Jury Duty (First Contact)

by Peter Cawdron

  “You’re a reservist,” Jazz says. “One of the American jurors fell ill. If we have to evac them, you’re the replacement.”

  “So I’m on standby?”

  “Kinda.”

  Puerto Rico

  Much to Nick’s surprise, after landing in Puerto Rico and taxiing to a halt, the front of the C-5 Galaxy opens. The nose cone rises above the plane as a ramp lowers, allowing them to exit beneath the cockpit. Nick boarded the plane through a side door and assumed the rear of the craft would open. He’s taken back by the sheer size of the open nose cone.

  Several ground crew usher him and the others to one side of the tarmac as the hold is rearranged and a helicopter is loaded within the belly of the craft. Its rotor blades have been turned so they’re in line with the hold. Somehow, this monster of an airplane swallows the chopper whole, with its gaping jaws stretched wide—something Nick wouldn’t have believed possible had he not seen it for himself.

  Even though it’s night, the heat and humidity are overwhelming.

  “Where’s the sun?” Dmitri asks as they sit on the back of a military flatbed truck parked just off the tarmac on the lush, thick grass between runways. “I feel as if I should be wearing sunscreen.”

  “Not quite Moscow, huh?” Nick says.

  “No.”

  Dmitri takes off his jacket. He removes his tie and rolls up his sleeves. Sweat soaks through his white shirt.

  Spotlights illuminate the plane. Thousands of bugs swarm through the air, attracted by the lights.

  Nick reaches for his pocket, instinctively searching for his smartphone, wondering what the time is, but his phone is charging on the kitchen counter back in South Carolina. He feels naked without it, unable to connect with anyone. He’s not even sure which timezone Puerto Rico operates on. It’s a US territory and gets hit with hurricanes, but his knowledge of geography is limited to North America. Beyond the Atlantic Ocean, the various countries in Africa, the Middle East and Europe all become a blur. As for the Caribbean and South America, they’re the land of poverty and dictators—or so he thinks. He sits there quietly, trying to grasp what’s happening to him.

  “It’s a lot to take in, huh?” Dmitri says.

  “Yeah.”

  Nick doesn’t mean to be rude, but he’s distracted. Although there’s a lot of activity on the tarmac, Nick’s not dumb. He notices how four soldiers have been assigned to them, casually keeping watch as the rest of the crew work with supplies and refueling efforts. Lieutenant Cooper has disappeared somewhere, leaving him with the Russian.

  Dmitri says, “I remember exactly where I was when I first heard about the craft.”

  Nick’s tired. It’s been at least five or six hours since Sandra walked out on him, which must make it ten or eleven at night. Dmitri might be chatty, but Nick just wants to go to sleep. He wants the nightmare to end. It won’t, but it would be nice to think he’ll wake up tomorrow in bed with Sandra by his side. That’ll never happen. Perhaps she’s why he’s so compliant, willing to be dragged along by the current. There’s nothing for him back there in South Carolina. Nothing but popping hoods on electric cars and hooking up diagnostic computers that can do the job far better than he ever could. That and football. And bowling. And beer. Some life. The rat race is a never-ending treadmill, but Nick’s not even making an effort. Metaphorically speaking, he’s fallen face-first on the rapidly turning tread and has crumpled at the end like some chump in a GIF.

  “It will be like that for everyone,” Dmitri says, still talking about the alien spacecraft. “Everyone remembers where they were on 9/11. For those that weren’t born back then, it’s as haunting as Pearl Harbor. Even for us Russians, the imagery of civilian planes plunging into skyscrapers and exploding in a ball of flames is somber. It’s sobering. This is like that, you know. It’s one of those world-changing events that defines us all in some way.”

  Nick nods, but only to be polite. He’s annoyed with himself. Damn it, Sandra. He loves her. He hates her. It’s better this way, he thinks. Being dragged halfway around the world is merciful. What would he have done if the cops hadn’t arrived? Oh, he wouldn’t have gone after her. No, he would have marched around the house for a few hours, drinking heavily, breaking shit and cussing. He would have drunk himself stupid, collapsed on the couch, or more likely the floor, having pissed his pants. He’d wake the next morning in a smear of sticky vomit, blinded by the sun, with a jackhammer pounding inside his head. Then what? Beg for forgiveness. Rinse and repeat the monotony of life. Fuck it all up again.

