Children of Zero

by Andrew Calhoun

  By Friday morning, Diego Garcia was back to its sunny self again. The air was still and oppressively hot. The water was placid and sparkly. The oversized coconut crabs were happily back doing whatever it was that coconut crabs did. And he guessed that a military plane was waiting on one of the aprons to whisk Kettle away from this miniscule dot in the Indian Ocean once and for all.

  He sat in his room with everything tightly packed away except for his laptop. Opening up the email, he carefully and deliberately moved his mouse over the reply section. He then put his fingers purposefully on the keyboard and slowly typed out the message that he had constructed in his head.

  Dear Emma,

  Thank you so much for contacting me. I’m sorry it has taken me so long to respond.

  I would love to meet you one day. I’m working overseas right now, but when I get some holiday time, I’d love to come see you. In the meantime, maybe you could tell me something about yourself. Do you still live in Seattle? What kinds of things are you interested in? I’d really like to hear about your life.

  I’ll be travelling for the next couple of days, but I’ll check my email as soon as I get a chance. No pressure. Answer whenever you feel ready.

  Looking forward to getting to know you.

  Deepest well wishes,

  Merrick

  He stared at the screen for a long time, wishing that he was a better wordsmith. It was a terrible letter, but he couldn’t think of what else to say. Why couldn’t he channel Hemingway or Twain to pour out his feelings in sublimely eloquent prose that subtly tugged at the heartstrings? He re-read his message and shook his head. It was crap. He wanted to delete it and start again, but he forced his hand to move the cursor over the send button. He raised his index finger over the mouse’s left click button, poised like a hammer ready to strike an anvil.

  He clicked it. The little ‘message sent’ confirmation popped up at the top of the screen.

  “Holy shit.” He had reached out to his daughter. He had a daughter! “Holy shit,” he repeated.

  Then he looked at his watch. “Holy shit!”

  Luckily the trip to the Camp Justice air field was a short one. He showed up in time to meet a pock-faced private who looked over Kettle’s papers and ushered him toward a crowd of about twenty guys dressed in military fatigues standing between two maintenance trucks parked at the edge of the apron. The midday sun was high overhead, so the trucks offered little or no shade. As Kettle walked up, he saw they were all sweating profusely.

  He had seen pictures of the military uniform that the British in Diego had used fifty years ago. It consisted of shorts and a safari shirt. That was probably the most appropriate army uniform ever worn on the atoll in its entire history. Full fatigues were torture.

  Just before he reached the group, Kettle pulled up short. At the front edge of the camouflaged men stood Jay and Haley. He nudged his way through, saying sorry and excuse me, right up until he bumped into a man in uniform who didn’t budge. The Marine turned to see who had invaded his personal space. The first thing he must have seen was Kettle’s eye, which was still sporting some color.

  Dallas broke out a dapper smile. “Sorry about the eye, dipshit.”

  “Hi, Dallas.” He didn’t know what else to say.

  “No hard feelings, hey?” He followed that with a laugh.

  Actually, he had plenty of hard feelings, but he wasn’t about to reveal any of them to Dallas. He imagined himself showing up at Andersen Air Force Base with two black eyes.

  “Jay’s up front there with that Chinese chick.”

  “Yeah, I saw. Thanks.” Kettle thought about reminding him that Haley was not in fact Chinese. This time, when his brain quickly told his mouth to shut up, the mouth followed orders. He continued forward, sidestepping through bodies and leaving Dallas smirking.

  “Jay!”

  “Ha!” The Frenchman beamed a big grin. “I was wondering if we were on the same flight.”

  “I thought you were already gone. Why are you still here?”

  “Totally stormed in, man. Wind speeds were too high.”

  “Hi, Kettle,” Haley piped in. She waved her hand in a jilty, awkward movement.

  “Hi.” He looked her over. She was wearing a pair of loose-fitting beige pants and a navy blue tee-shirt with a small logo on the arm that he didn’t recognize. A black North Face backpack was slung over her shoulders, making her look more like a high school student than a scientist. “I didn’t know you were leaving. Are you finished with your research?”

