kaha.”

  “Copy that. Albatross withdrawing.”

  The helicopter drifts backward, giving the crew time to release the guide ropes as the stern of the warship comes into view. Bear closes the side door.

  “God speed, Albatross.”

  With that, the helicopter rises, pulling out to one side of the frigate as it gains altitude. Crew members line the bow of the warship, watching as the helicopter passes at a distance of several hundred meters.

  Moonlight reflects off the water. Icebergs drift in packs. Looking down on them from above, they go from pure white to iridescent blue beneath the sea. In the distance, sheer walls of ice stretch along the horizon. Clouds hide the distant mountains, revealing only their rocky slopes.

  “We got lucky,” Jazz says, talking over the radio.

  “How so?” Nick asks, pushing his hood back and adjusting his headset so it sits directly over his ears.

  “The weather is being kind. We’ve got cloud cover down to four thousand meters, but that’ll let us get at least a couple of hundred kilometers inland.”

  Even though Antarctica is shrouded in perpetual darkness for the next three months, the ice is crisp, clean, and bright. Nick sits by one of the windows, staring out into the night, watching as they cross the coastline.

  Glaciers pass beneath the helicopter. Occasionally, rocky outcrops are visible, breaking through the snow, but for the most part, there’s nothing beyond the white ice. There’s no sign of life anywhere. Jazz wasn’t kidding when she said it was like being on another planet.

  There’s talking over the radio, but Nick blocks it out. The sheer size of Antarctica is daunting. Nick’s aware he’s only seeing a small portion near the coast.

  After almost two hours, Jazz taps him on the shoulder, pointing in the distance. A faint blue strobe light blinks on the horizon.

  “That’s the Brits.”

  The helicopter descends, talking to the ground team as it circles a makeshift camp on the ice. Tents lie half-buried in the snow beside two orange snowcats. Their spotlights are on, illuminating the darkness, providing the pilot visibility as he approaches. Out on the fringes, dark shadows move, reaching for guide ropes flicking in the wind. The helicopter sways as it brings Lucille in. Once the US snowcat is safely on the ground and the chains are released, a winch activates, withdrawing the cable.

  The Sikorsky swings around, turning on its own spotlights, and lands on the other side of the makeshift British base. The side door opens. Jazz jumps out into the blizzard being kicked up by the rotor blades. Dmitri hands their packs and supplies to Bear, who passes them on to Jazz. She casts them to one side on the frozen plateau. It’s time to disembark.

  Dmitri gestures for Nick to go first. Bear helps him down onto the skids of the helicopter. This is it. With a single step, he’s passing from one world into the next, leaving civilization behind. Jazz takes his gloved hand and guides him away as the others jump down.

  Within seconds, the navigation lights on the underbelly of the helicopter disappear into the gloom. The thump of the rotors is replaced by the howl of the wind whipping across the
desolate plain. Nick feels abandoned.

  Soldiers run in, grabbing their packs and carrying them over to Lucille. Bear is already standing on the tracks of the vehicle, checking something in the engine bay. Another snowcat pulls alongside, dragging a sleigh with barrels of diesel stacked on the rear deck. Bear yells above the growing storm and attaches a pump, filling the empty tanks on Lucille. Dmitri climbs in the cab. He stacks the backpacks at the rear as Jazz gets on the radio. Nick is numb, but not from the cold.

  “You okay?” Jazz asks as he climbs in the back of the snowcat.

  “Yeah, good.”

  Liar.

  Jazz knows but doesn’t care. Dmitri overhears what’s said, but he continues busying himself, packing away goods on the shelves at the rear of the cabin. Caring is a luxury item not found in Antarctica.

  Lucille has two rows of bench seats rather than individual seats. Behind the seats, there’s a mattress and the storage area. For now, backpacks clog the gap.

  Bear climbs in the driver’s side, stepping up from the front treads. He slams the door and starts the engine. Lucille springs to life. Snowflakes are caught in her headlights. The British team pack up their tents, leaving chaotic boot prints in the snow. The lead British snowcat pulls out in front of them, with the other following behind them.

  “Okay,” Bear says. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  “What about crevasses?” Dmitri asks. “Are we going to have to make any crossings?”

  “Are you worried about falling through the ice?” Bear asks. “We cheated and flew over most of the crevasses. They tend to be close to the coast, where the glaciers start to break up. The one saving grace of a winter crossing is anything that opened up on the plateau last summer will be buried by now.”

  “Good to know.”

  Nick leans over from the back seat, poking his head between Bear and Jazz. “Looks pretty bleak out there.”

  “It is,” Bear replies, “but we’ve got ground radar and GPS. We’ll be fine.”

  Jazz has a map out. She draws lines with a grease pencil, marking their position and heading using an old-fashioned compass. She writes in the margin, noting the time, direction, and estimated speed of the snowcat.