Jury Duty (First Contact)

by Peter Cawdron

  He punches the buttons, raises the headset to his ear and waits. There’s a slight hum on the line and the odd crackle.

  “Hello?” a warm voice says with utter innocence.

  Nick pauses, waiting a little too long before saying, “Sandy.”

  There’s silence on the line, but that’s better than being cut off. He breathes deeply, looking briefly at Jazz, knowing she has no idea who he’s talking to or how this conversation is burning in the depths of his heart.

  “Listen, I just wanted to say—”

  “Don’t,” Sandra says, cutting him off.

  A knot rises in his throat, surprising him with how much can be communicated by a single word. She’s right. What would yet another hollow apology accomplish? Not a goddamn thing. He wants to explain that this call is different, but for all she knows, he’s half-drunk, calling her from the alley behind some seedy bar. Nick picks his words carefully.

  “You deserve better, you really do.”

  “I’m not doing this, Nick. Not again”

  A knife plunged into his chest wouldn’t hurt as much as those few words, but she’s right. Too many times. Too many mistakes. Too many re-dos that always led back to the same damn place.

  “I’m not calling to get you back. I’m not.”

  Sandra doesn’t reply, but in his mind’s eye, he can see her. He can see the tears welling up in the corner of her eyes, the tension in her lips and jaw, the determination and anguish.

  “I’m not calling to say I’m sorry. Well, I am, but to blurt out those words would only hurt you, and I get that. I understand. I’m not trying to gaslight you. Honest. I’m—”

  “What are you trying to say, Nick?”

  “I—I had no one else to call.” He laughs, but it’s reluctant, bitter and twisted. His own voice condemns him as the punchline of a sick joke. “Crazy, huh? When it comes down to it, you’re all I ever had, and I was stupid and mean and selfish and dumb.”

  Sandra doesn’t reply, but he knows she’s biting at her bottom lip. She does that when she’s upset.

  “I just wanted to say goodbye—and I mean it. This isn’t some stupid trick to gain sympathy. I wish—I hadn’t been such a fool. I wish you nothing but the best.”

  “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  He laughs, looking up at the paint peeling off the ceiling. Now it’s his turn for tears. Oh, she knows him so well.

  “I should be, but no. It’s—complicated.” He looks at Jazz, but she’s staring at her feet, ignoring him while listening intently nonetheless. “You’ll do great. I know you will, Sandy.” Nick doesn’t know that, but he’s happy to lie to himself. “You’re smart. You’re kind. You’re caring.”

  Again, her silence speaks volumes. This isn’t her Nick.

  “You take care of yourself,” he says.

  “You too,” she replies with genuine warmth, and that’s it. That’s all he can deal with. The uncertainty is too much.

  “Bye.”

  He lowers the phone. His finger hovers over the end-call button, wondering if there’s anything else she wants to say. If she said anything at this point, he’d be able to hear her, only just, perhaps not the exact words but at least the tone. There’s silence on the line. Nick feels empty. If he could make out just one word, he’d know she said something more, but she doesn’t. This really is the end.

  To be fair, she doesn’t owe him anything, but that doesn’t lessen the hurt. Perhaps that’s the thing that stings most within his madly beating heart—the realization that she’s able to move on without him. The pain he feels is self-inflicted through his own pigheaded arrogance and anger during that goddamn stupid football game. Ah, the arrogance of past mistakes. If he hadn’t yelled at her and shoved her into the table last week, she’d never have taken out that court order, and he’d have never pulled a gun on her. Nick feels as dumb as dog shit at how his ego escalated into utter stupidity.

  He presses the button, ending the call, wondering what else he could have said, curious about what she’s thinking thousands of miles away. He wonders if she’ll ever find out what happened to him. Hah. What happened to him? Damn. In his mind, the future is already in the past. Deep down, he suspects his life is over. There’s nothing he can put his finger on, no reason to think he’s going to die in Antarctica, and yet a sense of dread hangs heavy over him.

  Dark clouds descend on the bay. He can see them out the window. He can feel them in his heart.