  “Why so glum?” Dmitri asks. “You are now a part of history. Out of the billions of people on this planet, you have the chance to make a difference.”

  “A difference?” Nick says, trying not to laugh. “Me?”

  Oh, it’s flattering. Perhaps that’s why Nick doesn’t mind going along with the madness. Everyone wants to be a hero. Nick dreams of being John McClane. What red-blooded American male doesn’t dream of Die Hard? Shoot all the bad guys. Yippee Ki-Yay, motherfucker! But that’s not the kind of difference Dmitri’s talking about. Being sequestered on a jury? Really? Nah. Nick’s dreams have justice dispensed down the barrel of a gun.

  Attention is a drug. Ego is intoxicating. Nick would like to believe Dmitri. He’d like to think he can make a difference, that he might somehow be the hero of his own story, but Nick breaks everything he touches. In a rare moment of honesty, he shakes his head in disagreement. Sandra was right to leave him.

  “You have a chance to do something for all of humanity,” Dmitri says softly, but he doesn’t understand. Nick’s afraid he’ll fuck this up just like everything else.

  “How did you get involved in all this?” Nick asks, feeling uncomfortable with Dmitri’s attention and wanting to move the conversation along.

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You. Where were you?”

  “I was in a break room at the United Nations building in New York. Shitty little room. It was a closet, really. No windows. Barely big enough for a small table, a single chair and a microwave oven. We had a coffee maker—filtered, not one of those fancy pod machines—and a small sink. There was a bar fridge under the table, but the milk kept freezing. I hated that goddamn fridge. Frozen salads are—they’re horrible. Ah, the glamorous life of a Russian diplomat.”

  “And that’s where you first heard about it, huh?” Nick asks.

  “Yep. If there were more than two people in that room, you came back later. So I open the door and hit someone in the back.

  “Sorry, I say.

  “No, come in, Dmitri.

  “My boss is in there along with five other people. Come in? It’s all I can do to squeeze my head around the door. And then he tells us…

  “They found an alien spacecraft.”

  Dmitri shakes his head. It’s as though he’s struggling to believe it even now. Nick is content to listen.

  “They—who’s they? I think my boss is confused. Found—how do you find a UFO? I thought UFOs found you. If they even exist, I’m pretty sure they abduct you, right?”

  Nick laughs. “Right.”

  “I mean, are we talking about crop circles and anal probes or what?”

  Nick shakes his head, grinning at Dmitri’s absurd but utterly honest recollection.

  “So Markoff has us all in this tiny room because he’s paranoid about you Americans listening in—only you guys found it, not us. He tells us your ambassador presented the US findings to a closed session of the Security Council.

  “So why are we talking about this in a broom closet? Because Russia doesn’t know if it should believe America. We don’t want you to think we’re gullible, or worse, stupid. It was madness. Was this a test? A trap? Moscow thought it was something to make Russia look silly. I thought we looked silly talking about it in a closet.”

  Dmitri laughs.

  “So you really do work at the United Nations?” Nick asks, already knowing the answer but happy to keep the conversation going, finding Dmitri‘s
recollection fascinating.

  “I was one of many UN attachés for the Russian Federation, specializing in the industrialization of scientific research, so Markov says to me, Dmitri, I want a write-up on the implications of the alien craft by morning. Me? He’s the only one that heard the Security Council briefing. How am I supposed to write a report? It was crazy. Insane. So, yeah, I remember exactly where I was when I first heard about all this.”

  “How long have you known?” Nick asks, gesturing around him. “I mean, how long has all this been going on?”

  “Awhile,” Dmitri says. “We don’t know quite when the American’s first knew. Officially, it’s been about 18 months, but I think they knew something was up for several years before that.

  “They set up an ice-core drill that passed within a couple of hundred feet of the craft, so they knew before then—or at least they suspected. We think that’s the point they realized they had found something that didn’t originate on this planet.

