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CHAPTER 14

Sam was laughing around the edges of his tumbler. He threw back the alcohol, which tasted like any Earth whisky, and managed not to choke on it.

When he put the tumbler back on the bar, Pastor Mickey was sitting at the stool next to him.

“Where’d my friends go?” Sam looked around, baffled.

“Were they your friends?” Mickey’s voice was mild, but somehow managed to imply that the other drinkers hadn’t been Sam’s friends at all, they’d just been other drinkers.

Which was true.

“They were all I have,” Sam said. “Hit me again.”

The bartender nodded and poured him another.

“You look like you’ve had a couple.”

Sam wanted to get angry, but the truth was that Pastor Mickey had a very nonjudgmental way to say things. He smiled a lot and he laughed easily, like a guy who didn’t take himself too seriously.

“Don’t worry, I’m about out of money.” Sam took a sip. “I never signed up for teetotalling, anyway.”

“You got anything that resembles a beer?” the pastor asked the bartender. Leaning in close to Mickey, he whispered, “Neither did I.”

“All right, Pastor Mickey, what are you going to get after me for?”

“Nothing.” Mickey got his beer in a tall glass and took a sip. “Just saying hello to my friend Sam.”

“I don’t have a job,” Sam said.

“Okay. How you doing?”

Sam didn’t mention that he’d stolen a few personal items from his neighbors, fencing them for cash. He felt his cheeks turn a little red.

“I figure the food and board here is free,” Sam continued, “even if it’s bad.”

“Seems to be the case,” Mickey agreed. “But how you are doing?”

“Sooner or later, they’ll dump me on the planet. I’ll get a job then. I don’t even care what it is.”

“I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you’re not feeling your best.”

“I miss her, Pastor Mickey.”

“I do too.” Mickey sipped his beer again. “I miss the way she always wanted to talk about the poor. I know she meant it.”

“I miss the way she was so excited that she was going to get to vote.” Sam sniffed. “I was pretending that I was going to vote for Joe Biden.”

Mickey coughed, spitting beer back into his glass.

“It just occurred to me that, if there is a liberal system somewhere, Joe Biden might be there now, twenty years old.”

“On the plus side, maybe she’ll get to vote for him, after all.”

“I read this suggestion once,” Mickey said. “Things that have been around a long time, you should expect them to stick around a long time still. As a rough rule of thumb, I mean.”

Sam thought about it.

“Like . . . knives,” he suggested. “They’ve proven themselves useful, they’re not going anywhere. And tables. And books.”

“You’d been dating Julie, what? Three years?”

Sam nodded.

“So, you know, give yourself time.”

Sam nodded again. “You think it was all bullshit?”

“Your relationship with Julie?”

“God,” Sam said. “The Bible. I mean, Jesus suffered for all mankind’s sins, right?”

“Yes,” Mickey agreed.

“What about the Cybers’ sins?” Sam asked. “And the sins of the AIs? Do the AIs sin? And you never answered me about the rapture and the resurrection and stuff. What do you really think?”

Mickey sat back and looked up at the ceiling. He might have been praying silently.

“I guess I think two things,” he finally said.

“Good.” Sam finished his drink. “I can count to two.”

“First,” Mickey said, “is maybe you shouldn’t be thinking about a job. Maybe you should be thinking about divinity school.”

Sam snorted and shook his head.

“Thing two?”

“We’re going to need preachers and churches on the planet. Thing two is that there have always been mysteries about the gospel that man didn’t understand. Now, if anything, there are a few more mysteries.”

“Amen,” Sam said.

“You could say the same about the Pegasus System,” Pastor Mickey said. “And you could also say the same thing about love.”

Sam looked into the bottom of his tumbler, pretending he didn’t already know it was empty.

“How big’s your tab?” the pastor asked.

“I had three,” Sam said.

“Tell you what,” Mickey offered. “You promise to knock off drinking for the night and go home, I’ll cover you.”

* * *

“I’m not sure what Brandywine gets out of this,” Tim said, frowning. “You’re the majority partner and it helps you out . . . ”

“That’s something for you to negotiate with James,” Jason said. “Brandywine can have part of the value of the package, assuming it can be put together, and that’s an annuity to Brandywine. The best companies don’t just leave their capital in the bank; they put it to use. This is putting the capital, and our access to fresh foods, to use.”

