Irrefutable Proof: Mars Origin "I" Series Book II (25 page)

Chapter
Fifty-One

We
set off for India.

It
was just me and Greg. Simon was going to meet us there.

Claire
had a 3-day conference at the Cleveland Medical Mart downtown. Addie couldn’t
come with us, either. But with her ready reference to a book, whose premise she
believed appropriate for the situation, she had told me to look for our
Kipling’s
Mowgli
. Someone raised by the Sentinelese but who remembered
the ways of “contacted” people.

I
wished we could be so lucky.

Actually,
it wasn’t the jungles of India we were invading, but the Andaman Islands, two
hours away. The Andaman Islands, an archipelago, was home to North
Sentinel Island and the Sentinelese. And our Mowgli, if you want to call him
that, was Simon.

We
were taking British Airways. We’d have to take another airline to get from Cleveland to New York, but BA would get us where we needed to go. I had been so afraid,
since the Andaman Islands is not a well-known travel destination, we’d
have to take some unknown airline. And that it would be overfilled with
chickens flapping around in wire coups, sweaty, greasy passengers, rickety
seats and an engine that coughed its way across the Bay of Bengal.  Instead,
we
flew with “free
food and drink service and the latest in in-flight entertainment.” We relaxed
in a seat with “adjustable headrest, lumbar support and recline.” All that in
Economy class! (Greg’s usual, “You watch too much TV, Justin,” accompanied by
the shaking of his head, was his response to my surprise at such nice
accommodations. But he had never been on an excavation with me in the middle of
nowhere, where those things wouldn’t be so far-fetched).

The
only bad thing about the flight was that between the flying time and the
layovers, it took the better part of two days to get there. Cleveland to New
York. New York to London. It was sixteen hours from London to Chennai,
India, then to Port Blair in the Andaman Islands.

Flying
into the Veer Sawarkar Airport on Fort Blair was beautiful. The weather was
eighty degrees, and the landing strip might have been 3,000 feet of concrete
but everything around it was green. Verdant. Beautiful.

Simon
was friends with anthropologist David Mhasalkar, the Director of Tribal
Welfare. Because of that he was able to set us up on a “Contact Expedition” to
the island.

The
Sentinelese did not like outsiders. But, what the government had been doing,
with good results, according to Simon, was coaching the Sentinelese out. The
government would visit the island, then leave gifts to lure them out and
hopefully ameliorate the hostility they had shown to outsiders. Simon had told
me that we had picked the perfect time to come. That the expeditions were going
well, they were working. And the Sentinelese were responding just as they had
hoped. I decided to trust him, and felt like maybe this trip, unlike my trip to
Israel, would yield something worthwhile. I believed Simon when he said he would
help me do what I wanted to do.

Greg,
however, had his doubts. Unfounded as they were, according to Simon, he still
believed that past hostility of these people warranted caution.

We
were taking a helicopter out to the island. So, Greg said, he was getting off
the helicopter first.  And if
he
felt it was safe, then I could get off.

North
Sentinel Island was
nominally part of, and administered by, the
Indian Union Territory of Andaman and Nicobar Islands. In practice, however,
the Sentinelese exercised complete autonomy. Still, it didn’t stop the
government from trying to have a relationship with the people of the island,
which was a good thing for me.

Simon
had recommended a bed and breakfast. Chaukhat, a stylish and comfortable six-bedroom
property that was located close to the airport.  We booked the entire property
for the week. With its air conditioned rooms and balconies, Wi-Fi capabilities,
cable television and en-suite bathrooms, we didn’t feel like we were in the
middle of nowhere.

We
did the first round of our contact expedition the day after we got there. I had
never flown in a helicopter, and when we got in this one, I was stunned. Here
we were in a third world kind of country, going to see people who we weren’t
even sure if they knew about fire, and we were riding in this luxury helicopter.
It was definitely something for someone way above my lifestyle.

The
inside of the helicopter reminded me more of a limousine than an aircraft.
 Contour high-back bucket seats that were creamy-colored leather, gave the
inside of the helicopter an elegant feel. It was a five-seat turbine, tour
grade flying machine that had thick, Berber carpet covering the reinforced
metal floor. I just wanted to take my tennis shoes and socks off and run my
toes through it.  

Greg
climbed in behind me and nodded as he looked around. I’m sure he wanted to ask
someone where he could buy one. I pulled the shoulder harness across my chest
and fastened it into the clip by my hip. I leaned my head back against the soft
headrest, stared out of the oversized window, and thought what an anachronism
this would be once we landed on that island lost in time.

 The
helicopter pilot checked with us, told us to put on our headphones to knock out
the noise, and we took off.  

The
plan was to circle a few times around the island, let the Sentinelese get use
to us up there in the air. Then we would fly off, pique their curiosity, and
come back. Hover over different places, observe and then come back the
following day.

Although
both me and Simon had degrees in anthropology, I took my archaeology
concentration more to heart. I had, in all my years of working, dealt solely
with dead people. I dug up their remains, and, as my brothers put it, “their
cookware.” Simon, however, had embraced anthropology. We had spent time digging
together and writing scholarly articles on our finds, but he had also spent
years of studying people. People who were still alive, and their culture. That’s
why I needed him.

When
we flew over the first few times, I could see their dwellings. They had shelter-type
huts with no side walls. From what I could see through the binoculars, the floors
were sometimes laid out with palms and leaves. Some of the other living areas
were larger, probably communal dwellings.

We
could see javelins and flat bows. Those kinds of weapons had high accuracy
against large targets. Like humans. Thank goodness they had calmed down when it
came to outsiders visiting. And they had harpoons that we actually got to see
in use.

