Parker's Folly (9 page)

Still no contact. The team crossed through a deserted work area filled with tables and machine tools. On the far side, opposite the entrance, there was a ramp leading to a pair of swinging doors that opened outward, into the hanger proper.

“Up the ramp! Move it!” With that the Gunny launched herself up the ramp and threw open the right hand door as Davis did the same to the one on the left. The rest of the team flooded into the brightly lit hangar, instinctively taking up defensive, outward facing positions.

Rodriguez could see the rest of the squad similarly deployed, twenty meters to her left. The Lieutenant was standing in the middle of his team, looking up, pistol in hand with his arm hanging at his side. That was when the Gunny became aware of the large gleaming cylinder towering over them.
I'll be damned,
she thought,
it is a rocket ship.

The interview had gone well and the news crew was busy preparing to send their report to the TV station. HD video was not actually recorded on tape or film anymore. When JT “filmed” a scene the sound and video was recorded on a high-density SSD storage pack attached to the camera. Once recorded, his camera rig contained everything the news team needed to playback and edit the video in the field.

Lt. Curtis installed the news team in the Captain's sea cabin to do their editing, since they would be out of the way and unlikely to be disturbed there. She had just returned to the bridge when TK called.

“Folly! This is TK in the ranch house. We got Johnny Law crawling up our asses out here. Are you there?”

“Not the most professional radio discipline,” the Captain commented, reaching to answer the call. “Ranch house, Folly. We're here Mr. Parker. Say again your last?”

“I said we got every flavor of lawman known to humanity getting ready to enter the premises. I can see sheriff's deputies, Texas Highway Patrol, some cops from Crane, and a helicopter just landed a bunch of U.S. Marshals and a Texas Ranger.”

“U.S. Marshals and a Texas Ranger? How can you tell?”

“The Marshals are wearin' black bullet proof vests with
‘
U.S. Marshal
’ on 'em in big white letters. The Ranger is the only one wearing a suit with a cowboy hat and a shiny badge. That's how I can tell.”

“Do you think they are here to seize the ship?”

“You're God damn right they are! Now that the Marshals are here it looks like they are makin' their move. There's a group, including the Ranger, heading for the front door but there's also a bunch of SWAT team types heading directly for the hangar.”

“What would you have us do, Mr. Parker?” the Captain asked his friend and employer, glancing at his second in command, who was nervously rotating a ring on
the third finger of her left hand.

“Jack, I want you to blastoff on out'a here, that's what I want you to do! I've already called my lawyers and I'm gonna try and stall 'em here at the hacienda, but that won't stop those SWAT types. And once they get a hold of Folly we'll never get her back.”

“TK...” Jack started, but Parker cut him off.

“Batten down the hatches and blastoff now! You hear me son? Do it now!” The line went dead.

Turning to Lt. Curtis, Jack said, “well, it would seem that I have my orders.”

“You mean we have our orders, don't you Sir?” The First Officer said, a troubled look on her face.

“Gretchen,” Jack said, purposely using her given name, “I know we were both Naval officers, but this is not a Navy ship and the crew is not under Service discipline. There will be repercussions for taking the ship right from under the noses of federal agents, and that's assuming we don't blow up in the attempt. I have no authority to order you to stay on board while I commit
grand theft spaceship
.”

“No, Jack,” she said, her green eyes looking steadily into his. “When I signed up for this enterprise I did it knowing the risks. I am as committed to what we are doing as you are. Unless you are ordering me off the ship, this is where I'm staying.”

“Very well, Lieutenant,” the Captain said with a relieved smile. “You might want to take the news team out the starboard hatch the tell them to get clear of the building. Tell them they will get a nice shot of the ship leaving the hangar.”

“Yes, Sir. I left them in your sea cabin, sorting through their tour and interview footage. I'll disembark the news people and then go collect any other strays we have on board.” With that, she turned and left the bridge.

The Captain turned back to the bridge crew, who had been silently listening to the interchange between the owner and the ship's two highest ranking officers.

“Attention on deck! Listen up people. What I said to Lieutenant Curtis applies to all of you. I cannot order you to remain at your stations, but if you wish to disembark you need to do so now. Fastest way is through the gangway on the forward hatch starboard side. If you are leaving, go now and do not hang around—get off the ship, out of the building and a good distance away before we depart.”