  “Antarctica is pretty damn hostile. It’s difficult to do anything on any scale without attracting attention. I think they knew they couldn’t mount a serious expedition without arousing suspicions of mining or oil exploration—all of which are banned. So it became a question of what they said and when. My guess—and it’s only a guess—is that they learned all they could before telling anyone else about this thing.

  “We Russians have a drill site exploring the nearby Lake Vostok, about four hundred kilometers away, so they knew they couldn’t keep this a secret forever. It was only a matter of time before someone else figured it out.

  “The craft is on Wilkes Land, well within the Australian Antarctic territory. I suspect the Aussies turned a blind eye for a while, but even they would eventually wonder what the Americans were doing without a clear subsurface scientific target.”

  Nick asks, “What does it look like?”

  “Beyond blurry radar imaging, I don’t know. Like you, this is my first trip to the ice. I know they’re still digging down there. It’s one thing to drill an ice core. It’s entirely another to excavate a shaft a mile deep and build a base. The material strength of ice isn’t like that of rock. We have to reinforce the walls with steel rods or they’ll collapse. Ice compresses nicely, but any tension, any twisting or stretching and it shatters. We’re building a research center beneath the ice, but we have to move slowly and carefully.

  “The pressure beneath the ice is as extreme as the weather above. Being under a mile of ice, the spacecraft is probably crushed beyond recognition, but there’s much we can learn from any species that can traverse the stars. Even something as small as a computer chip could hold secrets in its design that could propel us hundreds of years ahead.”

  Nick nods. Sweat drips from his forehead.

  “What about Jazz?”

  “Jasmine?” Dmitri asks, apparently surprised Nick would seek his opinion. “This is her second tour down there. She’s a genuine war hero. Heroine, I guess. She saved a lot of lives in the Himalayas. We are lucky to have her on our side.”

  “Huh?” Nick replies. He goes to say something when he spots the distinct form of a woman marching across the tarmac. Her arms swing in rhythm with her stride. She’s determined, coming straight for them. Her tight lips and narrow eyes speak of barely contained anger.

  “Come with me,” Jazz says. It’s an order, not an invitation.

  Sheepishly, Nick drops down off the flatbed, landing in the long grass. Dmitri is silent, but he watches them intently. Nick walks up to Jazz, who grabs him by his upper arm, marching him away from the truck.

  “Do not let him isolate you.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Nick, he’s Russian. He’s the enemy.”

  “He was just trying to be nice, explaining what he knew.”

  “You need to be smarter than this,” Jazz says. “The Russians always have an angle. Always. They’re always playing you for something. Nothing comes free. Absolutely nothing.”

  “But isn’t this like an international partnership?” Nick asks, confused. “I thought we were all in this together. For the good of humanity, and all that stuff.”

  Jazz brings him to a halt by a portable generator rattling away in the night, powering the spotlights that flood the tarmac, turning the night into day.

  “Let me make this perfectly clear to you,” she says, talking down to him as though he were a child. “We are at war.”

  Nick is silent.

  “Make no mistake,” she says, taking advantage of the diesel generator to hide her words from anyone other than him. “There’s a reason all sides in this endeavor are using military assets to get to that thing—and it ain’t for the lols. You think we’ve found an alien spaceship?”

  Her eyebrows raise, looking for a response from him before she continues.

  “We haven’t. We’ve found a treasure chest. X marks the spot. Think Aladdin’s cave—gold and diamonds glistening in the half-light, dumped in piles cascading on themselves, riches beyond anything you could imagine. That’s the way these guys see this thing. Make no mistake, whoever controls the secrets of that machine will rule the world.”

  South Georgia

  No sooner has the C-5 Galaxy roared back into the night than Nick falls asleep. The drone of the engines, the voices around him, even the lights become irrelevant. Like the white noise of waves crashing on the rocks, washing up over the sand, the ambiance helps rather than hinders the march of sleep.