  She shook her head, which made her ponytail shake back and forth over the top of her pack. “Visa problem,” she stated.

  “Visa problem?”

  “Yeah, I don’t know. They say I have to fix problem at embassy. No embassy here, so I go to nearby one.”

  “Where’s that?”

  Jay cut in. “As luck would have it, there’s an embassy in Singapore.” Now it made sense to Kettle. Jay and Dallas were going to Hawaii, and he was going to Guam. They were all booked on a flight to Singapore, and then they’d split up and go their separate ways from there. Haley would fix whatever visa irregularity she was having and then fly back to Diego.

  “Sorry your research got interrupted,” Kettle offered.

  “No, no, no. It’s good chance for shopping trip.” She made a sweeping motion with her arm, pointing in the general direction of the trees and drab buildings around the runway. “No shopping malls here.”

  “Well you’ll definitely like Singapore.” He was going to add more, but he abruptly became aware of the other soldiers around them. They were chattering in hushed voices. That was unusual for young men full of testosterone and bravado. Kettle would have expected more gusto and less reticence.

  Kettle looked at Jay, who had a smug look on his face. “Hey, Frenchman. What’s going on?”

  “Our chariot of mystery,” Jay replied and pointed. A white jetliner was parked on the tarmac. On an island where virtually every single airplane was painted in either Air Force grey or Army green, a white airplane stood out like a Hell’s Angel in church.

  Even stranger were the markings. Or, rather, the absence of markings. Kettle couldn’t make out a corporate logo or any livery. He couldn’t even see the tell-tale identification numbers that were usually visible on the tail section. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it was a new plane that hadn’t been painted for delivery to the owner. It clearly wasn’t new, however. Grimy streaks were visible coming down from the windows as well as at seams where sheets of metal had been riveted together. This plane had seen a lot of flight hours.

  “It’s a Boeing, I think,” Jay submitted. “Maybe a 737.”

  “Ever seen one like that before?”

  “Nope. Heard some stories though.”

  “Like what?”

  “Ever heard of Janet Airlines?”

  Kettle let the name ruminate through his brain for a few seconds. It didn’t ring any bells. “Don’t think so. Where does it fly out of?”

  “Vegas mostly. It’s a government owned airline. Air Force, I think. They have five or six unmarked Boeings that they use to ferry people in and out of Area 51.”

  “Shut up,” Kettle laughed.

  “No, I’m not kidding. It’s a real thing. The government admitted that they ran flights in and out of there. I saw a thing on TV about it. They had to give a bunch of flight attendants top secret security clearance.” He paused for a moment and then pointed back out to the white mystery plane. “But this one here isn’t Janet. It’s something different.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “The Janet planes are white, but they have a big fat red stripe running down the side. Plus they’ve got the black alphanumeric registration. If you see the registration, you can just punch it into Google and a website will pop up telling you who owns the plane.”

  “But this one here doesn’t have that.”

  “Right, which means it’s not Janet.”

  Kettle was get
ting more interested. “Well, it’s here on DG, so it has to be property of the U.S. government, right?”

  “Or the British. Maybe it’s an MI6 plane.”

  “They run unmarked planes?”

  “I didn’t think so, but I’m sure if they were, they wouldn’t be advertising it.”

  A van pulled out into their field of view and headed toward the waiting jetliner. It slowed to a stop a few meters short of the portable stairway that had been shoved up against the airplane. Three men in uniform climbed out. Kettle could see that each of them had a sidearm strapped to his side. A fourth figure clambered out of the truck on the side closest to the airplane and furthest from Kettle’s viewpoint. The three soldiers guided him toward the stairs. As soon as he was clear of the truck, Kettle could see that he was wearing a bright orange jumpsuit that marked him as a prisoner. Shaggy hair flopped over the figure’s shoulders. Kettle thought he could make out dreadlocks, but he wasn’t sure.

  “This just keeps getting stranger,” Jay mumbled.

