Jury Duty (First Contact) Page 4

  “Do you want to see it?”

  A rush of adrenaline beats him to saying, “Yes,” although it seems Jazz has something other than an alien spacecraft in mind. Nick was expecting photographs or video footage, but she leads him to one side and pulls on a cover, exposing a window. Outside, the light is blinding. The sky is a brilliant blue, almost iridescent, without any clouds. Whitecaps dot the waves. Given their altitude, those are some big ass waves. A mountain range dominates the horizon. Tall, bleak, dead stone peaks rise from the ocean. Their slopes are covered in snow and ice. There’s no green anywhere, not even down close to the coast.

  “See that, the thick column of ice in the valley? That glacier has endured for twenty million years. It’s got individual ice crystals as large as baseballs.”

  Up until now, Jazz has been all business. Nick is surprised by her excitement. Looking out at the mountains, she seems genuinely warm. For a moment, the bitter cold is gone. Sunlight reflects off the dark waters.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Jazz asks.

  “But that’s not Antarctica, right?” Nick replies, unsure where they are.

  “Oh, no,” Jazz says. “South Georgia is just a baby. Wait until you see Antarctica. It’s a sight you’ll never forget. Imagine the entire continental US, reaching from New York City to LA, from Florida to Washington State—all of it buried under miles of ice.”

  “We’re coming in for landing,” one of the aircrew says. They return to their seats as the plane banks.

  “So there’s like an airport down there somewhere?” Nick asks, sneaking one last look out of the window.

  Jazz says, “I wouldn’t call it that. The Brits built a runway just north of the Norwegian village of Husvik to assist in defense of the Falklands. It’s set between the mountains in a broad, flat riverbed that was once buried under a glacier. This time of year, the runway is mostly clear of ice. Strap in tight. The landing might get a little bumpy.”

  “And from here,” Nick asks, “the next stop is Antarctica, huh?”

  “Oh, yeah. You’re getting the express pizza delivery service.”

  “But not via Hawaii?”

  “Hawaii might sound nice,” Jazz says, trying to make light of the insanity of his situation. “But it would have been torture. It would have been just like Puerto Rico. They would have kept you sitting on the side of the runway in the sweltering heat and humidity while we refueled. Normally, we’d wait here, but I suspect they want to get you down there before winter sets in. We’ll know for sure as soon as our orders are cut.”

  They.

  This is the first time there’s been any mention of the decision-makers behind all this madness. Mobilizing military assets on this scale is not trivial. At a guess, it’s some politician somewhere. Soldiers follow rather than give orders. Jazz and Dmitri are blunt instruments. Their role is to obey. Someone else is doing the thinking, running through scenarios and coming up with ideas.

  Nick wants to ask Jazz, Why me? But he understands the game. There are answers and then there are reasons. The two concepts are entirely separate and distinct. Dmitri has already answered his questions, but he hasn’t provided any reasons. He’s told him the party line. He’s told him what they want him to believe while avoiding any actual reasoning. Fuck. Nick is screwed. He’s so totally screwed. He may be a dumbass, second-rate mechanic from South Carolina, but he’s seen enough movies to know when a patsy is being set up for a fall. It’s the distance between vague answers and actual reasons that’s the giveaway. This journey isn’t going to have a fairytale ending.

  The C-5 Galaxy banks, beginning its approach.

  From where he’s seated, Nick can stare out the far window on the other side of the aircraft. He watches as the frozen landscape comes into view. Jagged cliffs drift past. Snow-covered hills stretch along the distant shore. Fresh rock falls lie scattered across the ice.

  For the longest time, it seems as though the aircraft isn’t going to touch down. Nick expects to feel the bump of wheels against the runway, but the plane continues to descend. The engines whine as though they’re in pain. Outside, the crags and cliffs appear stupidly close, rushing past the window. Turbulence buffets the gigantic military cargo plane, pushing it around like a toy. To his horror, Nick feels the fuselage skew sideways. The Galaxy is flying in one direction while pointing on a slightly different heading, off to the side. A few of the veterans hold onto straps hanging from the bulkhead as though they’re expecting to be thrown around. Nick reaches up, copying them. White knuckles grip at the webbing, swaying as gale-force winds rattle the aircraft.

