Parker's Folly

by Doug L. Hoffman

  The pilot jinked again, like he was flying a combat mission, and the rounds rolled across the deck. “Secure that ammunition, Marine! You think this is a fuckin' school bus, Sanchez?” the Gunny bellowed. Well that made it official, the goatfuck was turning into a cluster-fuck.

  On Board Parker's Folly, Parker Ranch, Texas

  Ascending the three steps to the interior of the “mess,” the tour group gazed upon what looked like an upscale lounge and restaurant. The room stretched from one side of the ship's hull to the other, the walls curving upward at either side to a high ceiling with hanging accent panels. A sinuously curving bar divided the dining area on the left from the lounge on the right. Small overhead trac lighting set an intimate mood and, in the far corner, a baby grand piano completed the effect. JT panned the room with his camera and Susan commented. “Looks like the passengers will be riding in style, this is plush.”

  “The owner is partial to jazz music, fine dining and he really enjoys drinking,” Lt. Curtis said with mock solemnity. “Here, let me show you something you might want to film.” Moving over to the bar, the First Officer reached behind the counter and threw a switch. On the starboard wall a large oval window uncovered, like the nictitating membrane retracting over a raptor's eye. As with the ‘glass’ bow of the ship, the window comprised a number of individual curved transparent panels, separated by thin arcing silver strips. The interior of the hangar could be seen through the art deco window panes.

  “Wow, that's fantastic,” JT said, walking farther into the room, panning at the same time. This was more like it, he thought. He had been worried that the whole ship was going to be nothing but cargo space and boring hallways. “Just imagine having a drink at the bar while the rings of Saturn slide by outside.”

  “Why Mr. Taylor, you sound like you would like to come along.”

  “Don't encourage him. He has a Master's degree in astronomy,” Susan interjected, causing the First Officer to cast a reappraising look in JT's direction. “Besides, then I'd have to find a new camera man and good ones are very hard to find.”

  JT was oblivious, enraptured by the idea of standing in front of that window, peering out at the Universe. “Come on, Miss Susan, you wouldn't want to be on board for the first flight? It would be the scoop of the century.”

  “I think I would rather be on the second flight, JT.” Susan smiled at her cameraman to show she was just teasing him. It was then that she spotted the strange figure heading toward them from the front of the lounge. “I think we have company,” she said to the others.

  As the figure drew near, the person in question proved to be a short, wiry man with weathered, Sun darkened skin. He was wearing a jumpsuit much like Lt. Curtis, except his was dark blue. On his head was a matching dark blue baseball cap with a strange insignia on the front. His age was indeterminate, but he was definitely not young. A wrinkle creased Lt. Curtis' brow as she turned to face the approaching little man, her hands clasped behind her back.

  “Chief Zackly, what mission lends such urgency to your steps?”

  “Egh?” The man in blue halted in front of the First Officer, his self absorbed trance broken. “Oh its you, Ma'am. I got a couple o' shitbirds rattling around on the lower deck. Must'a been on board when the Captain told the rest it was beer o'clock. Damn civilians!”

  Lieutenant Curtis inclined her head toward the two news people standing to her right. Again she did the Mr. Spock raised eyebrow trick. The figure in blue braced, coming to attention.

  “Beg pardon Ma'am,” the little man nearly shouted, “no offense intended.” Then added more softly, “Captain said I gotta' get 'em off the ship, Ma'am.”

  “Yes, of course Chief. Carry on.”

  The little man resumed his journey aft, leaning forward as if against a gale. “That was Chief Zackly, the senior boatswain's mate, ... well actually, he is the only boatswain's mate.”

  “He doesn't seem to hold civilian's in very high regard.” mused JT, “and what's a ‘shitbird’?”

  “It is a derogatory term for shipyard workers used by Navy enlisted personnel. We had been running some power system tests earlier and the Captain told the construction workers they could leave for the day”

  “OK, now that makes sense. Beer o'clock I understood.”

  “I'm surprised he didn't salute you, Lieutenant,” Susan added.

