3zekiel (First Contact)

by Peter Cawdron

  Pretzel doesn’t look impressed, but I’m glad Garcia called the lieutenant over as with my dad in Ubandi I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t go wandering around the jungle. Garcia explains the situation to Jackson, outlining the plan.

  Lieutenant Jackson confronts Pretzel.

  “You really shouldn’t be going out there. Can’t someone else do this? You’re just planting monitors, right? I could send out a few soldiers with instructions.”

  “No, no, no,” Pretzel replies, shaking his head. “We need to get an accurate baseline. Placement is important.”

  “But why you? We need you here in case questions arise regarding First Contact protocols. What if CentCom calls for you?”

  “We’ll have a radio on us out there, which is no different to being here and talking to them over any other radio.”

  Lieutenant Jackson rubs the stubble on his chin, thinking deeply. Even though he doesn’t agree with Pretzel, it’s obvious the lieutenant is trying to be accommodating. He could be hard-nosed about this. My father would be, but not Jackson, which tells me something about his motives. Pretzel might still harbor some animosity over whatever happened in the Himalayas, but the lieutenant has put that behind him. He’s trying hard to be fair and balanced. For all Pretzel’s brilliance, that seems lost on him. I wish Pretzel could see that rather than thinking the lieutenant is being difficult.

  “I don’t know about this,” Jackson says, and I can see he’s trying to balance being in operational command with deference to Pretzel as head of the scientific team.

  “These guys don’t need me looking over their shoulders,” Pretzel replies, pointing at the scientists working on their equipment. “Besides, out there, I’ll have a bit of time to think laterally.”

  “I really, really don’t like this.”

  From the way the lieutenant shakes his head, I get the feeling he’d feel much more comfortable issuing orders that must be followed. Rational discussions aren’t his forte, and Pretzel seems to have another agenda. I’m not sure why he wants to get out of camp, but he’s intent on going into the jungle. It’s probably the novelty factor.

  “We’ll be fine. We’ve got local guides. We’re following established trails.”

  “And you want to take the boy out there?” Jackson asks.

  I’m incensed. I’m not a boy. I’m a teenager, a young man. The look on my face must be telling as it doesn’t go unnoticed by either of them.

  Pretzel says, “Not him. Them. The two of them. They’ve both lived here for years. They know the lay of the land so we won’t get lost.”

  I appreciate the way Pretzel’s included Jana, but I don’t think it makes much difference to Lieutenant Jackson.

  “Aren’t there any other villagers that could take you out there?”

  “It’s close,” Pretzel counters, ignoring his question. “A couple of miles, no more. An easy stroll on tracks these guys use all the time.”

  “And this is genuinely important, right? This isn’t some—”

  “—it’s not the Himalayas.”

  I’m not sure what happened between Pretzel and Jackson in Nepal, but I’d love to find out.

  Pretzel reasons with the lieutenant, gesturing with his hands toward the jungle. “They know of a cave that’ll allow us to measure the microbial impact on the water table. That’s a Priority One target for us as it will allow us to monitor any contamination seeping out of the contact zone and into subsurface aquifers.”

  To his credit, the lieutenant is professional, weighing the merits against the risk.

  He says, “Command estimates touchdown at four hundred hours tomorrow morning. I’ve got a truck coming in from Kisangani, turning around at sixteen hundred this afternoon. That gives us a buffer of twelve hours prior to contact.” He points at us. “I want those two on that truck this afternoon. Is that understood?”

  “Understood.” Pretzel has a smile on his face a mile wide.

  “And if you’re not back by fifteen hundred, I’ll take a team of SEALs out there and hunt you down myself.”

  Pretzel laughs. “Agreed.”

  “Garcia. You’re with them. Stay in radio contact. I want reports on the hour. Any issues, you contact AWACS and report your location and operational status immediately. Understood?”

  “Affirmative.”

  Lady

  Pretzel and Angela load equipment into a bunch of backpacks while Garcia unfolds a map, laying it out on a rock and positioning it using a compass.

  “Can either of you point out the caves on this map?”

