Parker's Folly (8 page)

“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.

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 embodiment 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...”

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.

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.

Upon landing the rear ramp lowered to the ground and the squad of Marines exited the rear of the Osprey led by Lt. Merryweather and GySgt Rodriguez. The squad fanned out and formed a perimeter about 30 meters from the aircraft, who's rotors were stirring up large volumes of dust. As the Marines knelt down facing outward from their ride and toward the looming hangar, Rodriguez turned back to the Osprey and gave a thumbs up signal. The MV-22 immediately started to rise and headed off to the south.

The Gunny waited 20 seconds for some of the dust to clear and for the noise of the aircraft to fade. There was no response from the building. She looked over at the Lieutenant and Cpl Sizemore. As soon as she had their attention she used hand signals to indicate they should advance to the side of the building, each team taking up stacked position beside their target doors.

The Gunny stood up and started forward at a trot. Simultaneously, the rest of the squad was in motion, headed for their assigned objectives.
Damn if we don't look like we know what we're doing,
Rodriguez thought. The squad quickly flattened themselves against the outer wall of the building.

I wish we had some grenades, no, we wouldn't be able to use them until we know what's inside.
As usual with combat operations, the worst part was before making contact with the enemy. That's when all the doubts and second guessing happens. Once the bullets start flying, training and instinct take over. From the far side of the door, facing the rest of her team and in sight of the Lieutenant's team farther west along the building wall, she motioned for the squad to enter the hangar.

Reagan reached out and grasped the doorknob. The door was unlocked. He pushed the door open and entered the building, followed closely by Davis and Sanchez. The Gunny and corpsman White brought up the rear.