  Jazz walks over, holding out her hand for the phone. Reluctantly, he surrenders it.

  “Good call,” she says. Dmitri nods as well, but neither of them look him in the eye. They know he’s fucked up his life. Given the chance, he would have fucked up Sandra’s life as well out of pure spite. Perhaps that’s what upsets him most—seeing the demons laid bare within his own soul.

  For her, that call will be an oddity. Oh, at some point, she’ll drop by the house to collect a few things. She’ll see his car in the garage and perhaps come back later when she knows he’s at work. On seeing his old Dodge still there, she’ll knock, figuring even he couldn’t be drunk a couple of days later. When there’s no answer, she’ll use her key. She’ll tread carefully through the house, surprised the mess hasn’t been cleaned up. It’ll take some time before she realizes he’s not there. Maybe she’ll have someone with her—just in case. Before long, she’ll know something’s wrong. His phone and wallet will still be there, along with his motorbike and car, but he’ll be long gone. If he’s lucky, she might file a missing person’s report. What will the cops tell her?

  Nick knows Sandra well enough to know she’ll come by the house a few more times, strategically looking to catch him in a quiet moment. Normally, he’d leave for work at eight in the morning. She might swing by half an hour earlier, but he won’t be there. Again, nothing will have been moved. Will she worry about him?

  At a guess, there’s got to be some government cover story. If she digs deep enough, someone will spin a yarn about him being arrested or moving interstate. By that time, she’ll have retrieved her furniture and be done with him. She’ll check his firearms and be able to account for all of them except the Glock, which she’ll assume was taken by the police as evidence.

  Sandra won’t be able to rule out suicide in some remote part of the nearby woods. Perhaps she’ll contact his parents. Nah, by that point, Sandra will have settled elsewhere. Far from being the center of her world, he’ll be some creep she used to know.

  Nick wishes he’d slowed down and controlled his hot head. It seems it took dragging him halfway around the world to realize how much of an asshole he’s been to her, but the past cannot be changed.

  Will she ever forgive him?

  Should she?

  Nah. This mess is on him, and he knows it. Mistakes ain’t a parking ticket. They’re not something that can be paid out by swiping a credit card and zeroing the balance. Forgiveness isn’t his to demand. It’s hers to give. The passage of time will soften the rough edges, but forgiveness is something he can never earn. Even if she does forgive him, nothing changes the past. All forgiveness does is make those bitter memories a little more bearable. Nick knows that’s not what he needs. He’s had too many easy outs. If he’s ever to make something of himself, he’s got to change, regardless of how painful that might be.

  “Are you okay?” Jazz asks. For once, it’s not duty driving her interest. She’s genuinely concerned. Perhaps she can see the pain lining Nick’s face and the way he tries to hide behind a fake smile.

  “Fine.”

  One word isn’t an answer.

  It’s a lie.

  Change of Plans

  The base at Husvik is a menagerie of humanity. Scientists, base staff, engineers, flight crew, naval officers and cooks all keep busy in the cold. Accents are a tell. The quartermaster is from Chile, while the operations manager is Australian. The Norwegians are polite, speaking English with a distinct European tinge that sometimes spirals into their native tongue. One of t
he cooks is from Qatar. The other is from Vietnam. The cuisine, though, is supersized European mush. The British sound regal. Even when talking about some of the more mundane aspects of life, like fixing a toilet cistern, their conversations sound like a matter of life and death. The Americans are more relaxed, or so Nick thinks.

  “Change of plans,” one of the senior US aircrew says, pulling Jazz aside within the dining room. Given the commotion at the tables, there’s no way of overhearing what’s being said, but Dmitri looks worried. Nick’s sitting across from him. The Russian smiles, stuffing some bacon in his mouth.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Dmitri says, chewing on a fatty strip of meat.

  Liar.

  Nick wonders how much he should care. Perhaps something that worries them will be a pleasant surprise for him. Maybe they’ve changed their minds. Maybe the White House has vetoed the Pentagon’s plans and he’ll be hauled back to the US.