  Jana and I both squint, looking at the squiggly lines marking the topography and various nearby rivers, trying to imagine we’re hundreds of feet in the air, peering down on the jungle.

  Jana taps the map, lost in thought.

  I run my finger along a stream.

  “Is this Angawai? Over by Raka’s hut?”

  She shakes her head, pointing to one side. “Nah, I think that’s over there. The map looks wrong.”

  “It could well be,” Garcia says. “It’s the best we could find, but it’s at least twenty years old.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jana says. “We won’t get lost.”

  I add, “Promise.”

  “Oh, I know we won’t.” Garcia grins. He knows something. He’s thinking about what he should and shouldn’t tell us, which I find peculiar. His lips shift to one side as he ponders what to say next. I tilt my head slightly, on the verge of asking him what’s so amusing. His eyes light up at my curiosity. “Hold your hand up—high as you can—with three fingers spread wide.”

  Jana looks at me with a furrowed brow. I’ll play along. I have no problem looking a little stupid. Garcia grabs a radio the size of a shoebox and unfolds a floppy antenna, holding the headset up to the side of his face.

  “Overlord. This is Sierra Charlie Six. Coms check. Confirm visibility. Over.” He cranks up the volume, holding the radio so we can hear the reply.

  “Sierra Charlie. Overlord. Isolating imagery... Tracking your location... Confirm. We have acquisition… We make… three. Over.”

  Jana and I look at each other in surprise. I switch to four fingers.

  The reply comes with a chuckle. “Correction. Someone’s playing games down there. We’ve got four. Repeat four. Over.”

  “Copy that, Overlord. Sierra Charlie Six out.”

  “Y’all have a good day down there. Overlord out.”

  I drop my hand, turning, looking out at the clear blue sky. Like me, Jana is scanning the heavens, no longer looking for aliens. Out beyond the tree tops, distant wisps of cloud drift lazily through the sky, but no planes.

  “You won’t see them,” Garcia says, “but they’re out there. The eyes of the world are on this tiny village. Nothing is happening down here without everyone knowing about it, so don’t scratch your ass.”

  “Hah.”

  Jana’s still looking for Overlord.

  Garcia picks up his pack, stuffing the radio inside. “Overlord is one of three US AWACS aircraft circling anywhere from a hundred to two hundred miles out. They’re coordinating a combat air patrol of F22 Raptors and a bunch of Predator drones, just in case.”

  I smile, wondering if Overlord can see me grinning, and yet in the rush of the moment, in the back of my mind, Angela’s warning leaves me feeling somewhat unsettled—forget about Hollywood. I think she’s right. If a bunch of aliens can sail a bazillion miles through space, lasso an asteroid and build an elevator longer than Earth itself, they’re not going to be stopped by a couple of fighter craft. I keep that thought to myself, wondering if the Navy SEALs are overconfident. I help Pretzel as he adjusts the backpack slung over his shoulders, wondering about the eyes on our small village—human and otherwise.

  “Okay, everyone set?” Already sweat’s running down the side of his cheeks.

  Pretzel hands Jana a tablet computer.

  “Would you like to be our scribe?”

  “Sure.”

  “Simply mark down the
number of each unit as we place them and the computer will automatically geo tag them.”

  “Okay.”

  The rubber casing around the tablet is ridiculously thick. If it was dropped from a plane, I suspect it would bounce without breaking.

  “Let’s roll.” Garcia grabs his rifle. Angela brings up the rear.

  As we make our way through the village, Pretzel hunches forward, keeping the weight of his pack over his legs.

  “We could carry something,” I say, gesturing to Jana and myself.

  “What? And put me out of a job?” Pretzel laughs, but he and Angela are both in their sixties, at least. Pretzel hides his age well, more so than Angela, so I suspect he’s older again, probably in his seventies. Flecks of grey hair and deep wrinkles betray the march of time. “Keep your eyes on the counter marking our distance from base camp. We need to put down monitors every 200 meters or so.”

  Jana touches the screen and among the various details there’s a GPS map revealing our distance from the datum point sprayed on the boulder in the center of the village. Raka’s hut is 48 meters from there. At 60 meters we’re crossing the wooden bridge, following a muddy road with deep ruts. Flies buzz around us.