  Jazz has a pair of military headphones clamped over her ears. She’s listening to whatever conversations are taking place in the cockpit. With deft calmness, she says, “One hundred meters.” Her voice is barely audible over the roar of the engines. “Fifty… Twenty...”

  Nick is expecting her to say, Ten, when the plane hits with a thud, sending a shudder through his body. This isn’t Puerto Rico. The engines are frantically thrown into reverse, shaking the superstructure of the aircraft. Four turbofan engines scream in agony. To Nick, it feels as though the Galaxy has landed on some rough field covered in rocks. He grits his teeth, expecting the plane to crash into the hillside. Sharp vibrations rock the fuselage. Outside, boulders the size of houses rush past the wings. Snow and ice cling to the lifeless rock. The pitch of the engines as akin to a banshee howling in a storm.

  Slowly, the plane comes to a halt before turning and facing back the way it came. The Galaxy taxis for a few feet before coming to a halt.

  “There. That wasn’t so bad,” Jazz says, and it takes him a moment to realize she’s entirely serious.

  “An equal number of take-offs and landings,” Dmitri says, looking distinctly pale. “That’s all I ever ask for.”

  The front of the aircraft cracks open, rising slowly under massive hydraulic pistons. Light floods the cargo hold. Within seconds, the temperature inside the aircraft plummets fifty degrees. Goosebumps break out on Nick’s arms. Instantly, his breath leaves a trail of vapor in front of him, drifting in the air like a fog.

  “Oh, damn.”

  “Feels good, doesn’t it,” Jazz says, zipping up her jacket.

  Nick is regretting not having his jumpsuit on properly. He struggles with the sleeves, working the thick material up over his shoulders, already shivering as a stiff breeze curls within the cargo hold.

  “How cold is it out there?” he asks, feeling the frozen air chilling his cheeks.

  “In Celsius or Fahrenheit?”

  “In real temperatures,” Nick says with his teeth already chattering.

  “Oh, this is nothing. At a guess, it’s hovering around freezing, perhaps a little below,” Jazz says. “Wait till you get hit by the wind.”

  “Why does it feel so damn cold?” Nick asks.

  The snow in Charleston is rarely more than an icy sludge in the gutter. Nick’s been skiing up at Beech Mountain. He loves being out in the woods in winter. The term skiing, though, overstates his experience. Nick spent most of his time wobbling on shaky legs and falling on his ass.

  Jazz hands him a lined winter hat, a scarf and some gloves, saying, “Put these on. The South Atlantic cold always hits newcomers hard. I think it’s the moisture. We’re at sea level, so it’s a wet cold. It gets into the bones.”

  “Damn,” Nick says, slapping his hands together and trying to get some warmth into his fingers as he flexes them within his gloves.

  “Oh, you are going to love Antarctica. It’s like being on another world.”

  He follows her down the ramp as soldiers begin unloading supplies from the hold. A diesel tractor pulls the helicopter out of the plane.

  As they walk into the sunlight on the edge of the runway, Nick turns to Dmitri, echoing his comment in Puerto Rico. “Where’s the sun?”

  Dmitri just laughs.

  Clouds drift in front of the sun, casting a shadow over the team. The temperature drops again. The blue skies Nick saw
while on approach are gone. Dark clouds curl over the mountains.

  Jazz says, “Let’s get you to the quartermaster and get you properly kitted out.”

  They climb up on the icy treads of a snowcat and clamber into the high-set cabin. Dmitri wraps a fluffy arctic jacket around himself. Nick’s expecting the interior to be heated, but the seats are icy cold while the air is frigid. The view, though, is breathtaking.

  The runway has been built from ground-down, compressed rock. Ice has formed in patches. Wind blows snow flurries across the ground. To either side, the narrow valley opens out into towering mountains covered in brilliant white snow.

  Ice glistens like turquoise as the sun breaks through the clouds for a moment. Dark patches of granite line the hillside, being too steep for snow to settle. In the distance, calm waters open out into a sheltered bay. The sea is as smooth as glass. A handful of icebergs dot the ocean, rising just above the water, serene and sure. The sun sits low in the sky. Light glistens off the bay.