  The armed soldiers escorted the prisoner up the stairs, two in front and two behind. Once they disappeared inside the plane, the van straight toward Kettle and the others. It took all of twenty seconds for the vehicle to cross the distance. When it stopped sharply, it kicked up a swirl of dust that drifted over Kettle’s shoes. Kettle looked around and immediately thought it odd that the soldiers behind him hadn’t assembled in formation. Instead, they remained standing in an unorganized mass, sweating uncomfortably in the heat. This suggested to Kettle that the situation was far from ordinary.

  Two men got out of the van and faced the group. “Gentlemen,” the taller of the two started. He then noticed Haley. “Ma’am,” he added. The speaker’s face was weathered and grizzled with the beginnings of an unkempt beard splattered over a broad jaw, which contrasted sharply with his shaved head. His blue eyes seemed too big and bulbous for their sockets. This gave him an intensity that was unsettling. Kettle picked out a hint of a southern drawl. So much for the MI6 theory. These guys were Yanks. At least, this one was.

  “I’ve been told that most of you were due to PCS two days ago,” he continued. “Instead of wasting our good government’s money on jet fuel, Uncle Sam is letting you boys hitch a ride on the plane you see behind me.” He tilted his head back and to the side without turning around, indicating the white Boeing. Then he cast his big eyes back on the group.

  “I’m sure you probably noticed that we have a special guest on board. He’ll be sitting in the back of the plane, which is exactly where you won’t be sitting. You will occupy the forward sections. Now for those of you who are bad with directions, there will be an attendant on board to politely remind you of our sitting arrangements. Gentlemen, is that understood?”

  “Sir, yes sir!” the group shouted in unison, all except for Kettle and Haley, who were obviously not used to military discipline.

  “Very well then. This flight will land at Paya Lebar Air Base in Singapore. When the plane lands, the attendant will tell you to disembark. You will do so without delay. Is that understood?”

  “Sir, yes sir!”

  “You will then be directed to the appropriate waiting area, where you will be informed of your connecting flights. You will not hang around waiting to take a peek at our guest. He will not be disembarking. He will be waiting on board while the plane refuels. Is that understood?”

  “Sir, yes sir!”

  Haley raised her hand very tentatively, which was noticed immediately.

  “Miss Yoon, I presume.” When she nodded, the man continued before she could open her mouth to ask a question. “Miss Yoon, you will be taken by jeep to your hotel. They’ll give you instructions regarding your return flight. Is that understood?”

  “Um, yes, ah, sir.” Her voice seemed very small. She lowered her hand back down by her side.

  “Furthermore!” he began again, his voice rising in volume but not in octaves. “I know some of you have phones on you. Your phones and any other electronic devices will be turned off prior to boarding the aircraft. You will hand over these devices to the attendant when you board the plane. There will be absolutely no photographs taken of our guest or of the plane. Is that understood?”

  “Sir, yes sir!”

  “Very well, gentleman.” He swept his arm toward the plane, inviting them to start the march under the blaring sun toward the stairs. “Bon voyage! Thank you for flying the friendly skies!” A few of the soldiers laughed, including Dallas. Most of them, however, were unhinged enough to keep their mouths shut and just start walking.

  Kettle and Haley were first up the steps. When they got to the top, Kettle immediately noticed two things. First, he felt a glorious waft of air conditioning emanating from the open door. Second, he saw a woman, presumably the flight attendant, waiting next to a trolley with a basket on top. She wore a nondescript white blouse and black pants, and her hair was pulled back in a tight bun. Her expression was, well, expressionless. Kettle suspected that she would make a pretty good poker player.

  “Electronic devices go here,” she said flatly. Kettle didn’t have any. He had already packed away his phone and his laptop in his big duffel bag, which was now hopefully being loaded into the bottom of the plane. After indicating that he was deviceless, he followed Haley into the plane.

  There was one central aisle with rows of three seats on either side. He could also see that about half-way back in the plane, curtains were drawn to create a partition. Kettle couldn’t help but think about taking a quick peek. He discarded the thought and followed Haley to a row of seats about two thirds of the way to the partition, roughly over the wings, and sat down beside her. Jay followed soon after, filling the third seat.