  “I’m liking this mud,” Pretzel says, sliding slightly as he steps over exposed tree roots.

  “Me too,” Angela replies. “Microbial paradise.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Angela swings her pack down, leans it against a tree and pulls out a couple of sensors, flicking them on. She hands me one, pushing the other against the base of a tree, facing out across the road. “Can you put that one in the river? Just below the surface, facing into the stream?”

  “Sure.”

  Who knew science could be so much fun?

  “You’ll need to extend the antenna so it’s above the waterline.”

  “Okay.” I’m loving this. I jog down the bank, half-sliding in the long grass. Muddy water swirls around my legs. Startled fish dart into the shadows, flicking their tails and stirring the silt. I reach into the murky depths, watching as the glowing red LED disappears. The antenna unfolds to become quite rigid. It’s extendable, reaching up almost two feet in height. I push the spike on the base of the probe into the mud and rocks, leaving about half of the metal antenna rising above the surface.

  “Looking good.” Angela is leaning on the bridge next to Jana, showing her how to enter information into the tablet. “Coming through loud and clear.” She turns to Pretzel, who’s shed his back pack, leaning it against the railing.

  Pretzel says, “They’ll work well this close to base camp, but we’re going to need repeaters once we get deeper into the jungle.”

  “I’ve only got four booster stations,” Angela says, focusing intently on the data streaming in from the first few probes.

  “That’ll have to do.”

  I climb back up the bank. Angela goes to pick up her pack, but Jana beats her to it. I like her style, so I grab Pretzel’s, hoisting it over my shoulder. Both scientists are polite, thanking us. Garcia winks at me. This is the best day ever.

  Jana takes the lead, with Garcia and Angela following, while Pretzel and I bring up the rear. It’s roughly 10am and the sun is beating down on the jungle. Thin strands of light pierce the occasional gap in the canopy, forming sunbeams in the humid air, lighting up ferns and tree trunks. Sweat drips from me like rain, soaking my clothes, but I don’t mind.

  Dead leaves and broken twigs crunch beneath my boots. Vines creep around massive tree trunks, slowly strangling these giants of the jungle. Occasionally, sunlight floods through a hole in the canopy where one of these Goliaths has fallen, flattening the undergrowth. Monkeys call out from the shadows, excited by our approach, warning each other even though we pose no threat. Insects swarm over the moldy leaves and rotten bark scattered across the ground. The smell of decay hangs in the air, but not from any carcass. Dead animals are stripped to the bone within a matter of days by the ants, so as pungent as the smell is, it’s never putrid, more like that of compost.

  Pretzel pushes a probe deep into the rich, dark soil. Immediately, ants scurry over the box, claiming their prize, checking it for food.

  Garcia has a machete. He swings with a steady rhythm, hacking at branches hanging over the path, which is a bit of novelty for Jana and I as we wouldn’t bother. We’re accustom to darting and weaving through the foliage, being able to spot the dark outline of a leech hanging from the underside of a leaf and avoid the slimy parasite. There’s something about their distinct shape that allows us to pick them out of the chaos, but Garcia’s got energy to burn—at least for now.

  Like most paths through the jungle, we’re following an animal trail—humans by day, warthogs, chimps and leopards by night, hence the branches hanging over the narrow track. It’s only humans that are bothered by leaves.

  “What do you make of all this, Josh?”

  I’m taken back a little by Pretzel’s question. I don’t think he means the probes we’re laying down every couple of hundred meters. He’s talking about the aliens.

  “Me?” I’m not sure why he’s interested in my opinion. I’m no one.

  “Yes. You.”

  I’m curious. “Why ask me?”

  Funny, but from my perspective, that’s the more pertinent question. Garcia, Angela and Pretzel quite literally dropped from the sky. They’re scientists, soldiers, engineers. They’ve been working toward this day for decades. As for me? The lieutenant was right back in the village. I’m a kid. Son of a wayward preacher. At best, I’m just part of the crowd.

  “Oh, you’re important. Never doubt that.” Seems Pretzel is pretty good at reading minds.