After
we had flown over a few times, some that had been fishing, threw down their
harpoons and started throwing the fish they had caught up in the air. I guess
for us.

A
few of them came out as we continued to circle around. And after we left the
area for a while and came back, even more come out to see us. Perhaps this was
working. At one point, one of the women went to one of the men sitting on the
sandy beach, and held him in an embrace. Other women then paired up as if it
were some sort of community mating ritual.

I
looked at Greg.  “Time to go,” I said. I didn’t want to see what they might
start doing next. “We’re all set to come back tomorrow. They know who we are.”

Chapter
Fifty-Two

North
Sentinel Island

Andaman
Islands, Bay of Bengal

“Justin, you stay in the chopper. Me and Simon will go first.”

Greg was just reiterating what he had told me earlier. I guess
he said it more for Simon, who had insisted, almost to the point of
threatening, that I had to be the one to try and make contact.
Greg talked over the beat of the rotors, the
helicopter descending; they were slowing down, but still noisy. Once we hit the
ground, Greg took off his earmuffs, unfastened his harness, ready to climb out
of the hatch.

“Yeah, I know. You already told me that,” I shouted over the
noise. “But,” I thought I’d give it one more try, “Simon thinks I should be the
one to go.” I glanced over at Simon. He seemed nervous. I knew that he just
wanted this to go well for me. He had said that the reports of them being
hostile were old. That now, after the contact expeditions had started, things
had really turned around.

“It’s not safe.” Greg still hung onto that idea. “I heard that
they don’t like visitors,” Greg said, still talking loudly. He looked at Simon,
almost daring him to repeat his reasons from the night before about me going. “I’ll
go first, just to see. Once we’re out, if it seems safe, then you can come out.
Just give us a minute to test it.”

“You don’t know what to do. What are you going to say to
them?” I asked.

“What were
you
going to say to them?” he asked.

I opened my mouth to answer, and closed it again.
Good
point
. What was I going to say to them? I couldn’t speak their language.

He looked over at Simon. “You ready?”

Simon nodded his head, and Greg drew in a big breath and
looked at me out the side of his eye. Simon hopped out of the helicopter first,
Greg followed.

The two of them bent down and trotted out until they cleared
the rotors. I leaned out the door, bracing my arms on the sides of the doorway,
and watched.

There was a group of twenty or thirty natives about three
hundred yards away from the chopper. Simon and Greg stood still for a few
minutes. Watching. Waiting. Nothing happened. The natives didn’t move. Didn’t
say anything. So Greg and Simon started to walk out across the field, and the
natives started walking toward them.

Greg and Simon got about twenty yards out, and everything was
calm. I saw Simon say something to Greg, who nodded, and then turned back to me
and beckoned for me to come. Greg stood there and waited for me after I stepped
out of the chopper. Simon kept walking. The small group of Sentinelese natives was
still walking toward us, moving at a slow pace.

Good
,
I thought as I got closer,
they seem okay
.
The contact expeditions
must really be working well.
I pushed my satchel, with the Voynich
Manuscript tucked away inside, up on my shoulder.
Maybe even someone in this
group will understand what’s inside the book, or even recognize some of the
pictures,
I thought.

I was really getting excited. Dealing with “live” history was
a bit different for me. Simon, because he hadn’t waited for us, was farther up
than Greg. And, as I got closer to Greg, he started back to walking toward the
natives. I was starting to get butterflies. Maybe we were about to meet the
people who knew our history, who knew about our migration from Mars.

 “I think everything is okay with them,” Greg said, over his
shoulder. I was still a couple of yards behind him, but with the helicopter
noise absent he was easy to hear.  “They’re calm enough.”

I wanted to say, “See I told you,” but couldn’t because just
then three of the natives broke rank and came running out from the back of the pack,
spears in hand. Still about two hundred yards away, they started yelling
something that sounded like a war cry.

I started yelling, too.

Greg didn’t miss a beat, he turned and ran, and when he got to
me, he grabbed my arm, and yanked me around so fast that I stumbled over my own
feet. He caught me before I hit the ground, and said, “Run, Justin.” But I
didn’t have to run, he was pulling me.

I knew my heart was going to jump out my chest, it was beating
so hard. I was too scared to look back. I didn’t know what had happened to
Simon. After Greg pushed me up in the helicopter, I looked back across the
clearing and saw Simon just standing there. He must’ve started running back, I
guessed, because he was closer than where he’d been. But it looked like for
some reason he had just stopped.  He looked at me, then he turned back to face
the three that were heading toward him, then back to look at me.

Why would he have to think what to do?

“Run, Simon,” I started yelling. He just stood there. His body
turned at an angle, like he couldn’t decide.

So I started yelling at Greg for him to help him. Greg shook
his head, pushed me back into my seat, said, “Buckle up,” and turned and yelled
at the pilot, “Let’s go.”

“Noooo. Greg! We can’t leave Simon.” I was pleading with him,
and pointed back toward Simon. Just then I saw that Simon was making a mad dash
back to the helicopter.

“Justin, he’s got five seconds. Five . . . Four . . . Three .
. . Two . . .”

“Simon!” I screamed, trying to get out of my seat. Then I saw
that he was close to the helicopter. “Here he is! Here he is!”

I ran to the chopper door to help Simon get in.

The pilot was looking back at us, to make sure we were all in,
and then he took off amid spears hitting the glass and the side of the chopper.

I closed my eyes and started to pray. “Please, God,” I said.
“Let us make it out of here.” Opening one eye, I looked down at the natives.
More had started running toward us.

I glanced over at Greg. He was leaning back in the chopper,
his eyes closed, and his lips were moving fast.

When he opened them, he peeked out of the window and then over
at me. He busted out into a nervous laugh.

“Girl, you are going to get me killed!”