Parker's Folly (3 page)
Nearby Goodfellow Air Force Base was a non-flying Air Force installation, meaning there were no active flight squadrons stationed there. Instead, as part of the Air Education & Training Command (AETC), Goodfellow's main mission was cryptographic and intelligence training for all four main branches of the US military. There were Army, Navy, Air Force and Marine Corps personnel stationed there for training purposes. The MV-22 would be stopping at Goodfellow to pick up some lucky Marine Lieutenant who would be in-charge of what was basically a PR mission.
The squad Rodriguez had assembled was a sorry bunch: a Corporal, three Lance Corporals, and three Privates First Class. The number of PFCs was an indication of her charges' underachiever status. In the Corps all ranks below Corporal (E-4) were promoted at the company level. In theory, unit commanders decided who got promoted and who didn't. In practice, because there are no quotas for promotion to PFC (E-2) and LCpl (E-3), commanders pretty much promoted everyone after they meet the “promotion criteria,” essentially time in grade without screwing up.
This meant that a newly minted Private should be a PFC six months after boot camp, and a LCpl after an additional nine. In fact, there were twice as many LCpls in the Corps as there were PFCs. This implied that these PFCs either screwed up or did not perform their duties in a satisfactory manner. Of course, the Gunny herself had not managed to qualify for one of the few open, highly competitive, E-8 slots.
“Hey Gunny,” PFC Sanchez shouted from the rear of the compartment, interrupting the Gunny's train of thought. “How come we got rifles but no ammo on board?”
“Because the Corps doesn't want one of you maggots shooting any civilians by mistake.” The thought of this squad of misfits running around with live ammo near a crowd of civilians gave her the willies.
“Then why do we have to lug the rifles around?”
Rodriguez gave him “the eye,” but the PFC continued to stare back with a puzzled look on his face. No wonder Sanchez was getting the boot, a Marine was expected to be a rifleman regardless of his MOS, military occupational specialty. As such, he was expected to grab his rifle, say “aye aye” and get on with it—not play 20 questions with his Sergeant.
The Osprey's attitude shifted, signaling the beginning of their descent into Goodfellow, where they were to pick up one Lt. Ernest Merryweather. Merryweather was to command the non-aviation personnel for the duration of the airshow assignment. Rodriguez wondered what he had done wrong to be shanghaied into airshow duty. “All right, Marines. Listen up.”
“We are about to land at Goodfellow Air Force Base. We will not be dismounting. I will exit the aircraft to report our status to Lt. Merryweather, who will be assuming command of this detachment for the duration of the operation. You will sit here until I return. Do not play with your weapons or yourselves. As soon as the LT is on board we will take off for Mathis Field.
“Do not talk to the Lieutenant unless spoken to. When we get to the airshow we will exit the aircraft by the aft cargo ramp, fan out and form a perimeter. You will keep your weapons pointed at the ground. Do not under any circumstances point your weapon at the civilians or anyone else for that matter. Look sharp and remember that you are Marines. The Lieutenant is in command but your asses belong to me until we are back in Corpus Christie. Do you understand me?”
The weak chorus of mumbled replies could barely be heard over the background noise.
“I SAID, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
“YES, GUNNY!” came the reply, as the Marines sat up, eyes forward, as close to “attention” as they could come and remain seated.
At least they still have Marine reflexes Rodriguez thought, when an NCO shouts at them they straighten up and sound off. Not that it mattered, in less than a week both she and her squad of misfits would be civilians. Oh well, one last goatfuck for the Corps—Oorah!
TK Parker was getting a status report from his Captain and First Officer, John “Jack” Sutton and Gretchen Curtis. Which is to say, he was leading them around the old converted airship hanger that housed his pride and joy, haranguing them to get things ready faster. It was difficult for Capt. Sutton and Lt. Curtis to keep up because Parker was riding in his custom electric wheelchair, which could easily move at faster than walking speeds.
“We have to get a move on. I have it on good authority that word of our little project has leaked to the press,” TK was saying as he rounded the front of the raised platform, passing under the nose of what might have been mistaken for a dirigible at first glance. “Just got a call from some damn lady reporter who's on her way to interview me.”