  Over the cacophony of voices, he hears Jazz object to something that’s been said to her. “Goddamn it! This is bullshit.”

  Her lips tighten as she straightens, clenching her fists by her side. She doesn’t like what she’s hearing but she’s unable to argue. Finally, she nods and returns to the table.

  “What’s up?” Dmitri asks.

  “There’s been an accident. McMurdo is closed for the season.”

  “What? What kind of accident?”

  “A C130 Hercules was refueling on the ice. Something went wrong. They’re not sure what, but it sounds like whiteout conditions. It seems they had the props turning over to keep the engines warm. McMasters thinks one of the fuel trucks clipped a prop and—boom—no more airfield.”

  Nick stops eating. This is great news. Well, not for the poor bastards that got fried on the ice, but if there’s nowhere to land, they’ll have to take him back stateside.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Dmitri asks.

  “You saw the frigate in the bay, right?” she says.

  “No way.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “What?” Nick asks.

  “There’s been a change in plans,” Jazz says. “We’re steaming south on the Te Kaha to Halley, a British base just off the Ronne Ice Shelf.”

  “And from there?” Dmitri asks.

  “Overland to Vincennes.”

  “That’s got to be a thousand miles!”

  “Closer to fifteen hundred,” Jazz says. “The Brits have fuel dumps at staging points, but it’s going to be a long crossing.”

  “On the polar plateau? In winter?” Dmitri asks with his fork hanging from his fingers.

  “Yep.”

  “Fuck,” he says, followed quickly by, “How big an expedition?”

  “Three cats.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  Dmitri says, “I—I.”

  Nick asks, “I take it that’s bad?”

  Jazz just laughs, looking at him in disbelief. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

  Nick shakes his head.

  Dmitri says, “You’re about to understand what misery really means, my friend.”

  Nick is smart enough to know now’s the time to be quiet.

  “It’ll take weeks to cross the ice,” Dmitri says, pleading with Jazz as though she has the power to change this decision. “We won’t get there until late winter or early spring.”

  “Not if we ride right up on the plateau,” Jazz says.

  “Out in the open?”

  “We’ll cross the East Antarctic Ice Sheet, passing in front of the Argus Dome. If we avoid the mountains, we can make good time.”

  “And drive into the heart of a winter polar storm?” Dmitri asks. “We could get lost. Stranded. Nothing could be this urgent. They should wait until spring when we can land at McMurdo. At the very least, we could fly by chopper to Vostok and on to Vincennes.”

  Jazz bites her lip. Nick can see the machinations of her mind. She’s trying to figure out what she should say.

  “They found something.”

  Jazz is pensive, but it doesn’t seem that big a deal to Nick. Of course, they found something. That’s the whole point of being down there, to dig up an ancient UFO, but Jazz adds one final word that changes everything.

  “Alive.”

  “What?” Dmitri says. “No. No. No. You’re kidding, right? That’s not possible.”

  Jazz simply shrugs.

  “That’s what they’re saying. The Pentagon is rattled. The Kremlin is going nuts. Downing Street wants to go public. Even the Chinese are struggling to keep a lid on this. Whatever’s happening down there, it’s scaring the bejesus out of all sides. I need Nick down there on standby. If Smith dies, Nick needs to be ready to step in. The US will not be sidelined on this.”

  Dmitri nods. “When do we leave?”

  “Now,” she replies. “The weather is closing in. Vincennes is already past the last sunset for the season.”

  “Last?” Nick asks.

  Dmitri explains. “The last sunset before three long months of darkness.”

  “Winter is falling,” Jazz says, getting up from the table. “The weather up on the plateau is going to get bad. Real bad. The sooner we move, the better our odds.”

  “Okay. Let’s do this,” Dmitri says. He scoffs an extra scone, shoving it in his mouth as they head for the door. Crumbs adorn his beard. He licks his fingers with glee. Nick might be terrified, but Dmitri is excited.

