She could view the trip to Sumatra as a threatening unknown, or as an adventure. It was entirely up to her how she thought of it. Since the choice was hers, what sense did it make to look on it as something negative? A chance to visit somewhere new, explore a new environment… And a chance, maybe, to escape memories, she added mentally, forcing herself to be honest.
Briskly, she stood up, carried her teacup into the bedroom, and began to pack.
Chapter Five
It should have come as no surprise to Nikki that the transfer to the Inderagiri River site wasn’t anywhere near as smooth as planned. She was packed and ready to go by the date and time specified — her clothes and personal effects in suitcases, her paperwork and other necessary material from the office transferred to boxes.
But then the day of departure was postponed — once, twice and even a third time. It took much longer to package the delicate lab glassware than anyone had originally expected, and then specialists from the company that built them had to be called in to manage the shipment of the genetic analyzers. By the time everything was finally ready to go, Nikki had packed and unpacked her personal suitcase half a dozen times. The chaos of the preparations had one unexpected benefit, however: she had little time to miss Toshikazu, or to puzzle over the mystery of his death …
During the day, at least; the nights were a different story. Although they were never as bad as the nightmares of the first few nights—the visions of Toshikazu with his bloody smile, wielding a katana — the dreams came every night. Usually they were replays of the meeting with the ninja in the narrow alleyway, often with some surrealistic elements thrown in by her subconscious. Sometimes there were witnesses to the fight between Toshikazu and his killer—sometimes Eichiro, sometimes security chief Yamato, sometimes the blonde-haired leader of the raiders. Other times, the site of the combat was different — the halls of the Nagara Building, or Nikki’s lab, or even her apartment. Whatever the details, she always awoke shaken, unable to return to sleep until her pounding heart had slowed.
At least the intensity of the dreams seemed to be fading with time, she told herself. Toshikazu’s death had been traumatic; she wouldn’t have been fully human if it hadn’t affected her profoundly, at a very deep level. But she did seem to be bouncing back, if slowly. Maybe I’m emotionally tougher than I thought, she mused.
*
The sky was an unbroken ceiling of lead-grey clouds. The wind gusted unpredictably, cutting through Nikki’s thin jacket, chilling her to the bone. She and the other members of her workgroup huddled in the doubtful shelter of the elevator block atop the Nagara Building. Even in their attempts to escape the wind, the others consciously kept a distance between them and Nikki. She chuckled mirthlessly to herself. They still haven’t forgiven me, she thought. It must be hard work to hold a grudge that long. Well, she didn’t really expect it to last. Once everyone arrived in Sumatra and saw it wasn’t as bad as they expected, they’d let their barriers down again. At least, I hope so, she added.
The roar of powerful engines and the stuttering of rotor blades announced the approach of a V/STOL plane toward the building-top heliport. She set her shoulderbag down and watched, holding her wind-whipped hair back from her eyes with both hands.
The V/STOL was a little less than twice the size of an executive Lear jet, with large wings that swept forward — opposite to the design of most planes Nikki was familiar with. Mounted near the tips of the wings were two huge engines: turboprops, not jets, driving propellers not much smaller than the rotors of a helicopter. A couple of hundred yards away from the Nagara Building and an equal distance above the rooftop, the pitch of the motors changed. As Nikki watched in fascination, the plane slowed drastically, and the wings pivoted around their central axes. The engines and their big props moved with them, of course, tipping backward until they’d rotated through 90°. Now, instead of normal forward-facing propellers, the big turboprops were facing upward like helicopter rotors.
The sound of the motors changed again, and the heavy plane started its slow descent toward the rooftop heliport. She could see the props changing their angles, controlling the V /STOL’s motion as it came on down. Fifty yards above the roof it stopped, hovering in place. Bright lights burst to life around the circular periphery of the heliport — no doubt to help the pilot better judge altitude, she thought. Even slower now, the craft restarted its descent.