“And just how did the news media find out about the project?” asked the Captain. “We've managed to keep the curtain drawn tight for 18 months. It's hard to believe that now, with the ship almost ready, we've had a security breach.”
Jack Sutton was a tall man, 6'2'' with intense brown eyes and sandy brown hair starting to go silver at the temples. A short, dark beard framed his jaw. Trim and erect, he was having trouble maintaining a dignified stride keeping pace with the speeding wheelchair.
He does that on purpose,
the Captain thought, slightly annoyed.
“Who knows? One of the workers gone into town and got a snoot full,” snapped TK. “Can't stand a man—or a woman, for that matter—that can't hold his liquor. Or anyone can't keep their yap shut.”
“I doubt it was any of our people, Sir,” Curtis interjected. She was designated the ship's first officer and was also responsible for site security. “I suspect it was someone from one of the supply deliveries. We started provisioning food and medical supplies this past week and plants for the hydroponics section yesterday.”
Gretchen Curtis was not as tall as the Captain but she was certainly near six foot. Her roan red hair was pulled back in a tucked French braid, her trim figure projected a military bearing. A graduate of the US Naval Academy and former Lieutenant in the US Navy, the green-eyed first officer took her duties very seriously indeed—perhaps to the point of overcompensation. In the Navy she had felt the need to constantly prove herself as good or better than her male counterparts. It was a habit she had not dropped since becoming a civilian.
“Damn outside contractors!” continued TK, “ain't none of them worth a shit.” TK was famous for his colorful language. Pushing 80, confined to a wheelchair and with billions in the bank he once told a Dallas society matron who criticized his vocabulary, “I don't give a rat's ass what you think, woman, and neither does anyone else!”
Fact was, the only thing TK did care about was looming above him in the brightly lit vastness of the old airship hanger. The hangar itself was his primary reason for purchasing this particularly worthless piece of ranch land. The object of his affection was a long cigar shape, crafted from crystal and silver, who's curving flanks disappeared into the distance of the huge hanger.
Looking vaguely like an unpainted submarine hull with the glass nose of a vintage bomber, TK Parker's spaceship was overwhelming at first sight. Gleaming metal with a number of rounded rectangular openings along its flanks, it looked like something out of a science fiction story or a Hollywood film. A number of viewing ports, some large, some small, dotted the ship's flanks along with several teardrop shaped metallic blisters. But it was the nose that drew an observer's eyes back.
The bow of the ship was made of transparent panels that conformed to the curve of the ship's hull. Like on a vintage WWII B-29 bomber, the transparent sections continued back along the sides and top creating a greenhouse effect. Unlike the more or less rectangular glass panels of a B-29, the transparent sections forming this ship's nose were of seemingly random shapes, separated by curvacious silver strips where the panels adjoined. It was Superfortress meets Star Wars meets modern art.
This was the ship Hollywood would have given Buck Rogers in the 1930s serials if they had the budget and better construction methods. One of the assembly workers called it an art-deco space sausage. In fact, most of the workers thought the ship an old eccentric’s fantasy or a prop for a new outer space TV series. Some of them referred to the vessel as Parker's Folly, though never in earshot of Parker. Very few of the workers actually expected the thing to ever fly, or even leave the hangar, for that matter. Little did they know how wrong they were.
Not that their doubts were unjustified, the aft end contained no giant rocket engines like the now defunct space shuttle or the even older Saturn 5 rockets that had launched astronauts to the moon. After a modest tapering, the ship ended in a slightly convex, featureless expanse of metal. There were no nozzles, no orifices, nothing to suggest an outlet for hot rocket gasses. The ship's aft was more like a gigantic boat-tailed artillery round, and for much the same reasons.
Parker's Folly was intended to be a spaceship, but a spaceship that could readily enter and leave a planetary atmosphere. It was what advanced rocket designers would call a SSO—single stage to orbit. There were no parts to be discarded during ascent or material to be lost to ablation on reentry, what went up came back down all in one piece. That was how the few people in the know expected the ship to function.
Among those in the know were TK, the Captain and Lt. Curtis, along with a handful of engineers. If Parker's Folly worked as planned it would change everything. No more rockets rising on columns of fire, throwing away large expensive chunks of themselves while expending millions of pounds of fuel to place a few thousand pounds of payload into orbit. At least that is what they all fervently hoped.
