Parker's Folly (12 page)

The Japanese scientist Hiroyuki “Yuki” Saito was a cosmologist and astrophysicist. A brilliant scientist by all accounts, Dr. Saito had worked for years to earn a trip into space. Originally from Fukushima prefecture—Saito is the 4
th
most common family name in the prefecture—fate seemed to be dealing him the cruelest hand of all.

Years ago, his wife and young son were on a bullet train headed for Tokyo when the 2011 earthquake struck. Following the 9.0 quake, the worst in Japanese history, a 30 foot tsunami had come ashore. When it retreated the bullet train and all its passengers were nowhere to be found. Evidently the train had been washed out to sea with all aboard. Now, in an improbable twist of fate, Saito was about to be killed by another tsunami, this one made of high-energy atomic particles instead of water.

Yuki, as he preferred to be called, was currently in Node 3, the Tranquility module. He was looking out the windows of the cupola, which offered the best outside view on the station having six large windows on its sides and one on top. Luda figured that the astrophysicist was up there making peace with the universe that had treated him so unfairly.

Luda had thought about calling her estranged ex-husband but decided against it. Their marriage had ended badly a decade ago and she saw no reason to pretend they still meant something to each other. Besides, in the end, everyone dies alone.

As the station doctor, she had full access to the Health Maintenance Facility. While the HMF was not equipped for surgery, there were a number of strong emergency painkillers in the ISS medical accessory kits. She was preparing for the worst—three syringes, filled with a potent narcotic cocktail that would hopefully bring painless ends to the three stranded cosmonauts.

Nothing to do now but wait. Two things Russians do well—suffer and wait.
She sighed and looked back out the porthole.

A number of emergency rescue vehicles had driven out to the now disheveled dirigible hanger and rescue workers were searching for any survivors inside the structure. The SWAT team members suffered only minor cuts and bruises, their pride suffering more damage than anything else. Of course, if they had been inside the building when the ship powered up their shredded remains would now be scattered over several acres of TK's ranch.

After recovering from the shock of the departing ship's sonic boom and the imploding house windows, Chief Marshal Earl looked out the shattered window in TK's office at the ruined hangar. “My God! There was a squad of Marines in that building.”

“What!” TK and several others exclaimed at the same time. “I didn't see no Marines running around out there,” he finished.

“They were sent in from the other side. Snuck up by air so they couldn't be seen from the house,” the Marshal answered. “If we find the remains of ten dead Marines in your hangar, Mr. Parker, there will be hell to pay.”

“Did you ever think that if they hadn't snuck up they'd a bin all right?” the old man snapped. Inside TK felt sick, he never intended for anyone to get hurt. He couldn't believe that Jack would have callously taken off with people in the hangar. Of course, the effects of the ship's departure were a bit more dramatic than anyone had expected.

One of the local Sheriff’s deputies stuck his head into the room and said: “Just talked to the fire and rescue people on the radio. There is no sign of human remains in or around the hangar.”

“Are they sure no one was killed? Where did they go?”

“The guys out there said that anyone inside would have been turned into hamburger. If those Marines had been in there, there would have been blood and guts all over,” the Deputy continued. “The Osprey pilots said they entered the hangar ten minutes before blastoff and didn't come back out. They must have gotten on board the ship.”

“Well that's a relief,” said Sid Hopkins, the Texas Ranger. “You know Mr. Parker, even if those Marines are safe on board somewhere, I think the federal boys are going to be royally upset with you.”

“What did I do?” said a secretly relieved TK Parker. “I'm just an old man, mindin' my own business and bein' harassed by the authorities.”

“Oh, I think that there are laws against flying unlicensed experimental aircraft, shooting things into outer space without a permit, and kidnapping Marines is bound to upset the Pentagon.”

The deputy, who had been talking on his radio, interrupted again. “We got reports coming in from all over. There are claims that some cattle were killed by the ship's passage—flung 'em two hundred feet through the air—and an old gas station was blown apart next county over. Evidently the ship pulled up and headed for the sky just before passing over San Angelo—the sonic boom blew out windows all over town. The people are up in arms, but they think it was part of the air show.”

“I'll bet the air show people are going have a hard time convincing the town's folk that their windows were broken by a renegade spaceship and not the flyovers,” remarked Ranger Hopkins. “No sir, Mr. Parker. I do believe you'll be spending a lot of time with these fellas here for the foreseeable future.”

