Parker's Folly

by Doug L. Hoffman

  As the combatants collected themselves for another foray, Lt. Curtis, who was observing from the second deck internal airlock, signaled an end to the exercise. The large figure righted itself and drifted toward her, removing its helmet to reveal Lt. Bear's furry white head within. “That was just starting to become fun, Lieutenant,” he opined.

  The helmet he held in one large gauntleted paw was much different from the clear fishbowl models that the shore party had worn. It more closely resembled a motorcycle helmet with a dark, wraparound visor area and solid material everywhere else.

  His two assailants proved to be JT and Washington, the two largest members of the remaining cadre. They were also clad in the sinister looking near black armor, which closer inspection showed was made of many narrow segmented bands. The bands encircled limbs and torsos, and overlapped in complex patterns in areas requiring joint movement.

  The dark, graphite color came from the armor material itself—a metallic ceramic reinforced with an overlapping matrix of nano tubes. Hard, refractory and almost shatter proof, it was similar to the ship's hull material, though lighter in weight. Beneath the bands of hard ceramic was a layer of complex polymer that helped hold the individual bands together while providing flexible movement. The polymer remained flexible over a wide range of temperatures but had an additional property—when struck sharply the molecular chains throughout the impacted area locked together, stiffening the armor shell and helping to distribute the force of the blow.

  “From the way you just gang-tackled Bear, I'll just bet that both of you boys played football in high school,” Gretchen said with a crooked smile on her face.

  “Just a little coordinated teamwork, Lieutenant.” JT smiled and high-fived his co-tackler. Washington just grinned, it was fun being able to hit someone flat out in practice without worrying about hurting them.

  The Gunny came drifting over to join the conversation. “You two were supposed to pin him so I could hit him from behind.”

  “Yeah, about five or six more of you and I might have to put some real effort into this,” Bear snorted. He was panting a bit though Gretchen did not doubt his ability, or eagerness, to continue the roughhousing.

  “So how do the suits feel? Is there enough freedom of movement? Do the joints bind?”

  “It feels pretty good to me,” JT remarked. “Your not going to do any jumping jacks with it on, but it didn't hinder me much at all.”

  The Gunny nodded agreement. “Yeah, there is some restriction if you try to lift your arms high above your head. It's hard making the joints full motion without creating vulnerabilities.”

  As the rest of the Marines gathered around, LCpl Reagan said, “I'm getting a bit of chafing around the underarms and groin area.”

  “Me too,” added Two Can. The smaller man was obviously more taxed by wearing the additional armor than big men like Washington and Reagan.

  “We'll see what we can do to improve the tailoring in the next version,” the Gunny added. Overall she was feeling pretty good about the way the armor was turning out. If they had been wearing this stuff in the crater the Moon spiders would not have wounded any of the shore party.

  “The field of vision is a bit restricted,” fretted Sizemore, who suffered from claustrophobia.

  “We're working on that, Corporal. Final version will have cameras for wraparound vision, overhead too. Plus, it will have heads up displays for sensors, targeting and map info. You'll be able to see the positions of the whole squad at a glance.” JT was greatly enjoying working on this stuff, it was way better than the Army's proposed Future Force Warrior gear.

  Gretchen looked to Bear and asked, “how about you, Lieutenant? Any chafing or binding?”

  “Not really. My limbs don't swing around as much as you monkeys' do. I think I'm going to need more cooling though, it was getting damn hot when we were bouncing around.”

  “Yeah,” JT made a note, “We are going to have to add bigger back packs with more environmental capacity. And we are going to need to redesign the rail guns to work with the armor's bigger gauntlets.”

  “I've got some ideas about that,” the Gunny volunteered. “Have you ever seen a KTS—a Kel-Tec Shotgun? Very compact, with dual 7 round tubular magazines. If we use a similar design for the 20mm launcher and add the 5mm flechette launcher on top we would have a weapon with a lot more room for mittens and bigger selector controls.”