“I’ll talk to James,” Tim said. “But we agreed that business decisions were to be left to me.”

“And I agree with that, still,” Jason said calmly. “It might not be the right decision. But when you’ve talked, we’ll talk again and let me hear your objections and see if I have a different take. I’m not wedded to this but I’d like to get the stuff I’ve concentrated my units on up and going. If you decide it’s not in Brandywine’s best interest, I’ll probably take part of my cut in materials and set it up, anyway. And if you’d prefer it that way, I’m fine with that. Okay, where are we at on putting down another package or packages?”

“We agreed that we need you to train people,” Tim said. “Not that the people we’re sending down can’t figure things out themselves. But it gets ahead of the learning curve.”

“Train the trainers,” Jason said, nodding.

“I’ve picked six people,” Tim said. “On our discussion: Two are former Ranger Regiment with extensive hunting experience. Two are former SF Group. Ditto. Two are civilian hunters with extensive backgrounds. I’ll take your input on all of them . . . ”

“A chi . . . ?” Jason said, looking at the photos and basic profiles then stopped. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Tim said, grinning. “I knew her from being in the Regiment. She came in as a shooting instructor.”

“She . . . should do,” Jason said, going into the deep background. “Actually, my balls are drawing up a little. They all agreed to nondisclosures, right? I don’t want all our methods becoming common knowledge.”

“They all are under NDAs,” Tim said. “Per your suggestion, if they figure out anything long-term useful, they get a piece of that. Both in terms of methods, IP, and in terms of new foods.”

“Good,” Jason said. He’d been willing to insist on that one and was glad Tim hadn’t bitched much. “They’re aware that most of them are going to have to go in stasis?”

“They’re all aware,” Tim said.

“I’ve been thinking about the dinner for another reason than the financial package,” Jason said. “We need to think about something like a test kitchen. We’re not going to have access to spices and herbs that are terrestrial for a while. If we can set up a kitchen and get a few good chefs, we put them together with the stuff we’re finding and they can come up with recipes. That’s more medium term but it’s something we should talk about.”

“I’ll put it on the ‘to be considered’ pile,” Tim said. “When did you set up the meat processing center? I came in this morning and we were already shipping meat. Good prices, too.”

“Last night,” Jason said, shrugging. “I told you it wasn’t going to be hard. By the way, thanks for being willing to talk to my accountant.”

“You really had no idea you were making money?” Tim said, chuckling. “You’re one of the easiest business partners ever.”

“I had to borrow a .458 for this,” Jason said. “Speaking of which, do they have the guns and ammo for this?”

“All of them are either professional hunters or have extensive civilian experience,” Tim said. “So, yeah, they all have a better gun collection than you do. I told them they’re limited to one coffin for personal gear including guns.”

“Yeah,” Jason said. “I can cut to one coffin. I didn’t use most of the stuff I took.”

“You’re the boss,” Tim said. “Take as much gear as you want. And on that matter: You are the boss. This is a group of total Alphas. Ensure that they know you’re the boss. For one thing, there’s going to be conflicts. You have to resolve them. They’re also professionals so you shouldn’t have too many issues. But your job is to train them and resolve conflicts. Best if you don’t let them kill themselves.”

* * *

Jason strode into the warehouse trying to look as confident as possible carrying a steel bar like a marshal’s baton.

The group of six prospective contract Harvest Officers were mostly standing around chatting. The exception was Melanie Storm, the only female. She was seated on a flexmet chair more or less surrounded. She didn’t look uncomfortable about it, though.

Jason had had Jewel arrange a coffin and a case against the wall of the warehouse, a hundred kilos of flexmet on the floor, and a small and a large tractor. Then Debra led them into the warehouse and left them there.

“Good to see you all,” Jason said. They’d all arrived early, which was good and expected. “You, Ms. Storm, are going to do just fine,” he continued, taking a parade rest position in front of the wall.

“The pile of flexmet was a test. To see if you’d make yourselves chairs. So, everybody grab a handful and set up chairs here,” he said, gesturing in a semicircle.

Jason had taken to just keeping wristlets of flexmet and he extended a tentacle to the pile, formed a table and set the bar of steel down on it.

“You’ve probably introduced yourselves but so everyone’s on the same page,” Jason said, gesturing to the guy on his left. “Right to left, name, background, short resumé.”

