Parker's Folly

by Doug L. Hoffman

  “Damn!” The Major chewed on her lower lip, a nervous indication of deep frustration. “Call 'em and find out what they can do for us. Quickly Lieutenant. The Colonel will want options as soon as he gets here.”

  “Will do.” The Lieutenant turned back to his computer display and began looking up the number for Goodfellow HQ. Best contact the U.S. Marshals and local law enforcement as well. Hell, maybe the Texas Rangers can help. What was that old saying, “One riot, one Ranger?” Well this looked like it was turning into a riot.

  Chapter 3

  On Board Parker's Folly, Parker Ranch, Texas

  The two news people followed First Officer Curtis along the side of the spaceship and through a large opening in its curved flank. A ramp inside the threshold of the six meter wide by four and a half meter tall entrance led down to a large cargo area containing a scattering of crates and containers, some large, some small. The floor looked to be about eight and a half meters wide, while the crates obscured the length of the chamber.

  “This is the main cargo hold,” said their guide. “as you can see we are still loading equipment and supplies. There is a second large cargo door at the other end of the hold on the starboard side. Farther aft are the hydroponic gardens and engineering spaces. If you like, we can take a look at them after we visit the living quarters, the mess and bridge. The spaces forward will probably be more interesting to your viewers.”

  “I think we should probably go to the front of the ship straight away. That's where the controls are, right?” Susan asked while trying to take in the cluttered cargo hold. “We are starting to get tight on time for the six o'clock broadcast. If we could get some shots of you or the captain—I assume that there is a captain—answering some questions with that glass nose behind you we would be golden.”

  “Of course, we will proceed to the bridge. This way please.” Curtis motioned toward a rectangular area of the deck, marked off with a red border, abutting the forward bulkhead. There was an opening in the bulkhead starting about three and a half meters above the deck.

  Susan and JT stepped into the painted rectangle and Lt. Curtis said, “You may want to move in from the edges a bit.” The ship's officer pressed a large button recessed in a panel on the wall and the rectangular area of deck began to rise.

  “Whoa!” JT exclaimed, “How about givin' a guy some warning?”

  “Sorry, this is a cargo lift that is used to move heavy items from the hold to the mid-deck. I didn't mean to startle you.”

  Susan remained unflustered, thinking to herself, I believe that was a test of some sort. The lift stopped smoothly at the opening and a large door slid quietly to the side revealing a small brightly lit room and a passageway beyond. Lt. Curtis led the way through the room, past a second heavy door on its far side and into the passage way. The tour narration resumed.

  “The companionway to the left leads back down to the lower deck. There you will find crew quarters, a large head with showers and the crew's dayroom. Forward of the dayroom are the officer's quarters and guest staterooms. This ship was designed as both a research vessel and a private yacht. If you have time I can show you the owner's stateroom after we visit the bridge. It is quite something.”

  The hallway was done in pleasant, natural colors with indirect lighting running along the sides of the ceiling and short napped carpet on the floor. Doorways pierced the walls at irregular intervals, though these were not nearly as heavily built as the pair of doors they entered through.

  “These doors don't look very nautical,” Susan remarked, “and they aren't heavy like the ones we came through from the cargo hold.”

  “Good observation, Ma'am. The pair of doors opening onto the cargo hold are airtight. Together they form an airlock so that we still have access to the cargo area even when the hold is open to vacuum. There are a number of other airlocks that allow direct access to the exterior as well.”

  Susan nodded, assimilating data. Getting the details right was what made a news story believable. And as her knowledge of West Texas trivia showed, Susan had a mind for details.

  “By not looking nautical I presume you mean that the interior doors don't look like the watertight doors on a naval vessel, with high thresholds and a way to dog them shut.” Lt. Curtis continued. “This is a spaceship and not intended to sail upon the briny deep. Hopefully we will never have to deal with water flooding this ship's interior spaces.” Again the hint of a smile.

  Susan was getting the impression that Lt. Curtis had a rather sarcastic sense of humor, though she wasn't quite sure their tour guide was laughing at her or not. Sarcastic wit was something the reporter appreciated, since she possessed a similar sense of humor. “Well that explains it! I guess with all the navy jargon I was expecting a more nautical motif,” she said brightly.