  “The Navy does not generally render the hand salute indoors. Because we work in tight quarters, constantly having to salute would be far too disruptive. Besides, this is a civilian vessel. Let's continue on to the bridge and see if the Captain is free for your interview,” the First Officer said, closing the large view port and then indicating the way forward.

  Aboard the MV-22, West of San Angelo, Texas

  The pilot of the Osprey signaled that they were 15 minutes out from the objective. GySgt Rodriguez sighed a deep, inward sigh. How could this have happened on her last weekend in the Corps? Drug out of a nice warm rack at o'dark hundred to lead a squad of screw-ups on a dog and pony show mission at an air show, only to have the mission turn into a real air assault, with live ammo. Commanded by a Lieutenant who was really a crypto clerk, she and eight washouts were about to assault a gigantic hangar in the middle of the West Texas scrub. Well, never a dull day in the Corps.

  “OK Marines, listen up. We are 15 minutes from the objective and this is how things are going to work. When we disembark, Corporal Sizemore, take Feldman, Washington and Kwan to the Left. You will be with Lieutenant Merryweather. Davis, Reagan, Sanchez and White, you're with me on the right. We will fan out and secure the LZ. If there is no enemy contact, we will proceed to the doors on the side of the building, assuming they actually exist” They were working off of intel from old construction plans some REMF had dug out of the Navy archives.

  “Take cover along the building wall, flanking the doors and wait for my signal. We will enter through both doors simultaneously, secure the immediate area and then the LT will assess the situation and decide what we need to do next.”

  It's simple right up to where we enter the building, the Gunny thought. They should find themselves inside of a large open space, the place was supposed to be a hangar. But there was no telling what they would find. Maybe a bunch of civilians building a playschool rocket ship, maybe a nest of terrorists assembling a nuke.

  “Rules of Engagement are as follows: do not shoot unarmed civilians. But if someone points a weapon at you, weapons are free. Do you understand?”

  “AYE, AYE, Gunny!” The squad responded loudly and in unison.

  At least they understand that this is not a fucking drill. They may not be the best the Corps had to offer, but they weren't virgins either. All of them had seen the elephant in Afghanistan or elsewhere. And all bullshit aside, they were still Marines. The Gunny turned to the Lieutenant, who had been standing behind her, listening to the briefing. “Any thing you would like to add, Sir?”

  “No, Gunny, that should cover things 'til we gain access to the hangar.” From the cockpit, the mechanical voice of the ground proximity warning said “500 feet.” The curtain was about to go up.

  Chapter 4

  Bridge of Parker's Folly, Parker Ranch, Texas.

  Captain Jack Sutton was sitting in the command chair on the bridge, supervising two of the crew—helmsmen Vincent and Danner—as they ran through the departure simulation yet again. The Captain was of the opinion that practice made everything run more smoothly and he insisted that his ship run smoothly.

  The two helmsmen sat at a shared console in front of the command station, below and farther forward within the transparent bow of the ship than the Captain's perch. There were staggered ancillary control positions set back on either side of the pilots' stations, currently unmanned. Behind the helm and directly beneath the Captain's chair was a row of seats for observers. Vincent and Danner were an interesting pair—both were native born Texans but there the similarities ended.

  William Raymond “Billy Ray” Vincent was the embodi
ment of the cowboy image: 6 foot three, with long ropy muscles on a lean frame. If they still had a Marlboro Man, he would definitely be in the running. With a nonchalant attitude and steady nerves, nothing flustered him. When the simulator threw problems at him he responded with the same laconic calm as astronauts and test pilots. Outgoing and friendly, in conversation he affected a Texas drawl and was not above whoopin' and hollerin' a bit if the occasion called for it.

  Robert “Bobby” Danner, on the other hand, was quiet. A slightly pudgy, video game addicted couch potato who lived vicariously through online multiplayer games. In World of Warcraft he was a deadly Shadow Priest and a definite bad ass—look at him crosswise and he would melt your face. In the real world, he was almost painfully shy, usually only speaking when spoken too. Bobby was as socially awkward as Billy Ray was genial. Proving that life is stranger than fiction, Billy Ray and Bobby were the closest of friends.

