THERE WERE TWELVE of them, nine middle-aged men, and three women, one also middle-aged and two in their thirties. They huddled in silence in a tight knot along the side of the airstrip. They did not huddle for warmth. The island they were on was nearly eleven hundred miles south-southwest from Hawaii, only four hundred miles north of the equator, and it was summer in the northern hemisphere. The air was hot and humid. Everyone wore shorts and lightweight shirts. Fear made them crowd together. Fear of losing themselves. Fear that without the tactile sensation of each other close by they would be unable to maintain their sense of reality. If, indeed, there was such a thing.
“Is that it?” said one of the younger women. She didn’t point to the airplane; she merely turned her hollow-eyed stare from the empty ocean to the sky, and her companions followed her gaze.
It was a U.S. Air Force C-130 Hercules, a four-engine turboprop cargo plane painted gray and bearing the American star-and-bars aircraft insignia. It circled the island twice, wagged its wings, then flew off to the north.
No one on the ground said a word.
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Sitting in the left cockpit seat, the C-130’s pilot slowly turned the plane through a 180-degree turn back toward the island and lined up on its small runway. His surveillance of the airstrip revealed it was old and poorly maintained. But the C-130 was designed for rough, unvarnished airfields, and other than being bumpy on the rollout, he didn’t see any difficulty in the landing.
He patted his co-pilot on the shoulder. “Look at the compass.”
The co-pilot glanced at the instruments. The magnetic compass, which should have pointed toward the south, instead remained pointing to the north. The co-pilot tapped the compass glass, but the heading didn’t waver. He shrugged.
“We’ll get another when we get back to the base,” he said. He looked at the gyrocompass. “Gyro’s still good.”
“Let’s do it then,” the pilot said.
They completed their landing check-off list, reciting the myriad of individual tasks required before they could settle the large cargo plane onto the runway. As they neared the island, the pilot noticed the small group of men and women still huddled next to the strip. None of them looked at the approaching plane.
Touchdown was smooth and, as expected, the Hercules rocked and shuddered through the rollout. At the south end of the runway, the aircraft slowed to a near stop, then pivoted and taxied toward the north end of the strip. As they passed the cluster of people, the pilot saw they still paid no attention to the Hercules. The plane turned again as it reached the strip’s northern end and stopped.
The co-pilot radioed they had landed on the island. The transmitter hissed and growled with static, but he managed to hear his report acknowledged.
“A lot of static on comms,” he told the pilot. “Must be some kind of interference here.”
As soon as the aircraft came to a rest, the enlisted crew chief in the rear lowered the tail ramp and walked out onto the runway. Halfway along the airstrip he saw the knot of people they had come to rescue and waved at them. No one looked at him. No one moved.
“What the f—?” he muttered. Then he yelled, “Hey! This way!”
No one moved.
The crew chief thumbed the press-to-talk button on his intercom set and said into its mic, “Skipper, don’t know why, but these people don’t seem to know we’re here. I’m disconnecting and going over and try to herd them aboard.”
Disconnected from the intercom, the crew chief strode toward the clustered survivors, calling to them along the way. Still, no one looked at him. When he reached the group, he removed his flight helmet and looked the closest person in the eye.
“Hello,” he said, drawing out the word. “Anybody there?”
It was the same young woman who first spotted the plane. She looked back at him with dull, hollow blue eyes void of any interest. The crew chief stepped back, shocked. He had seen that look before in the eyes of soldiers coming out of combat. They called it The Thousand Yard Stare.
The young woman still said nothing. She reached out and touched the airman’s arm, prodding it as if testing its solidity. The crew chief saw the others turn and watch the woman as she laid both hands on his arm.
“You’re here,” she whispered. “You’re really here.”
A little life surfaced in her face as she turned to the others and nodded. Without orders, the group started shuffling toward the transport.
“Single file, now,” the airman called. “Single file, please. For your own safety.”
The survivors silently drifted into a single line as the crew chief trotted to get in front of them and guide them to the aircraft. Once onboard, he and another crewman directed them to canvas seats attached along the fuselage, and showed them how to strap themselves in. The entire time, no one spoke.
The crew chief climbed the short ladder up to the flight deck. “Ramp up and secured,” he told the pilots.
“Roger,” acknowledged the pilot.
“Skipper, these people creep me out,” the crew chief said. “They act like they don’t care they’re being rescued.” Or don’t believe it, he thought to himself.
“Yeah, we noticed,” the pilot said. “Better get below and strap in. I don’t want to spend any more time on this rock than we need to.”
“Yes, sir,” the crew chief said, then disappeared into the bowels of the plane.
“The compass is working again,” the co-pilot said, pointing with a gloved hand to the instrument. It now pointed south, as it should.
“We’ll still get it checked out when we get back,” the pilot said.
Take-off checklist completed, they powered up the turboprops, and the Hercules began lumbering down the runway, picking up speed. In a minute they were airborne, and over the ocean.
“Air Force Alpha Golf two zero one,” the co-pilot said into his radio mic. “Feet wet 1235 hours.”
He waited for an acknowledgement, but all he heard was static.
“Air Force Alpha Golf two zero one,” he said again. “Feet wet 1235 hours. Please acknowledge.”
The crew chief’s head popped up to the flight deck again. “Skipper, we’re getting really creeped out back here.”
“We?”
“Us. The crew,” the airman said. “Well, me. You’d think these people might cheer or something once we got airborne, but they just sit there staring at each other as if the rest of us don’t exist.”
“Air Force Alpha Golf two zero one,” the co-pilot said again, emphasizing each word. “Feet wet 1235 hours. Please acknowledge.”
“What the f—?” The navigator’s exclamation silenced them. Everyone turned toward the navigation station behind the co-pilot. “Skipper, we just lost the nav system. Both GPS and inertial navigation are out.”
“Comms, too,” the co-pilot said. “I can’t raise anyone. All I get is static.”
“Sirs!”
The crew chief, squatting behind the pilots, pointed to the instrument panel. The magnetic compass was spinning. Beside it, the gyrocompass had ceased working. The artificial horizon and altimeter were frozen or wavered back and forth. The co-pilot tapped each instrument with his finger. Nothing.
“Oh, my god,” gasped the pilot, his eyes wide and staring at something ahead of the Hercules. “What the hell is that?”