“Jay Ritchie.” Short and blonde, he had a bulky build. “Uh, former Ranger Regiment, hoowah? Third Batt. War on Terror, hoowah? Stans, Iraq. Got out, merced up for a while. I’d spend all my money on hunting rifles and going hunting. Safaris, stuff like that. Got tired of that, moved to Alaska and became a professional hunter and guide. Covers most of it, hoowah?”

“Roger,” Jason said. He suspected everyone was going to get tired of him inserting “hoowah.” “Next.”

“Scott Duncan.” Narrow waist, really wide shoulders, dark hair, ears like cauliflower buds. “Similar. Ranger Regiment. Desert Storm. Some time in the Balkans. Ten years, got out, moved home to Wyoming, went back to what I did in high school, hunting guide. Moved to Alaska after a while. Professional hunter and guide.”

“Roger,” Jason said. “Ms. Storm?”

“Melanie Storm,” Storm said. Blonde, blue, five foot seven, solid build. “Yes, real name, born with it. Grew up hunting and shooting in Montana. Dad was a competition long-range shooter. Took every national competition in high school. Got recruited to join the Army to be part of Army Marksmanship Training Unit. My MOS was cook.” She gave a grin at that one. “MOS didn’t matter. After cook’s school I never lifted another pan. Went straight to AMTU.

“Set the all-time record, which remains, at Camp Perry on thousand yard which got me sergeant’s stripes. Got out as a staff sergeant, went back to professional shooting and hunting. I was somebody rich people would hire to go on safari with them.”

“You may not enjoy this as much as you think,” Jason said. “We’re going to be in woodlands. Relatively short range. Longest shot I took was a hundred and thirty meters.”

“Does it get me on that planet with a gun in my hand?” Storm asked, grinning.

“Point,” Jason said to the chuckles. “Next.”

“John Dovey.” Tall and spare with blonde hair, sharp blue eyes, high cheekbones and a chiseled jaw. He looked like Hollywood casting had been told “We need somebody who screams German Army in World War Two!” “Ex-South African Army. Recce. Special operations for those unfamiliar. Officer. Got out, also spent some time as a security contractor, went back to hunting for a living.” He ended the description with a nod.

His full bio had included that he’d done more than just “security contracting.” There were hints at something more like hitman.

“Next,” Jason said.

“Kevin O’Callaghan.” O’Callaghan was a burly guy, six foot two, brown hair, brown eyes, who was definitely regrowing a beard and hair. He had the biker look to the bandana around his head. You knew there was a Harley in his personal property storage. “Green Beret NCO. Long time ago. Owned a bar in Key West. Hunted and fished everything you could hunt and fish on Earth That Was. Was pretty much retired by the Transfer.”

How long time ago?” Scott Duncan asked.

“Back when I was in, Rangers were called Long Range Reconnaissance Patrols,” O’Callaghan answered. “This is sort of junglish terrain. Spent lots of time in jungles.”

Five tours in Vietnam. Two silver stars, three purple hearts, MACV-SOG. That much time in jungles. And from his full bio he’d owned more than “a bar” in Key West. He’d built up a business development company from scratch that owned half the businesses in the Keys.

“Last,” Jason said as the group nodded.

“Kevin Surber.” The guy was built like a slab and leaned forward as if he intended to headbutt his way through the conversation. His accent was a grew-up-in-the-holler twang.

“Former SF. Officer. Nineties. Merced up after 9/11. Spent most of my merc time in Africa and went hunting every chance I got. Grew up with it in Kentucky. Got to the point I was just staying ex-pat in Kenya waiting for the next contract. Finally decided hunting was what I wanted to do for a living. Spent ten years as a guide and professional hunter then the Transfer.”

“You’ve seen my short resumé,” Jason said, grinning. “Which, from the point of view of hunting and shooting is the most minor resumé here. If we were looking for people to go to the planet, I’d never have made the list. My real resumé, though, is that I’ve done a lot of stuff, all different kinds, and I’m a science fiction fan. I take to this tech like a duck to water. I’m also lazy. Which means I find the most efficient way to do a job then let it run.

“So, let’s talk about what we’re doing and how we’re going to do it. And what we are not doing.

“Starting with not: This is not a hunting expedition. This is not an exploring expedition. This is a harvesting expedition. We are dropping to the planet to catch shrimp. Everything else is secondary. We are there to gather protein to feed the station and make money. It’s a commercial fishing expedition. However, much of the secondary also fills containers with protein.”