  When he wakes, the deck of the cargo hold is bathed in a soft red light. With pressure building in his bladder, he wanders to the toilet, still half-asleep. Guards watch him. They’re indifferent, being neither warm and friendly, nor angry or suspicious. Like Jazz, they’re simply doing their job—and that leaves Nick cold. He wonders about their orders. He’s curious how much they know. Would they trade places with him or shrink from the role if given the chance? If he were in their position, the heavy-set civilian from South Carolina wouldn’t scream Hero! His stained t-shirt, faded shorts, and worn tennis shoes are embarrassing next to their rugged, functional military fatigues.

  Nick’s a wannabe, a has-been. As much as he doesn’t want to admit that to himself, it’s true. Perhaps that’s why he was so mean to Sandra. She was the right person with the wrong guy. Like a rip tide at the beach, when the waves appear calm, the undertow is deceptive. Even when Nick seemed relaxed and rational, he wasn’t—just brooding. His mood swings were out of frustration. Blaming others is an easy-out for his own failings.

  How the hell did he get here? And not here as inside the cargo hold of a military aircraft being buffeted by turbulence, but here as in middle-aged, overweight and as grumpy as a sewer rat? Perhaps that’s it. He’s frustrated at the realization his dreams have all died. Whatever happened to the twenty-year-old jock full of piss and vinegar? Nick was ready to take on the world, only the world passed him by without so much as a word. Poor Sandra, she bore the brunt of the storm.

  Nick takes a drink of water, not feeling comfortable with where these thoughts are leading. Perhaps it’s the radical change of setting that’s made his failures so painfully obvious, or maybe it’s the hangover. Maybe it’s the lack of any decent sleep. He feels like shit—physically and emotionally.

  What lies ahead? Nick screws the cap back on his water bottle, winding it slowly and methodically, taking his time. No rush. He’s not going anywhere. Well, he is, but not through any volition of his own. For him, there’s nothing to hold onto but now. Nick has no illusions or nostalgia about the past. No hopes or dreams for the future. All he has is now. That arrogant jock with the powerful right-arm throw and visions of making it in the major league was only ever kidding himself. And now he’s heading to Antarctica to examine an alien spaceship. Nick shakes his head. Life couldn’t be any more surreal.

  Dmitri has draped a blanket over several seats on the far side of the hold and has curled up asleep. Jazz has disappeared somewhere. She’s probably asleep as well.

  “How fa
r out are we?” Nick asks a young airman.

  “Just over an hour, sir,” the clean-cut, lily-white, stick-thin teen says. Where are all the muscle-bound stereotypes? Where are the real heroes? Where’s The Rock with his thick chest and rippling muscles?

  As for being called sir, that’s incongruous with reality. The idea that Nick’s worthy of respect is insulting to anyone with any real integrity. For him, such an acknowledgment heightens the dissonance he feels. It’s as though he’s stepped into a parallel universe. Nick knows it’s not flattery, that the military thrives on respect and affords that to everyone, but it feels misguided—misdirected. Save it for The Rock when he gets here.

  Nick nods as the airman adds, “We’ll be waking everyone soon.”

  Another crew member comes over, handing him a pile of clothing along with a pair of boots. With one hand on top and the other underneath, she says, “You need to get changed before we land.”

  Nick takes the clothing from her, looking carefully at what he’s been given. Black, lace-up boots with thick soles, a white singlet and underwear, and a bright orange jumpsuit—clothing that’s unlike anything anyone else is wearing.

  “Prison issue, huh?”

  “High-Vis,” the crew member replies. “We wouldn’t want to lose you in a snowstorm.”

  Nick returns to the bathroom and changes. The underwear is multi-layered and immediately warm. Rather than pulling the jumpsuit up over his shoulders, he wears them as trousers with the arms wrapped around his waist. The standard-issue singlet is as white as the driven snow. The clothing’s an improvement over his dirty shorts and torn t-shirt, but he still comes out looking like a mechanic.

  The cabin lights are on, flooding the cargo hold with a brilliant, white, sterile light. Jazz greets him with coffee in a recyclable cup, handing it to him as she asks, “Sleep well?”

  Nick rubs the back of his neck, still feeling a little stiff. “Well enough, thanks.” He sips at the coffee. Either the brew has improved or he’s desperate for a caffeine hit and his tastebuds are sleepwalking.