by KA Hopkins
I could see we were moving in a southerly direction towards the last known address of my old buddy, who could hopefully help me sneak onto an alien Moon base. From our present location it was approximately 500 statute miles as the crow flies. It being a clear night with scattered clouds and only a short flight, Ship was limited to subsonic flight.
I compared the scout ship flight experience to the small planes I had flown for years. At night, in a small plane the view of the stars is diffused by the glare off the windscreen; there is the constant drone of the engine; your back hurts because your parachute is always lumpy in the wrong spot; half your body is cooking and the other half freezing due to the uneven heat coming from the heater. There were none of those discomforts on this flight. The ship was whisper quiet and warm. The command chair conformed to my body like a fine leather glove. With the walls and ceilings in view mode, I saw an exact representation of the surroundings with the same clarity, as if standing outside. The ship's movement gave the illusion I was floating on clouds.
We were above scattered clouds at 25,000 feet where there is less than half the atmosphere as found at sea level. Without the normal light pollution of cities, clouds or atmosphere, the light from the stars were scarcely diffused. Every couple of minutes the silver flash of a satellite would cross overhead from horizon to horizon, then an occasional meteor cut the coal black night sky for a few seconds with a streak of illumination. The incredible vista of stars and galaxies above my head made me realize Earth is but a tiny pinprick in the cosmos. The starlight was thousands, if not tens of thousands of years old. The breadth and color of the constellations were so intense I could still see an image of them with my eyes closed. All too soon Ship reported we had reached our destination.
I asked if we were in any danger of detection from the local military airports we flew over. Ship explained that outside of restricted airspace, most civilian radars depended upon secondary surveillance radar which uses a radio transponder. Since we were not transponder equipped, there was no possibility that we would be picked up by secondary radar. As far as military primary radars were concerned, the ship’s hull had the ability to absorb all radar energy so there would not be any radar return. The same was true for infrared and thermal sensor systems, the hull absorbed all energy in all bandwidths. Optical systems were defeated by fiber optic sensors in the hull that could bend light around the hull, essentially making the ship invisible to the human eye. In short: the ship was completely invisible to all human detection methods.
As we arrived at our destination, I told Ship it might take a couple of days for me to track down my old friend, so Ship needed to hide from prying eyes. Probably the easiest place to hide a fifty foot alien scout ship would be a large body of water. Since our destination was next to the ocean, the potential hiding spot was obvious. What was not so obvious was how I was going to get ashore. Ship informed me there was only one hatch located on the lower deck. In space, a force field allows objects to be moved in and out of the ship while keeping the atmosphere from escaping. But with water being thirty times denser than air, the force field would not be effective and the ship’s electronics could be damaged if exposed.
“Seems to be a significant design flaw if you ask me; you’re telling me your ships can fly from the Earth to the Moon in a few hours but waterproofing is beyond your technology?”
Before I could ask any more questions, Ship opened the bottom hatch fifty feet above the ocean, and told me to jump. None of my clothes survived the fire fight with the alien ship’s Captain, but Ship was adamant I could not wear the silver jumpsuit around town without attracting unwanted attention and told me I was better off jumping into thirty-five degree water naked. Ship’s logic made absolutely no sense to me. For the life of me, I could not understand how not wearing any clothes was better than a silver jumpsuit? Last time I checked, you did not get arrested for public indecency for wearing a silver jumpsuit. I didn’t have time to argue; Ship insisted I jump immediately as the deployed landing ramp ruined the stealth characteristics, making the scout ship vulnerable to human detection. So, I jumped naked into the water from fifty feet up. Only later would I understand why Ship insisted I swim ashore instead of dropping me off on the beach.
Despite all of the changes Ship claimed to have made to my body, the water was bone chilling cold. The sudden shock forced me to involuntarily breathe in a lungful of water which had me coughing and floundering on the surface for a minute or two. Once I could breathe, I got my bearings and started a slow side stroke towards shore. Ocean currents and landmarks obscured by the three to four foot ocean swells, turned my short little one mile swim into a four mile, three hour odyssey. Superman under the hood - bullshit! I was completely drained by the time I pulled myself onshore. I had never been as cold in my entire life; I was in real danger of dying on the beach due to simple hypothermia. I could see summer beach houses about ten miles off in the distance; I decided running was better than freezing and set off towards the beach houses. Despite stumbling like a drunk for the first several hundred yards due to my legs being numb from the cold, I made it to first beach house in less than eighty minutes, which was a good pace considering I was running bare foot, buck-naked, on sand.
All of the beach homes were boarded up for the winter which was a shame as they were magnificent mansions; too bad they were probably only used a couple of weeks per year. I expected properties of this scale would have tons of security on the ground level, so I scaled the outside of the first property I came to, going hand over hand up the drain pipe, until I got to the second floor. I found a window I could fit through and broke a pane with my elbow, slid it open and hopped into the room, all while doing my best to avoid stepping on the broken glass with my bare feet. Despite my efforts I still managed to step on a large jagged piece of glass, which strangely enough did not hurt as much as expected.