As it drew closer to the roof, Nikki could see how difficult the pilot’s job was. The gusts of wind that whipped at her hair and cut through her jacket would strike the plane, blowing it a couple of yards one way or another, or up or down. The pilot had to compensate, keeping the plane as steady as possible. It must take an immense amount of concentration, she thought.
The downdraft from the plane’s rotors was buffeting at the spectators, adding its force to the gusting winds. Bojo, Omi and the others backed further away, pressing themselves against the concrete of the elevator block, seeking what little shelter they could find. Nikki, though, held her ground until the V/STOL’s wheels had touched down.
The roar decreased as the engines throttled back to idle, and the rotors began to slow. Aft of the wings, a door opened in the fuselage. Two crewmen wearing jumpsuits in Nagara white and blue dropped to the roof, and unfolded a set of metal stairs. Then they beckoned to the passengers.
Nikki was the first one up the stairs. As soon as she was through the door and into the fuselage, the noise of the engines dropped drastically, even though the door was still open. Great sound insulation, she thought, and a good thing too. This’ll be a long flight. She looked around. Inside, the plane was even bigger than it had looked from outside. There were a dozen rows of seats, two by two across a central aisle. That made for lots of legroom and elbow-room, she was glad to see. The layout was as spacious and comfortable as the first-class compartment of a commercial airliner.
At the back of the passenger compartment was a bulkhead with a curtain-covered doorway set in it. Presumably that led to a small galley, she thought, and to a couple of washrooms. The same arrangement was repeated at the forward end. Judging from the position of the entrance door and the length of the compartment, the forward curtained opening would lead directly into the cockpit, she figured.
As if to confirm her conclusion, the curtain was drawn back and a figure emerged into the passenger compartment. He wore the same blue-and-white jumpsuit as the crewmembers who’d deployed the ladder, but on his chest pocket was emblazoned Nagara’s avian logo and a name badge reading PILOT O’NEIL. His green eyes widened as he saw Nikki, and he self-consciously reached up to brush his unruly red hair into some semblance of order. “Well, hello,” he said pleasantly. “Welcome aboard.”
Nikki glanced away to hide her own surprise. Not so much by the fact that the pilot of a Nagara V/STOL was a caucasian — and an American, too, judging by his accent — but by her own reaction. When she’d first come to Japan, had hung around with other Western travellers, she’d been scornfully amused by the people who said how much they relished seeing non-Oriental faces on their travels. Latent racism, she’d thought at the time, telling herself she’d never feel those emotions. It didn’t matter what shape a person’s eyes were, or what color the skin, she’d told herself—smug in the conviction she’d never feel that petty relief at seeing a familiar racial appearance. But now …
If she was so free of racial prejudice, how come she felt such a feeling of pleasure to see Pilot O’Neil?
A slow smile spread across the man’s face, and the skin around his eyes crinkled into what Nikki’s mother used to call “laugh lines.” It’s as if he’s reading my mind, Nikki thought.
To cover her embarrassment, she cleared her throat and brusquely stuck out a hand toward him. “Nikki Carlson, workgroup leader,” she said, making her voice as businesslike as possible.
O’Neil raised an eyebrow at her manner, but his smile didn’t diminish. He took her hand in a firm grip and shook. “Thomas O’Neil,” he said, his v
oice as brisk as hers — even though the twinkle in his eyes ruined the effect. “Nagara Corporation pilot.” Then he relaxed again, his voice returning to its original light, almost bantering tone. “Just make yourself comfortable, Nikki Carlson, workgroup leader. I’ve got some, um, business to attend to.” Hurrying a little, he walked past her toward the rear of the compartment, working his way between Nikki’s colleagues who were only now filing on board, and disappeared through the aft curtain. Bathroom break, Nikki thought with a chuckle.