He put his hand over his face shame-facedly and peeked out through his fingers.

“You’ve all seen the crocodile video, right?” he asked.

There were the expected chuckles and Storm snorted.

“A Garand?” Storm said, shaking her head. “Seriously?”

“I do not have the gun collection you all have,” Jason said. “Hell, I’m borrowing a .458 this time. And I should note that half of this cargo is crocodile meat,” he added, gesturing to the stacked coffins. “That croc filled half a conex. Protein for the station. Okay, quick terminology.”

He pointed to the case and coffin leaning against the wall.

“These are called small and medium containers, and the big shipping containers are large,” Jason said. “The terms hereby are case, coffin and conex. The two tractors I tend to call bots and I’ve nicknamed the little one Alfred and the big one Herman. Continuing: Half those coffins are filled with croc meat. Fourteen crocodiles.”

“Sixteen,” Jewel corrected.

“Sixteen crocodiles,” Jason said. “None, as far as I know, as large as the first, but in that range.”

“Which you took with a Garand?” Duncan asked, scratching his cheek. “Ballsy.”

“Only one of which I shot,” Jason said. “And that’s the point I’m getting to. I could not have . . . It would have been definitely difficult to take that many crocs with a Garand or a Safari or a freaking Nitro Express. Not to mention the bruised shoulder and expensive ammo. And you’re supplying your own ammo, right?”

“Right,” O’Callaghan said.

“So, how’d you do it?” Duncan asked.

“This,” Jason said, dropping a strand of flexmet from his wristlet and holding it up. “This is your friend. This is your best buddy. This is my flexmet, there is much like it but this is mine.”

He picked up the steel bar, wrapped a strand of flexmet in a visible loop then thinned and retracted.

A section of the bar dropped onto the table.

That is how you kill crocs,” Jason said, looking around. Okay, so they were paying attention again. “That is how you collect most of your game meat. Hell, that was how I ended up cutting firewood.”

“I didn’t know it could do that,” Dovey said.

“What part of NDA was unclear?” Jason asked. “Jewel, bring up the schematic of the defense net.”

The wall of the warehouse flashed up a schematic of the defense and warning net Jason had put in at the camp.

“After the first croc I was kind of panicked, I’ll admit,” Jason said. “Not so much that I’d get eaten, although they were big enough to snatch me off the top of a conex. The problem was I was there to catch shrimp and the crocs were going to be in the way. So, I set out this thin, broad netting of flexmet to give me some warning . . . ”

He went through a brief description of the development of the defense net.

“This stuff is your best buddy,” Jason repeated. He pulled a chunk of flex from the table, tossed it up in a strand to an overhead pipe and lifted himself into the air. “You can climb with it.” He took more from the table and formed a breastplate. “You can make armor with it. You can make fishhooks with it and the line. And with the aid of the drones, you can use it to kill, literally, anything.”

“Not very sporting,” Surber said thoughtfully.

“And that is one thought process to eliminate,” Jason said. “What is our mission?”

“Bring protein to the station,” Storm said, nodding unhappily. “So, no hunting?”

“I didn’t say that,” Jason said with a grin. “Here’s the thing. Our mission is to return food to the station. And that is so dead easy, it’s going on right now. Jewel, live shot.”

The view changed to a shot of the fishing camp and zoomed in on the shrimp catch/load system.

“That’s happening right now,” Jason said. “We are loading food to the conexes, to be transferred to the station, as we speak. So, once you’re set up, you have time for hunting. Feel free. But let the bots and the flex and the drones do most of the work.

“Your primary job, though, is just tasting stuff.” He opened up a set of flexmet to reveal various herbs and mushrooms. “The real reason to have people at these sites is as taste testers.”

“Taste testers?” Duncan said, cocking an eyebrow.

“The drones can survey and find potentially edible fungi and plants, test for toxicity,” Jason said. “But someone has to taste it to see if it’s palatable. Think about how bad print food tastes. So, you spend a good part of your day just tasting stuff like this,” he added holding up a small but broad leaf. “Sheila’s Thyme. Tastes close to thyme, looks more like bay leaf. Previously unknown species. Named after my niece.” He held up a red mushroom that had a shape similar to a portion of the male anatomy. “Derren’s Mushroom. Tastes a bit like a sorrel mushroom.”