  “I don’t follow,” I say, slipping slightly in the mud. The animal trail narrows to barely a few inches as it rounds the side of a hill, slowly descending toward the caves. I grab a sapling, keeping my balance.

  “People get importance all wrong. Celebrities. Movie stars. Singers. Princes and prime ministers. They’re important, right? Wrong. They’re entertainers, politicians, that’s all. They’re individuals—just like you and me. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  “Ah, but scientists, professors, doctors—surely they’re important. Nope, they’re individuals too. You see, none of this has any value if we aren’t all equally important.”

  Pretzel slips on the same muddy rocks I did, grabbing at the same loose sapling. I bend under a vine, feeling leaves brush against my shoulder as he continues.

  “Point is, what we’re doing out here in the jungle is meaningless if it’s not for everyone—from the President of the United States all the way down to some beggar on the streets of Mumbai. And you—you’re as important as any of them… so what do you think about our alien visitors?”

  I’m not sure what to say. I’m just a teen.

  As we’re talking, we’ve fallen behind the others, lagging back easily forty feet, but they haven’t noticed and Pretzel doesn’t mind. I get the impression we could we wading through three feet of pristine snow or walking along a sandy beach in Hawaii and Pretzel would still be asking me the same question.

  “Me? I think it’s pretty cool—we’re not alone—there’s life elsewhere out there in the universe. That’s kinda exciting.”

  Pretzel nods. Sweat drips from his forehead, but he’s oblivious. His dark eyes are kind, while his frail, aging hands seem to me like those of an artist. His fingers have the precision and elegance of a musician. Even the slightest motion portrays harmony, as though he were conducting an orchestra or crafting a marble sculpture with the utmost care. Pretzel moves a vine to one side with the grace of a surgeon caring for a patient.

  “We’re intrinsically social,” he says. “All animals are. Hundreds of millions of years of evolutionary selective pressure has taught us to cooperate, so we seek out a connection with others.”

  My mind is suddenly electrified by the concept. “You think that’s why they’re here? Because they’re social? Because they want to connect with us?”

>   He smiles and from behind pearly white teeth, says, “It’s a possibility.”

  My dad wouldn’t be comfortable with all the talk about evolution and social ties. For him, if an idea can’t be expressed in terms of thee and ye, thou and shalt, it’s not worth considering. I can’t bring myself to tell Pretzel that my dad thinks the world is barely six thousand years old. Even among Catholics, his views are outmoded, but my dad has always held to a literal interpretation of the Bible. I love my dad, but the pressure to believe him at every step makes me feel uncomfortable.

  Pretzel seems to sense reluctance on my part, but he’s not sure why.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  I nod. He thinks I’m worried about the aliens. Oh, they’re the last of my concerns. If anything, they’ve brought some welcome relief.

  The track widens as we descend a gentle slope covered in thin trees. Jana waves at me through the undergrowth. She, Angela and Garcia have stopped, dropping their packs beside a clearing. Long grass reaches up to waist height. They crouch, hiding by the edge of the trail.

  “What’s going on?” Pretzel asks.

  “Oh, I think they’ve found Lady.”

  “Lady?”

  “Come on,” I say, creeping forward, careful not to step on any twigs, slowly lowering my profile as we approach the break in the jungle canopy. Sunlight streams in through the opening. I slip my backpack to the ground and point. Pretzel follows my gaze. Tall weeds sway, but not with the wind. Dark shapes frolic in the green grass. Bits of fur are visible through the undergrowth.

  Pretzel whispers the obvious. “Gorillas.” To be fair, after four years, they still fascinate me. First timers always get a bit giddy. There’s something magical about seeing apes in the wild. There are tens of thousands of different species of birds and lizards and butterflies, but when it comes to humans, there’s just us—or so we think—until we meet chimps and gorillas. Suddenly, the distance between us and all the other animals on Earth becomes that much smaller. I’d never say as much to my dad, but I don’t think they’re just another animal. They’re special. It’s their eyes. Intelligence gleams from behind their dark pupils. I think they’re much closer to us than I’d ever admit to him.