  JT's eyes lit up. “I know just what you're talking about, I fired one at a local gun shop. Since the rail gun launchers don't need to eject empty shells it will work out even better. If we put a rest on the butt that fits over the forearm at the elbow you could easily fire one single handed.”

  Looking at the assembled Marines, Gretchen shook her head. They're like a bunch of kids, anticipating Christmas morning with presents under the tree. I just hope we don't get a bunch of them killed.

  Passenger's Dayroom, Lower Level

  Ludmilla had just finished doing her rounds in sick bay and was headed to her quarters for a quick nap. She wanted to be fresh for her dinner with the Captain—second chances are rare in life, as she well knew. You will not screw this up, Luda, she commanded herself.

  Coming out of the companionway from the upper deck she almost ran into Ivan, who seemed to be lurking in the passenger's lounge area as if waiting for someone.

  “Hello, Ivan. I have not seen you around much these past few days,” Ludmilla said in Russian.

  The Russian Colonel replied in the same language, “I have been studying the ship's specifications, those that I can gain access too. Which is what you should be doing, instead of acting like a party girl with the Amazon Lieutenant and the news whore.”

  Ludmilla's face hardened into an emotionless mask. “You act like an uncultured peasant! Explain yourself.”

  “Do you deny that you were drinking in the lounge two nights ago with your new girlfriends? Or that the blond newswoman spent the night with one of the helmsmen—the cowboy? Do you think this is a vacation on the Crimea or a cruse on the Baltic?”

  “How dare you! You who have been sneaking around like a KGB spy trying to steal secrets from everyone. Beware, Ivan Alexievitch, or you will end up like that little would-be rapist.”

  “Who? Tommy?” Shock registered on Ivan's face. “I have been looking for him, do you know where he is!”

  “He is locked up for assaulting that poor girl. He is lucky that the Chief handed out the punishment, the Captain might have been even harsher.”

  “Tell me where he is!” Ivan made a lunge for her, but Ludmilla skipped away, avoiding his grasp. Early in her career in the Russian Federation Air Forces, where both the vodka and testosterone flow freely, Ludmilla had taken up practicing Russian martial arts. That included Combat Sambo Spetsnaz, otherwise known as Systema, and more traditional Sambo. Still, Ivan outweighed her and as a doctor, she knew better than most the difference between male and female upper body strength—she definitely did not want to grapple with him.

  “I warn you Colonel Kondratov, I will shout for help if you persist.”

  “There is no one else around,” he sneered. “The Marines are playing with their new toys and the crew is either standing watch or sleeping.”

  “You are a fool, Ivan. Do you not realize that the ship's computer monitors everything that happens on board?” Adding in English, “Is that not correct, Folly.”

  “Yes, Dr. Tropsha. I continuously monitor all habitable spaces on board to ensure the health and safety of the crew.”

  “Who was that?” Ivan demanded, panic in his eyes as he looked furtively about the empty lounge.

  “That is the voice of the ship's computer, Ivan. Do you think that the Captain does not know about your subterfuge, your skulking about with that little weasel?

  “Sooka! You traitorous bitch! All you want to do is worm your way into the Captain's bed.”

  “Go to hell, Ivan. You were the one who told me I should do just that. Perhaps I will sleep with Jack, but not f
or Russia and certainly not for you. Stay away from me, ot'ebis'!”

  With fear and hatred in his eyes, Ivan exited the lounge aft, toward the crew's quarters. Jebat'-kopat'! Thought Ludmilla. I have to warn Jack about Ivan. How do I explain that my countryman is a horses ass? And I was so hoping for a simple, romantic evening.

  Captain's Quarters, Evening, Alter-space Day 3

  The Captain was flitting around his cabin like a nervous maître d' picking up and rearranging small items. There was a magnum of Champagne cooling in a bucket between the chairs in the sitting room, two glasses waiting on the table. Since this was a visit of a (hopefully) personal nature, Jack had dispensed with the steward.

  Come on! You're acting like it's the first time you've had a woman over to your place. Well actually, this is the first time I've had a woman over to this place, at least the first time for purely social reasons.