“Also, a funny shape, hoowah,” Ritchie said. “Who’s Derren?”

“Derren Bank is the primary bank for Brandywine Foods,” Jason said pontifically then smiled. “Richard Derren, president and CEO, is also the guy who married my ex.”

The whole group laughed at that one.

“It’s an incredibly common wild mushroom in the area,” Jason said, grinning. “When I sent him and Monica a care package, I made sure there weren’t any in it. But at this rate they’re going to be all over the station. And it’s one of the few I bothered to name. Any new species you get to name. I could barely come up with a name for the river. Go for it. Back to flexmet.”

He picked up the cut end of the steel bar and snipped off a smaller chunk then attached it to the end of the flexmet and made a flex machete.

“Best brush clearer you can have,” Jason said. “Better than a machete or a boma. I was carrying a kukri. I’ll carry one again ’cause magic makes me nervous. But I never used it. Flex was much more useful.”

“Will it go through thorn, though?” Dovey asked.

“It will go through a tree,” Jason said, slicing it through the air.

“It forms a monomolecule?” O’Callaghan asked, furrowing his brow.

“Slightly thicker but not enough to notice,” Jason said, nodding. “The stuff is very smart. It-won’t-cut-you smart. But it slices and dices anything else. Jewel, video of croc butchering.”

The view changed to one of the crocs being processed.

“Speed up three times . . . ” Jason said. “Six . . . nine . . . ”

As they watched, a headless croc forty feet long was processed by the flexmet, drones and bots.

“It’s like watching army ants chop up a frog,” Duncan said.

“Do you go by Melanie or what?” Jason asked Storm.

“I go by Mel or Storm,” Storm said. “Generally Storm.”

“To answer your hunting question, Storm,” Jason said, “if things are under control at the camp, fish and shrimp are landing, cases and coffins are being loaded, grab a gun and go for a hike. The drones are going to have mapped everything out and you can use them to track in on game. Not as sporting as back in the 1800s but everybody was starting to use drones back on Earth, right?”

“Never left home without one,” Surber said as the others nodded.

“But you also take four drones, an Alfred and a coffin,” Jason said. “Drones out in a diamond even if your head is on a swivel. And it should always be on a swivel. The drones aren’t great with small snakes, poisonous spiders, et cetera. And there are unknown threats so take nothing for granted. There’s eventually going to be a saying: There are old Bellerophon hands, bold Bellerophon hands but there are no old, bold . . . This planet is lethal on spades. The Alfred is to help with the game and the coffin is for carrying it back to camp. And in the event you’re injured or screw up so completely you get yourself killed . . . ”

“You’ve already got a coffin available,” Duncan said, chuckling.

“The coffins are flexmet and contragravity,” Jason said, flattening the coffin and setting it in the air. “In the event you’re injured, get on the stretcher. It closes, it opens, you’re in the emergency department on the station. Which is why you always take what when you’re outside camp?” he asked, pointing at Ritchie.

“Four drones, hoowah . . . ” Ritchie said. “One of the small bots, an . . . Alfred and a coffin. Was having a hard time remembering what you called the bot.”

“What’s the mission?” Jason asked, pointing at Dovey.

“Protein to the station,” Dovey answered. “Trophy hunting dead last.”

“That’s commander’s intent,” Jason said. “What’s your main job on the ground, Duncan?”

“Tasting unknown foods,” Duncan said, nodding. “Mushrooms and plants?”

“Roger,” Jason said. “Among your secondary missions is figuring out new and spiffy ways to use all the tech to support the mission. Be. Lazy. Figure out the best way to use the drones, the flex, the bots. You’re the trainers of the trainers and train them to use their noggin first and their muscles last. Okay, last item. You all know that five of you are dropping in stasis, right?”

“Willing to defer to the lady on that one,” Duncan said, raising his hand.

“Hoowah,” Ritchie added with a thumb up.

“Chivalry will get you nowhere,” Storm said, but she grinned.

“It’s not chivalry, Storm,” Dovey said, raising his hand. “It’s world record at Camp Perry.”

“Oh, God,” O’Callaghan said, raising his hand. “Even I’m in on that one.”

“We are going to be doing other drops,” Surber said, raising his hand.

“You’re outvoted,” Jason said, looking at Storm.