O’Neil had left the curtain over the forward doorway open, giving her a view into the cockpit. Even without sticking her head in, she could see most of the compartment. The control panels were even more sophisticated than she’d expected. Instead of the rows and rows of dials and gauges that she’d pictured, the main elements of the panels were a number of cathode ray tubes — CRTs — like computer monitors. Some were filled with columns of alphanumeric characters, while others displayed complex graphics. Although she was sure they were easily comprehensible to a trained pilot, they meant nothing at all to Nikki. As for controls, there were two steering yokes, one for the pilot and one for the copilot. Between the two seats were a collection of levers that she took to be throttles and flap controls. Everything else seemed to be controlled directly by computer-style keypads set into the panels below the CRTs.
The left seat — obviously the pilot’s station — was empty. The copilot, a sullen-faced Japanese man, sat in the right seat, muttering to himself as he punched data into a keypad. Seeming to sense Nikki’s scrutiny, he turned round and shot her a nasty glare. Then he reached out and pulled the curtain shut.
Nikki shrugged. She was mildly curious, but had never been all that interested in aircraft anyway. May as well pick a seat, she told herself.
Her six workgroup colleagues had all settled themselves, in a tight group, in the aft half of the cabin. They were talking quietly among themselves, and their body language seemed to Nikki to indicate they were trying to isolate themselves from a reality they found unpleasant. She shrugged again. Pointedly, she selected a seat in the very first row, right behind the bulkhead separating the passenger cabin from the cockpit. She placed her carry-on bag on the aisle seat, and settled herself down next to the window. (The legroom’s usually better with bulkhead seats anyway, she told herself.) She fastened the seatbelt loosely around her waist, and reclined the seat back to a more comfortable position. She heard the cabin door slam and latch.
“Best seat in the house.”
She turned at the voice behind her. It was O’Neil, of course, a lopsided smile on his face.
She looked him over appraisingly. Quite handsome, and he knows it, she thought. Smooth and glib, with a good line for the ladies. She knew his type—she’d seen it often enough—and never liked it. People like him wear a mask all the time, a facade, and you can never see the real person behind it. She made her expression totally emotionless — if he can wear a mask, so can I — and stared at him coolly.
Suddenly, and to her total surprise, his self-possessed front seemed to slip. His smile faded a little, and when he spoke there was a hint of real warmth — not just banter—in his voice. “It’s weird,” he said. “I never thought I’d feel so happy to see another American.” He shook his head, as though a little angered at himself for his honesty. His confident smile returned. “Well, I’ve got to get this baby airborne.” He pulled back the curtain and stepped through into the cockpit. Nikki watched as he settled himself in the pilot’s seat. After a quick conversation with his copilot — too quiet for Nikki to hear—he pushed the throttles forward a little. Outside, the roar of the engines increased as the rotors spooled up.
Nikki hesitated for moment, then moved her bag out of the way and shifted to the aisle seat. She leaned forward. “Excuse me?” she said, pitching her voice to carry over the engine noise. “Mr. O’Neil?”
O’Neil looked back over his shoulder and grinned. “Call me Tom,” he suggested. “If you say ‘Mr. O’Neil,’ I’ll think you’re talking to my father.”
Nikki had to chuckle. “Tom,” she corrected. “Are you handling the whole transfer, Tom?”
“Not a chance,” he replied. “Too many flights, too much equipment to carry. I’m handling the personnel transfers, and that’s it.” He hesitated. “Except for the corp big-wigs, of course. Eichiro’s taking his own personal jet.”
Nikki blinked. “Eichiro’s going?”
“He couldn’t not go,” O’Neil stated flatly. “Whatever this thing’s about, it’s too important to him to handle it from a distance. He’s going to be breathing down your necks every day.”
Nikki frowned. The idea of having Eichiro on site made her uncomfortable. He’s one of the things I was looking forward to getting away from, she thought. But it did make sense, she had to admit. If the Inderagiri River project was what she thought—an attempt to make up for the Special Projects department destroyed by the raiders, and thus a way for Eichiro to save his career — there was no way the division manager could remain in Tokyo.