TK reached out and ran his hand across the curving hull above him in a loving caress. Then his high-tech wheelchair suddenly whipped about, rotating in place to face his ship's captain and first officer. “I got a bad feeling about this. If the news media knows about our little project there's sure to be some government snoops coming around. Damn government always looking for something to steal from honest folk.”
Captain Sutton and Lt. Curtis stood at parade rest, both with their hands clasped behind their backs—they had heard TK's opinions about the government many times before.
“I'm going to go handle the busybodies from the fourth estate,” the old man continued. “You two get the Folly ready to fly, and I mean now!”
His use of the name Folly for the ship caused Curtis to blink and the Captain to raise his eyebrows questioningly.
“What? You think I don't know what the workers call her? Well I've got no better name for her than Parker's Folly and it will just help rub their noses in it when she blasts outa' here.” Without further comment he again pivoted his electric wheelchair in place and headed off toward the exit ramp and the path back to the ranch house a half mile away.
“Well,” said the Captain, “I believe we have been given 'prepare for imminent departure' orders. We still need to run a successful full-power system test—hopefully Dr. Gupta has the muonium problem solved.”
“I'll head back to the engine room and inform him we are about to run another test,” replied the First Officer. Sutton nodded tacit approval as they walked up the ramp to the forward airlock together. Entering the ship, she headed aft through officer country while the Captain climbed up a level to the bridge.
* * * * *
Upon reaching the aft engineering spaces, Curtis sighted the slender form of Dr. Rajiv Gupta hunched over a glowing display panel. Gupta, who had PhDs in both Chemistry and Physics, was, for lack of a better title, the ship's chief engineer. If anyone understood how the mysterious devices in the aft portion of the ship functioned it was Rajiv.
His dark skin, black hair and dark brown eyes reflected his Indian heritage, though he had been born in San Jose. As with many children of immigrants, Rajiv was an academic overachiever, earning degrees from Stanford (elemental particle physics) and Cal Tech (physical and theoretical chemistry). He also picked up an undergraduate degree in Electrical Engineering and a masters in Computer Science along the way, both from Berkeley. After bouncing around various universities, high-tech companies and government research labs he had somehow been enticed into working on Parker's Folly.
“Dr. Gupta, how are things going?” asked Curtis.
“Oh, it is you Gretchen,” said the scientist, looking up. “What brings you to my mad scientist’s lair?” Dr. Gupta was gregarious and outgoing by nature, tending to call everyone by their given name. The ship's officers, all having some form of military background, tended to be more formal, but that did not affect Gupta in the slightest—everyone was the equivalent of a colleague or at least a graduate student in his world view.
At some institutions, particularly in undergraduate programs, the professors insisted on being called Doctor or Professor, but most graduate schools took the approach that everyone, student and teacher alike, were all scholars working together and hence on a first name basis. This made sense to Rajiv and he saw no reason to change his attitude.
“Mr. Parker has expressed a desire to have the ship ready for imminent departure. The Captain is on the bridge and sent me here to see when we can run a full-power system check.”
“Well, I have made a number of changes to the calibration settings but I have not been able to verify that the spurious production of muonium has been overcome. As you know, the power plant's reaction rates depend on the isotopic identity of the reactants and products. Basically, it is a manifestation of the role quantum zero-point energy plays in chemical kinetics and is a consequence of the Born-Oppenheimer separation of electronic and nuclear motion in molecules.”
“Of course, Doctor,” said Lt. Curtis. She had a masters in aeronautical engineering but Rajiv's words may as well have been Martian. No matter, he was in full lecture mode and she would just have to wait until he wound down before asking another question. She nodded encouragingly.
“You see, we need negatively charged muons to catalyze a fusion reaction within the quantum channel matrix. A muon weighs 207 times as much as an electron and can act as either a very heavy electron or a very light proton, depending of course on the muon's charge. Replace a deuterium or tritium atom's single electron with a negative muon and the
1s
orbital shrinks down to only 0.2 picometers. When a pair of these atoms try to form a molecule of H
2
their nuclei are brought close enough together for fusion to take place.