  After a fifteen-minute drive, they approach a collection of huts half-buried in snow and ice. Radio masts rise above the roofs, each one being supported by half a dozen guide wires securing them against Atlantic storms. Steel barrels sit up against the side of the motor pool. A variety of decrepit snowmobiles, plows and tractors have been arranged in various states of repair, or disrepair, depending on perspective. The shell of a burnt-out snowcat sits raised on a steel frame acting as a jack, having been stripped of its treads and most of its parts. Several of the windows have been removed. Mounds of snow have piled up on what’s left of the seats. Icicles hang from beneath the engine bay along with unplugged wires.

  The quartermaster’s hut is next to the frozen motor pool. Although the temperature is below zero, there’s little to no wind in the sheltered bay. With the sun streaming into the courtyard, it feels pleasant outside. It’s crisp but not unbearable. The quartermaster has propped open the long side-panel on his hut, letting the sunlight in. He chats with Jazz as he puts together Nick’s survival kit.

  Nick is issued a breathable waterproof jacket that has plenty of padding. The jacket has a thick fleece lining built into the hood. Nick’s also given several sets of quick-dry thermal underwear and woolen socks, snow goggles, over-trousers to help with thermal insulation and reduce the amount of wind that can reach his legs, a pair of over-gloves, a backpack, a set of ski poles to assist with hiking, but much to his disappointment, no skis, not that he’d do anything other than hurt himself with them.

  Jazz leads him inside the base and through the maze of interconnecting walkways to the dormitory to show him his bunk.

  Privacy isn’t a big concern on South Georgia. Ten bunks have been built out of wood, covering three and a half of the four walls within the room. The corners are being used as shelves for storage.

  “You’ll sleep here, right below me. Lunch is in ten minutes so freshen up.”

  “Lunch?” Nick asks, expecting breakfast.

  Jazz checks her watch. “It’s a little before two. Sunset is at four. We’re going to have to hustle to get your first lesson in before dark.”

  “Lesson?” Nick says as Dmitri throws a pack on an empty bunk at the end of the row.

  “On how to survive in Antarctica,” she says. “I don’t know how long they’re going to keep you here before moving on, so I’ve got to get you prepped. Could be hours. Days. Months. A year. Who knows? It depends on what happens to Smith and how nervous they are at the Pentagon.”

  “Smith’s the other juror?” Nick asks, not sure which point he should challenge. A year. An entire fucking year stuck on South Georgia? Awaiting something that may never happen? From the tone of her voice, even that sounds optimistic. Then there’s the whole survival thing. Just how bad is it going to be down there? Nick thought he’d be stuck in a nice warm hut. He has no desire to go out on the ice. And who the hell is Smith? Nick stumbles through the phrase, “The guy I’m replacing?”

  “Chad Smith. The juror you might replace.”

  “If no decision has been made, why am I here?” Nick asks, looking in his newly acquired personal grooming kit at a very basic single-blade razor and a Bakelite toothbrush that appears to have been magically transported from the 1950s. Nick has scrubbed toilets with brushes that had softer bristles than this monstrosity. He tosses it back into the case, unsure what to think.

  Jazz is blunt.

  “Down there, nothing stops. If we lose a juror, they keep making decisions without him—leaving only one American representative. We can’t let that happen. Everything hinges on whether Smith makes a recovery.”

  “What happened to him?” Nick asks, noting Jazz didn’t use the term full recovery. The omission of that one word seems deliberate. Her attitude leaves him unsettled. Nick’s aware he’s on the verge of the unknown in more ways than one.

  Dmitri and Jazz exchange a quick glance before she says, “You need to focus on here and now.”

  Nick goes to say something, but she cuts him off. “Ten minutes. Mess hall. Don’t be late.”

  Dmitri rolls out a sleeping bag and climbs on his bunk with his boots still on. He flicks through a book, but he’s not focused. He’s not reading anything.

  As there’s no one else around, Nick says, “It’s no bed of roses down there in Antarctica, is it?”

  “It’s important,” is all Dmitri offers in reply.

  “And dangerous.”

  “Crossing a street is dangerous,” Dmitri says. “People forget that.”