“What about the Matsushima Bay team?” she asked. “When do they go?”
“You mean the scientists, right?” O’Neil laughed. “God, what a collection of overgrown egos.”
“When do they go?”
“They’ve gone already,” the pilot answered. “I flew them out to the rendezvous yesterday. All your equipment went out in a cargo plane earlier today. You guys are the last.” Something beeped on the control panel. He turned to examine one of the displays, punched something into a keypad, then turned back to grin at her again. “I’ve got to get the wheels up, someone’s getting impatient. Make yourself comfortable and enjoy the ride.”
“How long’s the flight?”
“Figure on about three hours.”
“Three hours?” Nikki was surprised. “This thing’s faster than I thought.”
For a moment O’Neil looked puzzled. Then she saw comprehension dawn, and his smile returned. “Where do you think we’re flying to?” he asked.
“Sumatra, where else? Inderagiri River.” She hesitated. “Right?”
The pilot’s smile broadened. “You’ll see.” He slipped a pair of earphones onto his head and steadfastly refused to acknowledge any more of Nikki’s questions. The engine noise increased to a crescendo, and the V/STOL rose slowly into the gusty Tokyo sky.
*
During the ascent, Nikki could see that O’Neil was too busy to answer any of her questions. As the plane shifted and bounced, buffeted by the gusting wind, she wondered about what he’d said. If they weren’t flying to Sumatra, to the Inderagiri site — as the pilot had implied — where the hell were they going?
She heard the pitch of the twin motors alter, and felt a difference in the way the plane moved. We must be switching to forward flight, she thought, visualizing the wings pivoting, the overhead rotors becoming forward-pointing propellers. She looked out the window, hoping for a glimpse of the ground, to confirm her suspicions. But they were already in the low cloud deck; all she could see was greyness.
The motors changed pitch again, and she felt herself sinking back into her seat. Obviously the plane was either accelerating or climbing, or perhaps both.
The curtain was still open, giving her a clear view through the door into the cockpit. It was the Japanese copilot who was handling the control yoke, she saw. O’Neil was studying a map displayed on one of the larger CRTs, and punching a string of numbers into a keypad. Navigational data, Nikki guessed, probably our destination. Someone more versed in geography might have guessed something from the digits he was entering, but they could just as well have been a phone number for all they meant to Nikki.
When he’d finished entering the numbers, she saw O’Neil press a large button on the panel. A bell-like tone sounded, and a line of kanji text — too small for her to read — appeared on the central display screen. The copilot released the control yoke, leaned back in his seat and stretched. We’re on autopilot, Nikki realized.
She leaned toward the cockpit door. “O’Neil,” she called, then, “Tom.”
He looked around, an irritating grin on his face. “Uh-huh?”
“Where are we going?”
He shrugged casually. “Roughly southwest.”
Nikki gritted her teeth. “Where are we going?” she repeated, her voice cold.
“Okay, okay,” O’Neil relented at last, “a guy’s got to take his fun where he finds it. We’re heading for latitude 8° north and longitude 112° east, close enough.”
“Which is …?”
“Which is smack dab in the middle of the South China Sea,” O’Neil answered. “About 400 miles from Borneo, the same distance from Vietnam.”
“And what’s there?”
“Not much,” O’Neil chuckled. “A little speck of land called Spratly Island.”
“Why? To refuel?”
“Uh-uh. This baby could make it to Sumatra with enough fuel left over for a jaunt to Australia for dinner.”
“Then why?” Nikki pressed.
O’Neil’s devil-may-care smile faded. “They didn’t tell you much about Sumatra, did they?” he asked quietly.
Nikki was silent for a moment, affected by his suddenly-serious manner. “No, not much.”
The pilot nodded. “I didn’t think so.” He glanced over at his copilot. “Iba-san, old pal, why don’t you take over for a while? I’m going back to check on our esteemed passengers.”
Nigel Findley Page 14