  One thing both members of this odd couple had in common was they were very good at piloting the ship—at least in simulations. Their styles were quite different. Billy Ray was smooth on the controls, precises during maneuvers, keeping things right on the flightpath. Strangely enough it was Bobby who was the daredevil, able to jink and dodge, avoiding obstacles seemingly at will. If you were in need of “evasive maneuvers,” Bobby was your man.

  Together they had become a finely tuned team, able to handle nearly anything that the ship's flight simulator could throw at them. The Captain was certain they would acquit themselves with flying colors when it came time to actually pilot the ship.

  Also currently on the Bridge was Jose “Jo Jo” Medina, an electronics technician who doubled as a flight engineer, monitoring the ship's systems and condition when underway. His board was on the port side on the same level as the Captain but set back farther aft. There was a similar station on the starboard side for a navigation officer that was currently unmanned. Abaft that position was the Captain's sea cabin—Jack had tried calling it his space cabin but decided it sounded silly.

  Jack loved to sit in the command chair, looking out through the curving transparent panels that formed Folly's bow. No vessel he had ever commanded had a view to match this one—he could not wait to get her into space. He marveled again at his good luck and the strange, improbable chain of events that had brought him to this position. If he had not met TK Parker years ago, when Jack was only a boy, he would not be here now, poised on the edge of a voyage into space.

  Voices could be heard approaching from aft on the port side. Must be the news crew coming for their interview, he sighed. Hopefully, Lieutenant Curtis had covered most of the basic questions and he could simply smile for the camera, thank them for coming and send them on their way. On a Naval vessel, the XO, or executive officer, would handle most of the PR stuff, with the Captain remaining suitably aloof. Being a civilian vessel, Gretchen was the First Officer, not the XO, but she performed essentially the same duties. Anticipating their arrival, the Captain rotated his chair 120 degrees and rose to greet his guests.

  Lieutenant Curtis appeared next to the engineering station, stepped forward and asked “Permission to enter the bridge, Captain?” Even though workers had been coming and going from the bridge all morning without asking permission, ingrained Naval traditions die hard.

  “Permission granted, Lieutenant,” the Captain replied. “I understand we have guests aboard.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Lt. Curtis moved onto the bridge, turned and motioned the reporter and her cameraman forward. “Captain, this is Ms. Susan Write and Mr. James Taylor from KWTEX News. Mr. Parker invited them on board for a tour and to get some footage of the ship for their evening news broadcast.” Turning to the news people, “This is Captain Sutton, master of this vessel.”

  Susan strode forward and stuck out her hand. “Susan Write, very nice to meet you Captain. This is some ship you have here.” The Captain shook the proffered hand and then the hand of the camera man, murmuring “Ms. Write, Mr. Taylor. Welcome aboard.”

  “I guess the first question our viewers would have,” said Susan, dispensing with the formalities, “is ‘do you really expect his huge ship to actually fly?’ I believe Lieutenant Curtis said it weighs over 7,000 tons!”

  A rather well put together young woman, the Captain thought, pushy though. Her cameraman looks squared away, I'd wager he was in the service. A commanding officer had to be able to size up people quickly. The pretty blond was testing him, trying to rattle his cage. The faintest of smiles crossed his face, he looked back at Susan and calmly answered her question.

  “Yes Ms. Write. We do expect the ship to fly. After all, a spaceship that doesn't fly would hardly be very useful.”

  There was a brief, awkward silence as Susan thought to herself, OK, I'm not going to catch this guy off base or fluster him with awkward questions. Sometimes you can get an interview subject to go off message and expose hidden truths by surprising them—it had been worth a shot. She changed tack.

  “When do you think you will be ready to launch? And would you be willing to take a news crew along?” She favored the Captain with a high-wattage smile.