  They head for the dorm to gather their gear. Nick isn’t looking forward to going back out in the cold. His legs are sore from the march up to the antenna. Although his bunk bed is narrow, with a stiff mattress, he was looking forward to crashing in the insanely soft, padded sleeping bag that’s been issued to him.

  “The adventure begins, huh?” Nick says as they don their external gear and shove items into their packs.

  Jazz doesn’t reply.

  “This is history in the making,” Dmitri says. “You should be proud. You’re a part of something marvelous, something that will change our world.”

  Nick nods and finishes packing. They meet in the ready room. It takes a few minutes to don his external heavy weather gear. His boots are stiff.

  Base staff push through the narrow passage, coming in from the cold. With their jackets hanging open and frost on their beards, they mumble in anger. Nick doesn’t pick up much of what’s said as most of the comments are in Norwegian, but he recognizes a few phrases.

  “…bloody stupid…”

  “…someone’s going to get killed…”

  “…wait for fucking dawn, for Christ’s sake…”

  “Time to go,” Jazz says, pushing him ahead of her toward the main door.

  Nick stumbles out onto the snow, being careful with his footing. With the coming of night, the slush around the doorway has frozen solid, forming a slick layer of ice. His boots slip, but he keeps his balance.

  A helicopter hovers low over the equipment yard, kicking up flurries of snow. A belt descends from its undercarriage. Bear stands on the pristine snowcat from the cargo hold of the C-5 Galaxy. He hooks up chains to various anchor points. The constant thumping of the rotors overhead makes it impossible to talk. Jazz yells something, holding the hood of her jacket in place so it doesn’t blow off. She points toward the shoreline.

  Out across the bay, the warship is lit up like a Christmas tree. Navigation lights flash on the communications mast. Spotlights illuminate the rear deck. Brilliant white lights turn the darkness into daytime, reflecting off the still water. Sailors move with purpose. A spotlight ripples across the ocean, being directed toward the shore.

  An inflatable zodiac boat races in toward the beach. The water is churned white behind it, forming a V-shaped wave that ripples across the bay. Rather than stopping as it gets close, the boat rides up onto the pebbles, pushing waves over the loose rocks. Several sailors get out. They’re wearing black wetsuits along with what looks more like a thick Day-Glo collar than a lifejacket. They fit Jazz, Dmitri and Nic
k with similar lifejackets, explaining that these devices will inflate automatically if submerged in water. A small white strobe light on Nick’s shoulder flashes every few seconds. No one’s taking any chances on his exact location.

  Pebbles crunch beneath his boots as he walks down to the boat. Waves lap at the shore. Nick climbs over the sidewall, followed by Jazz and Dmitri. The boat is much larger than it seemed on approach. Although the sides are inflated, the boat has an aluminum hull. Seawater sloshes around his boots. They sit three abreast in the middle of the boat. A couple of sailors push the boat back out into the dark water, jumping into the front as the depth reaches waist height.

  The driver is seated behind a spray shield mounted at the back of the inflatable. As the boat drifts back, he lowers the propellers. Two massive outboard motors roar into life. The zodiac turns away from the shore and races out across the bay. The wind whips over the craft. The water is as smooth as glass. The inflatable skips across the sea. The front of the boat rises with a steady rhythm, splashing back down every few seconds as the hull skims along. One of the sailors is mounted at the front as a lookout. He pulls on a rope, peering into the darkness as they cut across the bay. The wind whips around them. Nick finds it difficult to look straight ahead. He hunkers down, pulling his hood tight and looking to one side.

  The helicopter flies low over the water with the snowcat hanging beneath it, racing toward the frigate. Bear is still standing on the roof of the cat. He’s holding onto one of the chains. Not exactly standard operating procedure, but he seems to be enjoying the ride.

  The inflatable decelerates and turns, riding in on its own wave as it pulls alongside the warship. A rope net has been lowered over the side of the hull. It’s easily twenty feet wide and reaches down to the waterline. The sailor kills the engine and they drift to a halt.

  “Three points of contact at all times,” Jazz says, standing in the inflatable and holding onto the thick rope for support.