  The voice of the ship's computer interrupted his building panic attack. “Dr. Tropsha is at the door, Captain. Should I invite her in?”

  “No, Folly. I'll get the door.” Jack almost ran to the cabin door. Before opening it he paused to smooth his jumpsuit and check his appearance in the mirror on the wall. Well, here goes. He pressed the control and the door slid open.

  “Good evening, Ludmilla,” Jack said in what he hoped was an even, measured tone. “Won't you please come in?”

  Ludmilla smiled. “Good evening, Jack. It is good to be here, again.” Jack stood aside with a welcoming sweep of his arm. Ludmilla entered the cabin and the door slid silently shut behind her.

  “I thought that we would start with some champagne this time. A toast as it were to new beginnings.”

  Ludmilla walked over to the champagne bucket and examined the bottle resting there. “Taittinger, Comtes de Champagne Blanc de Blancs 1998. Very impressive.”

  “Really? Is that a good year?”

  “Quite, and hard to find these days.”

  “Well you can credit TK Parker's good taste, or that of his wine steward. I just looked in the ship's stores and picked one. Should I pour?”

  “Yes, please do.” Ludmilla hesitated, and then said with some trepidation, “Jack, there is something we need to discuss before the evening can progress.”

  Jack looked up from pouring the Champagne. Now what? I hope she's not having second thoughts about my sanity. “Go on, what's on your mind?”

  “Jack, I have to tell you that someone on board is spying on you, the ship and the crew. Someone from the ISS.” She looked away, her eyes focused at some unseen distance beyond the blank porthole in the curving cabin wall.

  Ah, so that's it. Thank goodness it's not something important. “Yes, go on,” he prompted.

  Ludmilla looked back and met his gaze, “It is Colonel Kondratov. He has been attempting to gather intelligence about the ship's technology. He see's this as his patriotic duty. He may be trying to suborn some of the crew as well.”

  “Is that what you wanted to tell me? Is that your purpose for being here tonight?” Stop asking questions you don't want answers to, he scolded himself.

  “Yes, that is what I wanted to tell you, and no, it is not the reason I came here tonight. But I could not be with you without first warning you about Ivan.”

  An interesting turn of a phrase, Jack thought, of course English is not her native tongue. Does that put her on my side? Betraying her countryman, perhaps her country to warn me? I need to put her concerns to rest before mistrust derails our friendship for a second time.

  “Ludmilla, I've known about Ivan's snooping from the beginning. All of the ship's systems, including the online technical documentation and library, are monitored by the computer. The computer also monitors all public and sensitive technical areas. The only information Ivan has is information I don't mind him having.”

  A wave of relief passed over Ludmilla, her shoulders relaxed and her anxious body language eased. “I know that Folly monitors things for you, but I had to be sure that you knew what Ivan was up to—and I wanted you to know that I was not involved in his paranoid scheming.”

  What a relief! I thought we were about to have a replay of our first private encounter—without even getting to the meal. “Well thank you for letting me know, I appreciate your forthrightness and honesty,” He smiled as he handed her a Champagne flute. “And I know about Tommy Wendover as well. There is little that happens on board that escapes my attention.”

  Tension left her like a storm passing. “I feel much better with this out in the open. Now that the air has been cleared what should we drink to?”

  “How about, to second chances?”

  “Yes, to second chances, and new beginnings.”

  They both raised their glasses in salute and sipped the pale sparkling wine. Ludmilla reached up and rubbed the tip of her nose. “This Champagne is excellent, but it always makes my nose tickle,” she said. This elicited a genuine smile from Jack.

  “I do not think I have ever seen you smile before, Jack.” Oh yes, he is quite handsome when he smiles.

  “I was thinking of a line from an old song, ‘Let's sip Champagne 'til we break into smiles.’” Jack motioned toward the chairs.

  Ludmilla took that as an invitation to sit down, which she did with feline like grace. “I do not believe I've heard this song, who is it by?”