I searched through the upstairs bedrooms, leaving a faint bloody trail of foot prints on the carpet; the lack of blood was a sign that the cut was not all that deep, even though it looked pretty bad at first glance. Soon the bleeding stopped altogether and I forgot all about it. In the master bedroom I found some clothes that fit well enough, although to my dismay it was a golfing outfit. I was dressed out of season, but golf clothes had to be better than running around naked. The worst part of the outfit were the shoes - they had to be at least three sizes too big and looked more like clown shoes than real ones. I put them on with a few pairs of socks to help with the fit. Trying to get out of the house as quickly as possible, I made the mistake of putting the shoes on upstairs and ruined the downstairs hardwood floors with the steel spikes.
As I exited the front door, I ran straight into a private security guard. His response time to the silent alarm was admirable; just my luck. Given how the day was shaping up, bad luck was the only luck I seemed to have of late.
If regular cops had been monitoring the house, given all the budget cutbacks, I would have had plenty of time to get away, as B&E on a vacant house isn’t considered high priority. There was no way to argue with the private security officer - he caught me in the act.
I went into my best non-threatening body posture of hands up against the wall, back straight, feet apart, so instead of coming at me with his gun, he chose his collapsible steel baton.
“Officer, you’ve got me, I know I’m trespassing, but I really need these clothes.”
“So you think you can break into houses on my beat do you? I’ve got a way of making sure guys like you get a clear message to never come back!”
“Great!” I mumbled to myself. I get the rental cop who wants to make up for his penis size by hanging a beating on me.
“What’s that boy, I can’t hear you?”
“Officer please hear me out - I know I’m in the wrong here, but I really need these clothes; can’t you just call it in as B&E and say the suspect got away?”
“I can’t do that.”
“OK. Arrest me then.”
�
��Not going to do that either.”
“Putting a beat down on me will be captured by the security CCTV cameras.”
“I know where the security hard drive is, there won’t be any record of what’s going to happen.”
(What does this say about how our society functions? Punishing petty theft with a severe beating, more than likely putting the suspect in hospital, where the state provided Medicaid will cost hundreds of times more than the value of the goods stolen. I know I was in the wrong, but two hundred dollars’ worth of clothing versus tens of thousands in medical bills, which the tax payer would have to pay for…please!)
It was pretty obvious the guard was not open to any further conversation; his mind was already made up. So much for trying the de-escalation talk-and-walk route…it was time for something a lot less subtle.
A collapsible steel baton in the right hands is an extremely effective weapon, which is why most western security and police forces carry them. But this guy had obviously watched way too many martial art movies: instead of taking the correct fighting stance with one foot in front of the other, feet separated shoulder width apart, balanced on the balls of his feet and the baton raised forty-five degrees in his back hand - he whipped it through the air like a sword. I waited for his swing to arc downward so the momentum pulled him slightly off balance, then stepped into the baton arc, trapped his striking arm between my lead forearm and body, and simultaneously hit him with a reverse palm heel strike to the chin with my free arm. Thrown correctly with the correct transfer of weight, a reverse palm heel strike to the chin will stop a charging rhino. The guard was nowhere near rhino size, so with his jaw broken in several places, he hit the ground unconscious. He was out cold and I did not have so much as a scratch.
I picked him up and tossed his two hundred and fifty pound body over my shoulder. In the garage I stripped him and duct taped him to a chair; for good measure I taped his junk to his hands. “One dick deserves another.” I destroyed his cell phone and ripped the phone junction box off the wall, disabling all landline phones in the house to make it more difficult to call for help.
To buy more time, I needed the alarm code to turn off the silent alarm. I got a bucket of ice out of the freezer and dropped it in his lap and he woke up surprisingly fast. “What’s going on?” He mumbled through his broken jaw. I explained I needed the alarm code. He answered, “Bite me!” so I did. With the alarm disabled, I parked his patrol car in the garage; in the kitchen I found the keys to a late model Jeep the owners used as their summer vehicle. I bid the rental cop good bye, locked up and headed into town.
As I drove towards the city lights warm and comfortable for the first time in many hours, I reflected on what had transpired with the rental cop. Breaking his jaw occurred as a consequence of disarming him; duct taping him naked to the chair, I had to admit was a bit over the top. But taping his junk to his hands! Whose idea was that? The first two actions, I could reason were borne out of necessity, but the last one was pure and simple humiliation and domination. I had purposefully hurt someone, then humiliated him for no good reason, which was way out of character for me.