“Permission to speak, Sir?” said Billy Ray. The Captain nodded. “I figure me an Bobby will stick around, if you don't mind.”

“You bet, Captain,” added Bobby, vigorously nodding his head.

“Me too, Sir,” added Jo Jo Medina from his engineering station. “With you and the ship all the way.”

“All right then. Start the procedure for departure. Be ready to activate the bottom repulsors on command, gentlemen. Engineer Medina, start powering up all internal systems.”

“Aye aye, Sir.” came the chorus of replies.

“Engineering, Bridge, Dr. Gupta I need those engines online now, if you please.” A short pause.

“Ah, this is Engineering. Did I understand you want me to start the main reactors?”

“That is correct, Dr. Gupta. We are preparing for immediate departure. Break. Environmental, Bridge.”

“Bridge, Environmental, go ahead.” came a feminine voice.

“Miss Hamilton, please secure the hydroponics section for immediate departure.”

“Yes, Sir. I'll have Lt. Bear help lock things down...”

Outside of the ship, the Marines were standing, gawking at the gleaming spaceship in front of them as Lieutenant Merryweather and the Gunny conferred. “There doesn't seem to be anyone around, Sir. At least outside the ship. Davis reports he saw movement in the glass nose up front. Do we board the ship, Sir?”

“I don't know, Sergeant. Our orders were somewhat vague. As long as there is no resistance and the ship doesn't move I think we should just hold in position. I'm trying to get clarification from HQ via relay through the Osprey.” After inserting the squad, the MV-22 climbed to altitude and was orbiting the ranch at 5,000 feet. In theory it provided a radio link between the Marines on the ground and the command authority.

“Yes, Sir. Just in case, I would like to take half the squad down to that large hatch aft and see if there is any activity inside. With your permission, Sir?”

“Sure Gunny, roger that. Just don't board the ship.”

* * * * *

“You're taking off right now? This isn't some trick to just get us off the ship is it?” Susan was a bit putout that they had been evicted from the Captain's comfortable office and were being summarily thrown off the ship. The interview with the Captain was in the can and already sent to the station, but they were still editing shots from the bridge and lounge with Susan doing a voice over.

“I'm very sorry about this, Ms. Write. But the Captain has ordered all visitors to disembark and the ship to prepare for immediate departure.” Lt. Curtis was trying to hustle her two charges into the forward crew hatch. The crew hatch was an airlock, aft of the bridge, that allowed access from the lower deck to the ship's exterior. From the bottom lip of the outer door, a self-extending ramp provided an inclined gangway down to the scaffolding surrounding the ship.

“Come on Miss Susan,” urged JT. “You said that you didn't want to be on the first flight. We got some good stuff already. Maybe we can get some footage of the ship leaving the hangar and taking off?”

With that he stepped out onto the gangway and, looking aft said, “Hey, there's a bunch of armed soldiers out here!” From force of habit, he raised the camera to his shoulder and began filming.

* * * * *

“Hey look,” said Doc White. “There are people coming down the brow.” Brow is the Navy term for a plank or gangway from ship to shore when a ship is lying alongside a pier. The Marines were standing roughly amidships, with the large cargo door aft and the smaller, personnel hatch forward. The bottom of the personnel hatch opening was a couple of meters higher than the scaffolding deck, requiring the use of a gangway ramp.

“WEAPON!” Yelled PFC Reagan, seeing the large black man at the top of the gangway raising something bulky, possibly a missile launcher, to his shoulder.

KAK! KAK! KAK!

PFC Sanchez fired a three shot burst at the man on the side of the ship. The burst was followed by the high-pitched whine of ricocheting bullets.

“BELAY THAT FIRE!” shouted the Gunny. She had just returned  from reconnoitering the large cargo door aft. “At ease Marines! Just what the flying hell do you think you're doing, Sanchez?”

“There was a hostile with a weapon at the forward hatch, Gunny!” Sanchez pleaded. “Reagan yelled ‘weapon’ and I tried to take the hostile out.”