  The First Officer looked at her unperturbed, then slowly raised a single eyebrow, much like Mr. Spock from the original Star Trek TV series. If she says ‘fascinating’ I'll burst out laughing, Susan thought, stiffing an urge to giggle.

  Turning back toward the bow, the tour resumed. “To the right is the sick bay. It is equipped with state-of-the-art equipment including CAT scan, MRI, automated blood and tissue analysis, toxicology screening and robot assisted surgery. There is also dental and optometry equipment. The ship's pharmacy is stocked with most common drugs and medicines plus a supply of frozen plasma.”

  “Across the way are electronic and mechanical engineering labs, equipped to repair or fabricate needed equipment. Not open to direct access from the passageway are bays that hold external sensors—telescopes, antennae, radar, LIDAR, and FLIR pods that can be extended beyond the hull once the ship is in space. And this...” they had come to a door blocking the hallway.

  Lt. Curtis operated the control next to the door and it slid into the wall out of sight. The party stepped from the passageway, up a short flight of stairs and into a large room that spanned the entire width of the ship.

  “...this is the mess and lounge area.”

  AFTAC, Patrick AFB, Florida

  Col. Atkins arrived at the AFTAC Command Center, his uniform neat but smelling of barbeque and wood smoke. He sat quietly as the Major brought him up to speed on the rapidly developing situation in West Texas.

  “It turns out the Marines have a squad and an MV-22 parked at Mathis Field, in San Angelo, showing the flag at an airshow. The Marines are armed but have no live ammo, the air show being strictly a dog and pony show. Mathis is only a few miles away from Goodfellow and they are sending an SF detail with six ammo cans of 5.56 and eight 200 round SAW magazines—that's more than 6,000 rounds.” Maj. Bledsoe paused and looked up. “Are we expecting heavy resistance?”

  “Strictly a precaution. Besides, you know the Marines, can't pack enough ammo to make them happy,” the Colonel chuckled. “Are they on the way yet? What's their estimated TOA?”

  “The Security Force people have just arrived at the air show. We are in contact with the Osprey's flight crew and they are running down the Lieutenant in charge of the squad of Marines. We've briefed the flight crew as to their destination and what to expect. As soon as the Marine LT gets on board they will depart. We'll brief the ground unit while they are in the air.”

  “Great, good work people. What about the local authorities and the Feds?”

  “They have been contacted and are sending the local Marshal, some Texas Highway patrolmen, and, I kid you not, a Texas Ranger. The Ranger is hitching a helo ride with some U.S. Marshals from San Antonio. We also have FBI out of San Antonio and BATF from both Fort Worth and El Paso. This guy's ranch is at least 250 miles from anywhere so the Feds will be arriving late. The Marines will probably be on station about the same time as the local yokels.”

  “Sounds good.” The Colonel then addressed the others present in the room: “Listen up people. The plan is for the Marines to seize the ‘spaceship’ or whatever is in the hangar, and hold the site until FBI and Homeland Security personnel can get there. They are not authorized
to arrest anyone and we don't want any posse comitatus blow-back.”

  The original 1878 Posse Comitatus Act was passed with the intent of removing the Army from domestic law enforcement. Posse comitatus, which means “the power of the county,” is viewed by many as a major barrier to the use of U.S. military forces in domestic security operations. In reality, it is more of a procedural formality than an actual impediment to the use of the military in homeland defense.

  Since 1980, there had been ample authority to employ military personnel in homeland defense when there was a threat involving weapons of mass destruction. Since a Pinnacle event is by definition nuclear in nature and there was the possibly of some form of weapon, the Pentagon OK'd the use of military force to seize whatever had emitted the radiation AFTAC's satellites had detected.

  Even so, the Colonel thought, best not to ruffle the local authorities' feathers. Authorized or not, God, please don't let them shoot any civilians. “Major, make sure those Jar Heads understand the mission—secure the target with minimal force and hold for the arrival of domestic federal agents.”

  Mathis Field Air Fiesta, San Angelo, Texas

  GySgt Rodriguez had been keeping an eye on her Marines from the shade of one of the Osprey’s short wings when the Air Force came screeching up in a blue Humvee. An overly excited military police Lieutenant hopped out of the Humvee and ran over to the aircraft demanding to know who was in charge. Rodriguez saluted the officer and replied that their LT had hit the head and would be back momentarily and could she be of any assistance?