Was I feeling bad enough to go back and untie him? Not one bit. He might be in pain, but it was temporary and his company will eventually trace his patrol car’s GPS locator once he missed his scheduled check in time - although it might take a couple of hours before someone found him, since I had ripped the GPS receiver out of the car and had thrown it in a ditch. The morality of my actions bothered me, but not all that much. I needed to get to town ASAP and he intended to hospitalize me. I figured by the time the security agency checked on their officer and discovered the homeowner’s Jeep was missing, I should have at least a couple of hours before the BOLO hit the streets and the police were alerted. To make it more interesting for the authorities, I planned to ditch the Jeep in one of the less desirable neighborhoods that are only rarely patrolled. In the part of town I had in mind, it would not take long for someone to steal it and further obscure my tracks.
I drove to one of the seedy downtown districts; it had once been the center of the town’s activities, but as with so many of our once pristine cities, it was now a blight and an eyesore. I have always wondered why so little in North America seems to last, compared to Europe, where buildings and neighborhoods withstand centuries; ours seem to deteriorate in decades. While both the left and the right politicos have strong opinions on why the inner cities are in the state they’re in, I’m not sure either socialism or capitalism has all the answers to the problem.
I left the keys in the ignition and headed out on foot down what I thought was the main street. It was hard to tell as it was so poorly lit; most of the street lights were damaged or burned out. Only a couple of hundred yards away from the Jeep, I ran into one of the numerous street gangs who called the area theirs. No doubt about it - this was definitely not a good hood.
There were seven gang members. Four quickly formed a semi-circle in front of me, while the remaining three slipped in behind me to cut off any chance of escape. It was hopeless to try and outrun them. So in the spirit of “a good defense is a mean offence,” I approached the one who appeared to be the leader. He was neither the biggest nor the most tattooed gang member, but everyone seemed to be afraid of him, everyone’s body language suggested he was the alpha male. I looked him in the eye and said, “The Jeep back yonder - it’s yours.” His reply made it clear that this was not going to be easy.
“Not enough man…the tax for stepping on our turf in those clothes is a whole lot higher. I’ll have your wallet, phone and watch if you please. Do it real quick and since I’m in such a virtuous mood, maybe we’ll only bust you up a little.”
”No can do bro, can’t give you what I don’t have.”
“Then we have a problem motherfucker!”
“Look guys I don’t want trouble. Take the Jeep, it’s all I have.” The leader got right into my face. “This is our turf, our rules, you don’t get a say motherfucker, hand over your shit now or me and the Homies will fuck you up!”
Man oh man did he need some Tic Tacs; his breath made my eyes water.
My response even took me by surprise. In a low, non-threatening tone, I gave him his choices; “So there is no misunderstanding…I’ll make it simple for a pea-brain two-bit street thug like you. You have two options: Option A, take the Jeep and let me pass; Option B…well, let’s just say option A is the one you want, because option B is I kill you and all your pussy friends. Choice is yours...”
My inner voice was now screaming at me, “What the fuck?” I have seldom been in a fight and have never fought a street gang in my life. Now I was intentionally pissing off and threatening seven armed gangsters on their home turf.
My lack of respect and bravado did not impress the leader, who replied: “You’re one stupid motherfuckin’ bitch and you gonna pay with your life!”
It’s clearly stated in the Marquess of Queensberry rule book for fighting that punching and kicking below the belt, the use of knees, elbows, eye-gouging and head butts are prohibited in fights between gentlemen. Good thing I had never read the rule book, nor did I intend to fight like a gentlemen.
In mixed martial arts, the UFC rules take great care to ensure opponents are not crippled, as it’s an invitation to lawsuits and bad for business; I was under no such limitations. I had a working knowledge of sport martial arts, but the next few seconds surprised me probably as much as it did my opponents. Without waiting for the gang to initiate the first move, I took a step drag backwards and delivered a thrusting mule kick to the left knee of the closest gang member. His knee snapped backwards, shattered. He hit the ground screaming, which distracted the other gang members - it was not more than a second or two but it was enough. To close the distance to the remaining attackers behind me, I planted the leg I had just kicked with and pivoted 90 degrees, putting me in front and just to the left of his companion, who I hit with a left leg cut kick to the side of his knee.
A cut ki
ck is one of the strongest kicks in mixed martial arts - the momentum gained by turning your hip over during the kick generates enough force to easily knock over a three hundred pound heavy bag. The sidewise force needed to destroy a knee is in the order of ten pounds. As I completed my kick I leaned back to get my head out of the way of his clumsy hay-maker punch, and let my momentum pivot my body 180 degrees to face the third opponent.
Instead of using the gun tucked into the back of his pants, he wanted to make it personal; he rushed me, grasped both lapels of my golf t-shirt, intent on giving me a Glasgow kiss (a head butt to the nose). I got both of my hands between our heads to cushion the blow and instead of his forehead smashing my nose, the heels of my hands smacked him in the nose. While only mildly painful, it caused him to involuntarily raise his head slightly. I crushed his windpipe with a trailing arm elbow to the throat.
As his life gurgled away through his smashed windpipe I grabbed him around the neck with my left arm and spun him to face the remaining four assailants. I pulled the pistol from the back of his belt with my right hand and managed to score head shots on two of the gang members before they could react.