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“As you’ll notice, we’re a camp full of introverts. Extroverts don’t want to live this far from civilization, and the few who have tried…”
“Went insane?”
“Were threatened with death by their fellow campmates, who seriously needed them to shut the fuck up.”
Vaughn digs around in his front pocket. Another shiny coin goes into the jar. It might be just me, but very few appear to be US mint. Fair enough. Apparently, we’re a band of vagabonds and more power to us.
“Eventually, the hope is we’ll have a Starlink satellite connecting Pomaikai to the greater universe. For now, we have extremely limited access, which we reserve for official business. Saturdays and Sundays, we grant each person thirty minutes to go online, check email, connect with home, watch cat videos, whatever works for them. But until then, stay off.”
“What about phoning home?”
“Good luck with that. We have two sat phones to reach the mainland in case of emergency. We communicate around the island via radio.” He taps the black case dangling around his shoulders. “Everyone works Monday through Saturday. Assigned duties are on the whiteboard in the dining hall. If you leave base camp for any reason, even as part of your assignment, you need to check yourself out and note your destination. It’s a matter of safety. Someone, either myself, Charlie, Aolani, or Ronin, will have radio duties. If you leave base camp, you need to take a unit with you and check in on an hourly basis.”
“Or you’ll wait until the coconut crabs deliver their ransom demands?”
He finally cracks a smile. “Good news, their payment terms can generally be met with tubs of peanut butter.”
“Seriously?”
“They love the stuff. Wait till you visit Crab Town.”
“They get their own camp?” I’m a little terrified.
“This place has plenty of surprises. You’ll see. Now, where’s your passport?”
The abrupt change in topic catches me off guard. I blink owlishly, then realize that was probably his intent. Good looks aside, the man is smart.
“I don’t have a passport,” I tell him honestly.
He stares at me with those piercing blue eyes.
“Aren’t I still in the United States?”
He continues to stare at me.
I sit. Fidget. Stare at the pile of coins in the swear jar, some bright shiny new, others dull tarnished old. Definitely from many different countries.
“You’re saying the employment office never asked for your passport?”
“Never,” I agree, which is probably my first lie, as I’m already certain they said something to Twanow, who simply opted not to mention it to me. Again, because not even she could conjure up a passport out of thin air, and rather than be derailed by such details, she went with “it’s better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission.”
Note to self: I’m never meeting with a serial killer ever again, not even the ones with super high body counts and very efficient lawyers.
“You don’t need a passport to fly into Pomaikai,” Vaughn allows. “But you might need one to return to the mainland. That will be up to customs.”
“Really? But if I haven’t left the US, why do I need a passport to return?”
“Because an atoll such as this lacks border security. Anyone and everyone can arrive on these shores, from shipwrecked pirates who may have buried treasure here hundreds of years ago to drug smugglers whose single-person sub washed up just a few months ago.”
“You have a drug-running sub? Can I see it? Was it empty?”
“Do you mean of humans or drugs?”
“Either. Both. How cool is that?”
Vaughn sits back. He regards me a moment longer, then drops his hands from the top of his desk. “You may just fit in around here,” he allows.
I wonder if I should clap or if that would be in poor taste.