  “Sergeant, we got a call from somebody in the Pentagon telling us we needed to get some small arms ammunition to a group of Marines over at the airport. I guess that means you.”

  “Well Lieutenant, we are the only Marines around here so we must be it. You have any idea as to why the Pentagon suddenly thinks we need live ammo at an airshow, Sir?”

  “I don't know, Sergeant, but I got my orders. And somebody has to sign for this stuff.”

  “Well, that I can handle,” the Gunny said, accepting the clipboard from the agitated Air Force officer. She signed the receipt and then shouted over her shoulder, “Sanchez, Reagan, Davis! Relieve our blue brethren of their burden and store the cans on board.”

  “Hey look, Sanchez!” shouted Davis, “the Zoomies brought you some ammo.”

  “Damn, I didn't know the Chair Force delivered,” Sanchez replied, taking two ammo cans from an SF Airman at the back of the Humvee.

  “Next time don't forget to bring your own ammo and we won't have to, Jar Head,” the Airman shot back. Rivalry between the services often led to the exchange of insults, and sometimes bar fights.

  “Knock off the chatter and get the lead out, Marines,” yelled the Gunny, ending the inter-service banter. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Hmm, sixteen hundred rounds of linked and 5,040 rounds in stripper clips, I wonder who they think we are going to fight out here?”

  “Not my department, Sergeant,” the Air Force Officer called as he climbed back into the idling Humvee. “Good luck, whatever it is.”

  Rodriguez waved at the departing fly boys and started walking back to the Osprey. “Corporal Sizemore! Where are my Marines?”

  The beefy Corporal stepped around the front of the aircraft and shouted back “Kato and Doc White went off in search of some snow cones or something, Gunny.” Referring to PFC Herman “Kato” Kwan and HM2 Belinda “Betty” White. The Marine Corps has no medical personnel of its own, relying instead on the United States Navy Hospital Corps for medics and doctors. Technically, corpsman White was not a Marine but a Navy sailor. Her rate and rating were Petty Officer 2nd Class and Hospital Corpsman, the medic equivalent of a Marine Sergeant.

  Hospital Corpsmen serve as enlisted medical specialists for both the Navy and Marine Corps. Navy corpsmen, traditionally called “Doc” by Marines, are highly skilled and are often deployed in the absence of a licensed doctor as Independent Duty Corpsmen. In fact, White, with skills in demand in the civilian market, was the only one in the squad who was leaving the service voluntarily. She had also volunteered to come on the air show mission, seeing it as a last, safe adventure before leaving military life behind.

  Before the rise of irregular warfare and low intensity conflicts, corpsmen wore a red cross armband and went unarmed. Nowadays, when corpsmen accompany combat units they dress in the same uniforms as the Marines around them so as not to present an inviting target to the enemy. They are armed and virtually indistinguishable from regular combat Marines, except for the extra medical equipment they carry.

  “Find 'em. Now!” I got a bad feeling about this, the Gunny thought to herself. “Feldman, Washington. Go find the Lieutenant, I sense a large turd heading toward the fan.”

  “Belay that, Gunny. Here comes the LT now,” Cpl Sizemore yelled over his shoulder, and then hustled off toward the concession stands in search of the two missing squad members.

  * * * * *

  The MV-22 had just finished a short taxi to the active runway, getting clear of the milling airshow crowds in front of the hangars. The flight crew was running down their pre-flight checklist and throttling the engines up to full power, testing them before taking off.

  After getting Lt. Merryweather and the two lost sheep back on board the Osprey, the Lieutenant was briefed over the radio by some officer at the Pentagon with the Gunny listening in. Evidently the Chair Force had detected a nuclear bomb, or nuclear rocket or a nuclear something in an old blimp hanger somewhere west of San Angelo. Since West Texas was the asshole of nowhere, the nearest military unit to this threat to national security was her pathetic little band of Marines, commanded by the befuddled Lt. Merryweather.

