Elvis pointed at his head. He had put on a pair of headphones with a small microphone attached. Bower looked around and grabbed a pair from the wall. There was a knob on the side. She twisted it and the whine of the engines vanished.
“They’re noise canceling,” Elvis said. Although she saw his lips move, the sound of his voice came through the headphones as though he were standing behind her. “You’ve got three channels. Cargo-hold, cockpit and air traffic control, although we can only talk on the cargo loop.”
“Ah,” Bower replied, getting used to the tinny sound of her own voice echoing back to her. “OK, this is pretty cool. I could get used to this.” Normally, all she got was a set of plastic earplugs to block out the noise.
“How does it feel?” she asked, gesturing toward his arm, which was now a seething mass of tiny creatures.
“Like a massage, a really good, deep massage.”
“Huh.”
“Flight time is three hours twenty minutes,” the loadmaster said, and Bower got the impression he was being polite, speaking to let them know he was active on the cargo loop more than anything else. Privacy was a rarity in the military.
The door to the cockpit opened slightly. Bower expected someone to walk through, but they must have got a good look at the huge alien apparently devouring a soldier in the cargo hold and thought better of walking in. The door slammed shut. A few seconds later, another voice spoke over the cargo loop.
“Just wanted to check that you’re all OK.”
“We’re good,” replied Elvis, winking at Bower.
“Roger that, will relay to Command.”
There was a pause for a moment before either the pilot or copilot added, “We’ll monitor the cargo channel. If any emergency arises and you need us to put down, let me know.”
“We’ll be fine,” said Elvis.
Bower was doing her best not to laugh. What for them had become commonplace must have seemed like something out of a horror movie. The poor bloody pilots, she thought, they’re probably half-expecting the alien to come tearing through the steel cockpit door and smear their brains all over the inside of the windshield.
Elvis could see her trying to suppress her laughter. He held his finger up to his lips, signaling for her to be quiet. She mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”
Bower had to say something, not just to keep from laughing but to help the pilots understand. To have remained quiet would have been cruel. She tried not to laugh as she spoke, but it was difficult to convey a sense of seriousness.
“Ah, please don’t worry about us. I know it must look awfully disconcerting seeing our interstellar guest for the first time, but please be assured, she’s as gentle as a lamb.”
It was a lie, but what did another lie hurt? And hearing it from a woman probably helped soothe their nerves a little.
“Roger that,” came the reply.
Bower was curious.
“So,” she said. “Did you guys draw the short straw for this mission?”
“No ma’am. This was voluntary.”
“Well, that was rather brave of you.”
“Or stupid,” the unseen officer replied over the headset. Bower liked him already, and laughed somewhat politely in reply, just enough so that her laughter sounded civil.
The flight leveled out so she stood and looked out the small port on the side of the craft. She had to pull on the curled audio cord leading to her headset to get a good look.
“How high are we?”
“Just on twelve thousand feet.”
Although the window was small, if Bower moved around she could see a wider field of view. Above them, several fighter jets sat off in the distance, heading in the same direction. There was another helicopter to one side, slightly ahead of them. She got the impression there were several more airplanes or choppers accompanying them, catching a faint glimpse of another craft from the edge of the window.
“They’re not taking any chances, are they?”
“No, ma’am.”
Below them, the jungle canopy rolled over the hills, smothering the land in a sea of green leaves. A large lake passed beneath the Osprey, its blue waters looked serene. In the distance, the ocean loomed large, an abrupt end to Africa. Bower stood there for a while, watching as the shoreline slowly approached. She wanted to talk, but she felt like no one wanted to talk with her. For the pilots and the loadmaster any conversation was limited, and she didn’t get the feeling Elvis wanted to talk openly while there were prying ears, regardless of their intentions. Elvis seemed happy to freak them out.
She sat down again and slouched in the seat. Before long the rhythmic pulse through the fuselage caused her to drift off to sleep.
It seemed as though no sooner had she closed her eyes than someone was saying, “We’re five minutes out,” waking her from her slumber.
Three hours had passed in the blink of an eye.
The headphones hurt her head. Like everything military, they were designed to be functional, not comfortable. She lifted them away from her ears for a moment, wanting to free her head from their vice-like grip, but the deafening sound of the engines overruled her discomfort and she put them back on. Five minutes couldn’t come soon enough.
Bower was tempted to get up and watch the landing out of the window, but that probably wasn’t the smartest move, and besides, what would she see? Probably just the ocean. Looking sideways, she wouldn’t see the ship until they touched down.
A couple of minutes later, the pilot said, “Fifty meters.”
Bower could feel the Osprey slowing its descent, hovering as it picked its spot for landing. The wheels touched down gently and she breathed a sigh of relief as the engines powered down.
Stella had been quiet throughout the trip, but during the descent the alien must have realized they’d arrived. The tiny insects swarming over Elvis returned to the bulbous heart of the spindly creature. Elvis looked at his arm. It looked entirely normal, as though nothing had ever happened. Bower shook her head in admiration. There was a lot she could learn from Stella in regards to medical science.
The engines dropped to a whine and Bower removed her headphones. The rear ramp lowered and Bower could already feel the gentle sway of the ship beneath them as it rolled through the swell of the open ocean. The smell of sea spray filled the air.
Several officers stood on the deck well beyond the Osprey’s open tailgate, but Bower’s eyes were drawn to the film crew. There were three cameramen, at least Bower assumed they were men, she couldn’t tell at first.
“Green light,” said Elvis, getting up and putting his shirt on.
Bower and Elvis walked side by side down the ramp. In some unspoken agreement they were shielding Stella. It was a token gesture, but Stella seemed to appreciate their slow walk. Out of the corner of her eye, Bower could see Stella edging forward behind them, wary of a new environment. Could Stella swim? This could be terrifying for the alien.
For the most part, the flight deck was empty, but Bower could see sailors further up the craft working with a crane. The welcoming committee gave them plenty of room to step down onto the deck.
“I’m Captain Helen Lovell,” one of the officers said, introducing herself. “This is my XO, James Davidson.”