“I’ll take it,” Storm said, shaking her head. “But to be clear, boys, I’ve been one of the boys since I was a tiny lass. That being said, just because you’re being nice, do not expect me to be the camp cook. I don’t care if it was my MOS. I’ll cook, yes, but not as my sole and only job.”

“Everybody cooks, everybody scavenges, tastes and hunts, everybody eats,” Jason said. “Okay, therewith my brief. Questions, comments, concerns?”

* * *

“I hope I never get used to this view,” Jason said as the ship left the station.

“It’s honestly . . . ” Storm said then looked around at the screens. “Okay, it’s a pretty cool view. I want to see the planet more or less live.”

“Coming up,” Tom said.

Since there were “issues” on this drop, Jason had worked to get Tom Ferrell again. The former Air Force driver was a known quantity.

Though they were going to a similar area and a similar river, there was no handy sandbar or clearing to use as a camp site.

So, they were going to have to make one. Which was the “issue” involved.

Jason had some ideas on that one and hoped they’d work out. He’d look like a fool if they didn’t.

“How high do you want to drop this stuff?” Tom asked as they approached the port.

“Above treetop,” Jason said. “That’s about it.”

“Just drop it in midair,” Tom said.

“Gonna have to,” Jason said. “Containers are contragravity. Tractors have lift and drive. They can hold it in place while we work.”

“Sure this is gonna work?” Storm asked.

Jason thought about what he wanted to say, which was “How the hell do I know?” but answered as the boss.

“Absolutely,” he said with a completely confident tone.

“Alrighty then,” Storm said. “But, not worrying or anything, do you have a backup plan?”

“Several,” Jason said. “This’ll work, Storm. You’re not afraid of heights or anything, right?”

“For the third time: No,” Storm said.

“Then for the third or so time, yes, it will work,” Jason said. “If you don’t mind, I need to think about this again.”

“Issues?” Storm asked.

“The devil is in the details,” Jason said. “You two talk amongst yourselves.”

He turned up his earphones and got to work, examining the individual trees in the LZ.

* * *

Jason had been so engrossed he’d barely noticed the planet approaching and was startled at the first “thump” of reentry.

“Can you spend enough time to fly around a bit over the LZ?” Jason asked.

“For what you guys are paying me, as much time as you’d like,” Tom said. “Not to mention the case of shrimp. No small crocodiles but there were some interesting tropical fish.”

“Consider them a bonus,” Jason said distractedly.

They were coming in from the northwest, right over the shoulder of Chindia Mons. Jason had to break out long enough to marvel over the massive mountain and the chain that extended out from it. There were clouds surrounding the ice ring, but other than that it seemed as if there wasn’t a single cloud in the entire north of Chindia. The view was so clear that it was apparent the stratovolcano was so massive it was depressing the ground underneath and around it. There was still an uplift to it, but the entire continent was at the same time somehow flattened in an arc around it.

That flattening and subsidence, which geologists were pretty sure was ongoing along with erosion, was the primary cause of earthquakes in north Chindia. Jason hadn’t experienced any the last visit but they were estimated to be about as common as in California.

On the other hand, nothing was certain about this planet yet. It was all a roll of a dice.

The chosen landing site was a raised space that abutted the as-yet unnamed river and jutted a ridge of rock into it. They slowed rapidly as they approached, Tom’s usual entrance sending up clouds of birds as they dropped below the speed of sound, then came in to hover.

“Okay,” Tom said. “We’re here. Deploying your cargo.”

“Roger,” Jason said, standing up and picking up the Winchester and slinging it barrel down over his shoulder with flexmet. “Wait for us to deploy the bots.”

“Got it,” Tom said.

“Ready?” Jason asked as Storm slung her rifle. She was carrying a Dakota Arms Model 76 also in .458 Win Mag. Jason had had to go on the market to find rounds, which were as expensive as he anticipated.

“Always,” Storm said, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll try anything once.”

“And you can drop anything,” Jason said. “Once. Jewel, cargo stable?”

“Cargo is stable and holding under the ship,” Jewel replied.

“Can we stabilize it with just Herman?” Jason asked.

“Yes,” Jewel replied. “Even if the winds get higher.”

“Okay,” Jason said. “Tom, can you dust off on top?”

“In position and holding,” Tom said.

“And awaaay we go . . . !”


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