  “Sir,” the Gunny said to the LT over the Osprey's intercom. “If you would like to stay in touch with HQ on the radio, I'll brief the men.” Please, let him take the bait. The last thing she need was this REMF confusing her Marines with some scatterbrained John Wayne speech.

  “Uh, yes Sergeant. That would be fine.” Merryweather was a communications officer, stationed at Goodfellow for crypto training—he was in over his head and he knew it. He was more than happy to let the Gunnery Sergeant handle the taking of the objective—and dealing with the men.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.” She handed the intercom headset back to the Osprey's loadmaster, who was standing beside the LT. Thank God for that, at least he isn't one of those over eager, get everyone killed types. The Gunny made her way back to the squad, seated along the sides of the cargo area on canvas backed, fold down jump seats. The Marines all looked up at her expectantly, awaiting The Word. Heaven help us, I think we are about to be slipped the big green weenie.

  “OK, heads up people. We are en route to a ranch about 35 minutes from here where we will take and hold a large hanger. The hanger is approximately 500 feet long by 150 feet wide. We will enter through doors on the southern side, which are hidden from the ranch house by the hanger structure. Once inside the building, we will secure any scientific apparatus, aeronautical vehicles or, I shit you not, rocket ships we find.” The last statement brought a number of exclamations from the squad. Ignoring their questions Rodriguez forged ahead.

  “HQ does not know what kind of stuff we will find when we take the hangar, but the rumor is that some old coot is building himself a rocket ship. Regardless of what we find, we will secure the building and hold it until relieved by federal officials who are en route to the target site.

  “We will be going in hot, so fill your magazines from the ammo cans the Zoomies brought us.” The squad was armed with M4A1 Carbines, a shorter and lighter version of the old familiar M16A2 assault rifle. Since they were out to impress the locals at the air show, they had been issued Special Operator versions of the carbine with the Close Quarters Battle Receiver (CQBR) upper and CompM2 red dot reflex sights. Most had forward handgrips but Sizemore and Reagan snagged weapons with M320 grenade launchers mounted under their barrels. Unfortunately, the fly boys didn't have any 40mm grenades for the launchers
, but they still looked mean.

  Washington, because of his size, was issued an M246 Squad Automatic Weapon, or SAW, a light machine gun that could use standard 30 round magazines or belted ammo. With a 200 round magazine attached a SAW weighed more than ten kilos, add a couple of spare mags and it took a large Marine to haul it around. In all, the squad looked ready for action, but the magazines they carried in their vests were empty and only there for show. Until now.

  “OK, Sizemore, Reagan, pass out the ammo,” they were setting closest to the ammo cans. “I want everyone to have a full ammo load when we go in. Don't leave none of it behind. And Corporal, distribute the extra SAW mags among the riflemen. You never know when you're going to need more ammo and we will not be able to run back to the Osprey to fetch more.”

  Standard 5.56mm ammo came in ten round stripper clips, three clips to a cardboard carton, four cartons to a 4 pocket bandoleer, for a total of 120 rounds per bandoleer, which also included a speedloader for getting the rounds from the stripper clips into a magazine. Seven such bandoleers were packed into each M2A1 ammo can. Each squad member was carrying eight or ten 30 round magazines that needed to be filled using the 10 round stripper clips. The Marines got busy filling mags under the watchful eye of the Gunny.

  Rodriguez loaded her own mags and then stuffed a number of three clip cartons into her vest pockets. She also loaded her 9mm side arm—the Zoomies had been kind enough to include 10 preloaded magazines for the standard 9mm Beretta. After a moment's hesitation she turned to the Lieutenant who was now sitting next to her. “Pistol ammo, Sir” she explained, handing him four of the magazines. He quickly shoved the magazines into his vest pockets and turned back to the face the cockpit.

  At that moment, the Osprey pilot began a short roll take off. Well, here we go, and I thought this was going to be a nice boring mission. The Gunny sat back and closed her eyes. As the Osprey cleared the runway, the pilot, probably showing off for the air show crowd, jinked hard to starboard and gave the big tilt-rotor her head. Several Marines were still in the process of using speed loaders to fill their mags when the sudden maneuver took them by surprise. Sanchez somehow managed to lose a full clip of ammo, spilling the loose rounds onto the deck of the cargo compartment.