  Jack followed Ludmilla's lead and also sat. The two chairs were angled toward each other, with a small end table in reach of both.

  “A musician named Jimmy Buffett. He has quite a following in nautical circles and was a favorite in my youth. He has written a lot of songs about sailors and sailing.” Looking up at the ceiling while recalling another set of lyrics, he recited:

  Mother, mother Ocean, I have heard you call

  Wanted to sail upon your waters since I was three feet tall

  “So have you always dreamed of being a captain—to spend your life at sea? This is something I have never considered myself.”

  “Since I was a young boy. You have never been called by the lure of the sea, heard the song of foreign shores?”

  “Russia does not have a strong naval tradition like the US or the British. Tzar Nicholas II constructed a modern Navy at the beginning of the 20th century to show that Russia was not the backward child of Europe most other nations thought it was at the time. By 1904, the Imperial Russian Navy was a first rate navy. Then, in 1905, after a surprise Japanese attack destroyed most of his Pacific Squadron, Nicholas sent his main fleet all the way from the Baltic, around Africa to Asia. It arrived just in time for the Japanese to sink it in a single battle. By the end of 1905, Russia was again reduced to a third rate naval power. Little wonder that Russian romantics, looking for military adventure, tend more toward knightly single combat in tanks or airplanes.”

  “You have obviously studied military history,” Jack said with a warm smile. Military history was one of his passions and he could not help showing off a little. “The Russian Baltic Fleet, renamed the Second Pacific Squadron sailed 18,000 nautical miles to relieve Port Arthur, only to find that it had fallen while they were en route. They engaged the Japanese fleet in the Tsushima Straits on 27th and 28th of May, 1905. The Japanese managed to cross the Russian ‘T’ and as a result, the Russian fleet was virtually annihilated. It lost eight battleships, numerous smaller vessels, and more than 5,000 men, while the Japanese lost three torpedo boats and just 116 men. Only three Russian vessels escaped to Vladivostok. In all, one of the most single sided battles in the history of Naval warfare.”

  “I think you too know something of military history. Some Russian historians credit that defeat with helping to trigger the Bolshevik revolution. As if the miserable lives of the peasants was not reason enough for an uprising,” Ludmilla scoffed. “More believably, others cite the rise of Japanese militarism as an outcome.”

  “It's good to have someone knowledgeable to discuss such things with,” Jack said, hoping his complement was not too transparent. Being captain, he was not practiced at the art of
flattery.

  “I am a Russian officer, after all,” Ludmilla pronounced with mock officiousness. “It is good to study the mistakes of the past. It does not always allow one to avoid the same mistakes in the future, but at least you know when you invent a new way to experience disaster.”

  Jack chuckled and refilled their glasses. “You are right about not learning our lessons. The initial Japanese attack at Port Arthur started three hours before the formal declaration of war was sent to St. Petersburg. Thirty five years later America would suffer a similar Japanese surprise attack—at Pearl Harbor.”

  “Is that what you fear from the aliens? A surprise attack?”

  “I'm afraid that the records from the artifact do not paint a very rosy picture of the galaxy. Evidently there was a lot of organized hostility going on, even four million years ago. I see no good reason to assume things have changed, given the events at crater Bruno.”

  “And what of all those intellectuals who confidently state that no truly advanced race could make it into space without giving up war and aggression?”

  “Fuzzy headed liberal illogic at its finest. Philosophizing about a utopian future and wishing it were so is one thing. Believing your fantasies are reality and blindly ignoring the ugly truth is quite another. Self delusion is not a positive survival trait, for individuals or for species. And I am afraid that intercepting the ship we are chasing will only delay the inevitable. Mankind will have to face the hostile Universe sooner or later.”

  “So depressing to think of the future. Let's not talk about this anymore tonight,” Ludmilla suggested, peering over the rim of her glass at Jack. “There will be sufficient time to face ugly reality tomorrow.”

  Jack placed his glass on the table between them, resting his hand next to it. “I am definitely in agreement on that point. I want us to forget our problems for the evening.”