  “We are still loading provisions and ancillary equipment, but the ship is capable of lifting off as we speak.” If it will only stop spewing radiation when it does, the Captain thought sourly. “Perhaps you should layout how you would like to film the news spot. I understand you are running up against deadlines of your own.”

  “Oh yes. Let's shoot it this way...”

  The Ranch House, Parker Ranch, Texas.

  TK was “standing” in his wheelchair, gyroscopically balanced on two wheels, gazing out the front bay window. Two cars containing local sheriff’s deputies had just pulled up, one on either side of the KWTEX News van. He could also see the distinctive paint job of a Texas Highway Patrol cruiser bouncing its way down the long dirt driveway, leaving a noticeable dust plume to mark its passage.

  “Damn, it looks like I'm throwin' a party,” the old man said, turning to Maria, who was standing by his side. “Maria, you go back to the kitchen and stay out of the way. I don't want Johnny Law givin' you any trouble.”

  “No, Señor Parker! I will greet them at the door like all of your other guests. I ask them their business and check if you are available. That is, if they don't have a search warrant.” Maria knew about search warrants, her son was a lawyer.

  “Now don't be stubborn, woman. I don't want them hassling you or turnin' you over to Immigration.”

  “Do not worry Señor Parker, my citizenship papers are in order. You have been very good to my family—you hired me when my Juan died 20 years ago and paid for our children's educations. Thanks to you, my son Hernando is a lawyer in Austin and my daughter Consuela is a children's doctor in Little Rock. I will not abandon you now. Besides, I have learned much from you—I am an American, I don't take sheeet from nobody.” That last phrase delivered in an exaggerated Mexican accent.

  “Oh all right. I never could win an argument with you.” More than two decades ago, Maria's husband had worked on one of TK's first gas rigs. He died tragically in an accident, leaving Maria a widow with two young children. The children had been born in the USA but Maria was not a citizen. Rather than see her deported, TK hired her as his cook and housekeeper, then helped her obtain legal resident status and eventually, citizenship. Under his gruff exterior TK was really just an old softie, at least when it came to people he liked. “Looks like there's more of 'em coming.”

  Three patrol cars were now parked around the news van and the sheriff’s cars, and a large van with “Mobile Crime Lab” on its side had just arrived. Dust was flying everywhere and the Highway Patrol officers were engaged in an animated conversation with the sheriff's deputies. “OK, Maria, I'm going to go back to my office. Greet them when they finally decide to come knock on the door. Bring 'em to my office and then take cover in the kitchen like I asked.”

  “Si, Señor Parker.”

  * * * * *

  When TK reached his office
he called up a view of his driveway on his computer monitor. After he had become disabled he had an expensive security system installed. With it he could monitor things in all directions from his ranch house. As a self made man, he was not comfortable with having to rely on anyone. Maria was the sole exception, and he used the excuse that he was helping her, not the other way round.

  There were more dust plumes a half mile down the driveway, indicating that the parade of law enforcement vehicles was still growing. The crowd of police officers, deputies, highway patrolmen, and God knows what else continued to expand but no one had approached the house. They were obviously waiting on some one who had not yet arrived and that probably meant the Feds. That figures, the Federal Government was late for everything.

  When they do come, TK suddenly realized, they might just try an end run by sending a bunch of lawmen straight out to the hangar. He'd better call Jack and tell him he needed to get the bird into the air, or the government would seize her for sure. He'd be damned if he was going to turn the fruits of his labor for the last thirty years over to a bunch of bumbling bureaucrats and government asswipes. No, this was too important to let the government screw it up.

  Landing Zone, South Side of the Hangar, Parker's Ranch.

  Approaching from the south, the MV-22 came in low over the scrub and sagebrush, using the bulk of the hangar to hide its approach from the ranch house. The huge twin rotors went to their full upright position, the Osprey flared and landed about 80 meters from the structure. The nose of the aircraft was pointing west, so its starboard side door was facing the hangar—normally the door gunner would have provided cover for the disembarking Marines but the Air Force had not seen fit to provide any 7.62mm ammo.