At Reagan's warning, the whole squad had scattered, positioning themselves so they had clear fields of fire. Everyone's attention was focused on the forward hatch. From the front of the ship there came a groaning noise.
Oh shit!
The Gunny thought,
if Sanchez wounded a civilian we are SOL for sure.

But the noise was not coming from the man on the ramp, he had disappeared from view. Rather, the groaning sound was coming from the ramp itself, which was retracting into the side of the ship.

* * * * *

Fortunately for JT, the weapon PFC Sanchez was was using was unfamiliar to him, and Sanchez was not the best of shots under any condition. The shots were wide and ricocheted harmlessly off the metallic hull.

JT had ducked back into the ship as soon as he heard the cry of “weapon” and saw one of the soldiers raise his rifle. No, correction, when one of the Marines raised his rifle. He had spent more than enough time humping around Afghanistan to spot the difference between Army and Marines in combat gear.

Lt. Curtis' reaction had been nearly instantaneous, she grabbed JT by the belt with one hand and jerked him deeper into the airlock. With the other hand she whacked a large red button in a panel on the bulkhead. The sound of electric motors, like the flaps on an airliner, and the exit ramp began to retract into the side of the ship.

Then she spoke into a tiny microphone barely visible on her lapel. “Captain! Lt. Curtis in the starboard crew airlock. We have armed men outside the ship. Shots have been fired.”

“Say again, Lieutenant?”

“I repeat, there are armed men outside of the ship and shots have been fired. No casualties. The news crew did not get off the ship.” As if to emphasize the point, the external hatch clanged shut.

“Secure the civilians in the guest's dayroom for takeoff. Then continue aft and check for other lost souls wandering around my ship, Lieutenant. Captain, out.”

“FYI, those armed men are a squad of Marines. Force Recon or some other group of Special Operators,” JT said angrily. “Crappy shots though, if I had been the shooter I'd be dead or at least bleeding right now.”

Susan looked at him, eyes wide.  “What are you talking about? Those were shots?” She knew JT had been in the military but she had never heard him talk this way, with such a cold blooded edge to his voice. “How do you know who those men are?”

“You can tell by the vests and web gear that they're Marines, that and the camo pattern. And the rifles they're carrying are tricked out M4 carbines with special grips and optical sights that are only issued to special units—elite, counterinsurgency types and the like. I know, I've been there.”

“You were a Marine?” Asked Lt. Curtis.

“Hell no!” snarled JT. “I was Army, Special Forces.”

TK was seated in his wheelchair behind his office desk. There was a large picture window to his right that looked south toward the old hanger. Through it, he could see the SWAT team in their black outfits, approaching the north side of the hanger.
Bet those heavy black vests are hotter than hell under that Texas Sun,
he thought to himself. Not much satisfaction to draw on there. A knock, and then Maria was at the office door with a posse.

“Señor Parker, these men are from the U.S. Marshal’s office in Austin. I'm afraid they have a search warrant.” Maria indicated three men in black, bulletproof vests with “U.S. Marshal” emblazoned in white, and in back, a man in a suit and cowboy hat.

“Let 'em in, Maria. Why don't you put some coffee on? Thank you, dear.” Then rolling around from behind the desk and addressing the contingent of lawmen. “Well come on in. I hope you don't mind if I don't get up to greet y'all.”

“Not at all, Mr. Parker,” said the large balding Marshal, who seemed to be leading the procession. “Sir, I'm Tom Earl, U.S. Marshal in Charge of the Texas Western District. These are Deputy Marshals Evans and Fitzroy, and the other gentleman is Sid Hopkins of the Texas Rangers.”

As Maria was leaving the room, Fitzroy turned to her and said, “don't go far, chica, we'll be wanting to talk with you too.”

With a single smooth movement, TK's chair lept forward in the direction of Marshal Fitzroy, shifting from four wheel mode to two. Fitzroy turned back to find TK's angry face just inches from his own. In a very low and menacing voice the old oil tycoon said:

“I don't care who the hell you think you are, mister. But you will treat my housekeeper with respect. I got about six billion dollars in the bank, and unless you and the U.S. Marshals want every lawyer in Texas crawlin' up your asses you will act civil in my house.”