  Nick nods, half-heartedly agreeing, mostly disagreeing but unable to muster a counterpoint. He tosses his kit bag on the bunk and wanders off to the communal bathroom before lunch.

  As he’s late getting to the mess hall, half of the tables are already occupied. Most of the men on the station have full beards, although that’s probably for practical reasons rather than aesthetics, allowing them to stay warm without a scarf. Nick can’t help wonder, though, if none of them want to risk cutting their own throats with the “safety” razors issued by the quartermaster. If they were that safe, they’d still be popular, but Nick’s only ever seen these chrome T-shaped relics on display in a barber shop window. They’re better than the old switchblades, but he prefers his electric razor.

  Lunch is cold baked potatoes topped with cold bacon, sour cream and grated cheese, a stupidly thick slice of black bread, and a stick of butter that’s easily three to four inches long. Nick sits down next to Dmitri, opposite Jazz on a solid wooden bench, and places his tray on the table in front of him.

  “Looks delicious,” he says. Dmitri turns to him with a quizzical look on his face, apparently unsure whether that’s a lie or a lame-ass joke. Jazz doesn’t bite. Right about now, prison food is looking decidedly inviting to Nick.

  “Eat up. We’ve only got a few hours of daylight.”

  Nick spreads a little butter on his bread, but the butter’s cold and the bread’s stale.

  “You need to eat all of that,” Jazz says, and for a moment, he thinks she’s kidding. The dull look in her eyes suggests otherwise. As he takes a second bite, watching the motion of her fork pointing at his plate, he realizes she’s not talking about the bread. She’s gesturing at the butter. “Every last bit.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” he asks, looking to Dmitri for support, but Dmitri’s grinning. He’s on the verge of laughing. It seems he knows what’s coming next.

  “Out here, your number one concern is warmth,” Jazz says. “And the most basic way to stay warm on the ice is by burning calories. You need a lot of them. At least six thousand calories a day.”

  Nick stares at the barely touched stick of butter as Jazz continues.

  “The only way your body can absorb that many calories is by consuming high-energy foods. We set meals based on calorie-density. You might have shied away from donuts and greasy food back home, but not here. Out on the ice, you’ll use every last calorie, I promise. If anything, you’ll lose weight, not gain it.”

  Nick
works the butter into his cold potato, determined not to eat raw butter on its own. Jazz provides a breakdown of their afternoon.

  “We’ll cover the basics today. There’s a nice four-mile hike along the shore that curls up to the ridge that’ll give me the opportunity to demonstrate some basic survival techniques.”

  “Four miles?” Nick says in alarm. Back home, walking the length of the mall to the parking lot is a chore, but that’s probably less than a quarter-mile.

  “Each way,” Jazz replies, and for the first time since they met, she smiles. Nick’s not impressed. Sadist. “It’ll be dark long before we get back, but that’s good.”

  “How is that good?” Nick says with a mouthful of overly dry, stale bread and cold butter.

  “You don’t get it, do you?” she says. “You’re not on Earth. Not anymore.”

  “Well, technically, you are,” Dmitri says, trying to allay the sense of alarm on Nick’s face.

  Jazz ignores Dmitri.

  “Antarctica is like no place on Earth. Living on Mars is easy by comparison. You think I’m joking, don’t you?”

  “I—I don’t know what to think,” Nick confesses.

  Jazz says, “On Mars, all you have to contend with is the need for breathable air and staying warm. Down in Antarctica, you might as well be on another planet. Somewhere like Hoth.

  “It’s winter. Base camp is locked in perpetual darkness. If you’re lucky, you might see a slight glow low on the horizon for maybe an hour, but you won’t see the sun. Not for months. And when you do, it’ll be a pretender, a tiny ball of light that refuses to provide any warmth at all.”

  “Oh, tell him about the sun,” Dmitri says with a sense of glee Nick finds unsettling.

  “Yeah, the sun. Okay. What does the sun do during the day?” Jazz asks Nick.

  “Trick question, right?” he replies. Nick chews on his stale bread. “At a guess,” he says, “It shines?”

  “It rises in the east and sets in the west,” Jazz says. “But not down there.”

  “I don’t get it. What does the sun do over Antarctica?” he asks.