  Fifteen minutes later, the plane lifted off the runway and Diego Garcia became a memory.

  1.6 SAELIKO

  Meshaltown was a hive of activity. The Epoch currently had eighty-seven crew members, and nearly all of them were getting crocked in the town and on the beach. Out of habit, a healthy (or unhealthy, depending on one’s point of view) percentage of them spent most of their time at sea drunk on wine and spirits. This actually made some good sense; the Epoch’s stores of fresh drinking water often went foul after about a week, so spirits became the safer (again, depending on one’s point of view) option. As such, this sorry state of affairs might have led one to assume that a day on dry land would be an ideal opportunity to drink lots of fresh water, sober up and see the world through clear eyes for once. This assumption, of course, was wrong.

  Saeliko had left Governess Gaemmil at the docks and was now walking down one of the town’s dusty streets. She headed toward one of Meshaltown’s two drinking houses. A small voice in the back of her head told her that she would be better going back to the ship to catch up on some much needed sleep. But her fatigue was outweighed by successive waves of acrimony, each wave increasing in size. And all of it was directed at Janx.

  “She is weakness disguised as strength,” she growled and then spat. Janx had failed to put the governess in her place and demand the quickspice to be turned over, a failure all the more acute because Janx was Saffisheen. All of the civilized and most of the uncivilized world knew the lethality of the tattooed warrior class. They had heard the stories – the brutal training, the violent missions, the predilection for unleashing horror. They understood that the Saffisheen were women to be feared, not bargained with. So how had greasy Gaemmil managed to talk her way out of trouble?

  The ale house was a scene of comic obscenity. A room built for a couple dozen was now trying unsuccessfully to house three times that number. Bodies overflowed onto the street, where inebriated revelers sat and sang in the dirt. Full bottles and cups were held in hand, empties strewn all over the ground. Wine, whisky, rum, ale, and some sort of local fermented concoction made from stinkgrass and spikefruit; most of it made its way down throats, though some of it inevitably sloshed onto faces and clothing. A few men and women had passed out in the middle of the road. Saeliko spo
tted abrasions on one woman’s cheek and a bloody nose on one of the guys, suggesting that the evening, while still young, had already seen a few scuffles.

  A narrow alleyway ran between the building and its neighbor to a taller structure in the back. In about the time it took to draw a breath, Saeliko discerned that this was Meshaltown’s brothel. The building was two stories high. Come to think of it, the brothel was the only building in the entire town that had a top floor, which said something of the priorities of both the townspeople and the sailors calling into the harbor. And just to erase any shred of doubt about the building’s reason for existence, the Epoch’s qarlden could see a stark naked, chunky woman framed by the upper left window. She was holding onto the sill, screaming out flushed joy while being rammed from behind by a long-haired man wearing a blue tunic and nothing else.

  The sexual binging that took place in port towns like this was exacerbated by one simple fact: sex at sea was forbidden. Sailors, whether they be privateers, sailors in the fleet or outright pirates, lived by this one, unbreakable rule. Punishment for breaching this rule – which was widely dubbed the fuck-not rule – was severe. On the Epoch, offenders lost a hand.

  For the Epoch, the fuck-not rule extended to any and all crewmembers on shore. You could have sex with whoever (or whatever) you wanted while you were on land, just as long as it wasn’t with another crewmember.

  Saeliko pushed and elbowed her way into the ale house, which she noticed from a faded sign above the main entrance was called the Crooked Pig. Despite the tangle of bodies, she found who she was looking for almost immediately. Big, broad shouldered Brenna had her hefty rear parked firmly in one of the few chairs still in an upright position. On her lap sat a girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen years old. Brenna’s hand was placed dangerously high on the girl’s thigh. Both were red in the cheeks from rum and laughing hysterically, although Saeliko could barely hear their riotous guffaws above the roar of the rest of the crowd. She had forgotten that Brenna had a predisposition for young girls.