Well,
thought TK,
that's done. The ship is safely away and it sounds like nobody got killed—what a relief. I wish I could talk to Jack and find out what happened to those Marines. Hell, I don't even know who all is on board the Folly. But Jack's a big boy. He knows how to take care of business, that's why I hired him.

In any case, TK had some of the best lawyers in Texas. They would soon spring him from custody and tie the authorities up in legal knots. It would take a while, but eventually he would be able to talk to the ship and find out what really happened during its spectacular departure.

Just then, Maria entered the room. “Senor Parker, I'm sorry but the coffee pot was shattered by the big boom.”

“Never mind, Maria. I think we'd all rather have bourbon instead of coffee about now—that is if there are any unbroken bottles left. What do you say Ranger, Marshal? Like you said, no reason to be uncivilized.”

After the helmsmen set the flight plan, the trip to orbit went smoothly. Acceleration had again peaked at around six Gs and once headed toward space the ride had smoothed out significantly. The roaring sound from outside the ship, caused by the passage of air, quickly subsided as Earth's atmosphere was left behind. Folly was now in a roughly 350 km high orbit traveling about 27,500 km/hr.

The planet below was mostly dark as they flew into the oncoming night, after passing over the Atlantic Ocean. Soon the Indian Ocean would be below and they would see the Sun rise over the Pacific. In its current orbit it took about 94 minutes to circle the planet below. Both that time and the orbital velocity were dictated by altitude and the gravitational pull of Earth. When George Lucas had the Empire's Death Star “orbiting at maximum velocity” it was so much Sci-Fi BS—every orbit and position has its own velocity.

Hokey Hollywood movies aside, the ship was eerily quiet as the bridge crew sat mesmerized by the view outside Folly's transparent bow. Unlike the old U.S. Space Shuttle, which rolled 180 degrees onto its back during the climb to orbit, Parker's Folly retained the same orientation it had when it left the hangar. Earth was passing under the nose of the spacecraft as the crew looked up at the brilliant full moon and unblinking stars above their heads.

Let's give the lounge's starboard side viewport a full on look at Earth passing by,
thought the Captain. “Helm, please gently roll the ship clockwise by 90 degrees.”

“Aye Aye, Captain. Roll the ship clockwise 90 degrees.”

“Gently, Mr. Danner. I think everyone on board is shaken up enough after our ascent.”

“Yes, Sir.” replied Danner, as the still dark planet began to swing around to the ship's right side.

Enough wool gathering,
Jack thought, angry with himself,
I should be finding out what shape the ship and crew are in
. “Mr. Medina, what is the status of the ship's systems?”

“Engines are at idle, Sir, all parameters well within limits. Hull integrity is intact, no breaches and no pressure drops in sealed sections. Repulsor shields are up. The power reactors are running, power draw is negligible.

“Environmental is running at around 87 percent, probably because the hydroponics were not all on-line before we took off. Given the number of souls on board that poses no problems. Air pressure is 14.7 psi, relative humidity 25% and temperature is 23
°
C.

“Internal visual monitoring is just now coming on line and the deck gravitational system is still running internal self-calibration—it will not be up for another 35 to 45 minutes. Other than that, Captain, all systems are nominal.”

“Very good, thank you Mr. Medina.” Of the two, the more critical was the deck gravity. The reason for Folly's horizontal deck layout was that, when the deck gravity system was functioning, an adjustable artificial gravity gradient defined down to be toward the deck underfoot. Even more importantly, the system compensated for the ship's acceleration.

If it had been working during takeoff no one would have felt any motion, let-alone been flung violently about. Unfortunately, they were never able to successfully calibrate the deck gravity while setting at the bottom of Earth's gravity well—that task had to wait until they were in orbit. “Engineering, Bridge. Dr. Gupta are you all right?”

“Uh, Bridge, Engineering. We are all right, mostly, but Dr. Gupta can't answer right now.”

“Who is this and what seems to be the problem with Dr. Gupta?”

“This is Freddy Adams, Captain,” Adams was one of the engineering techs and the only tech on board when they launched. “We came through the takeoff fine but Dr. Gupta has space sickness—he's throwing up, Sir.”

Space sickness, or space adaptation syndrome as NASA calls it, can last for days and be quite debilitating. Caused by confused signals from the inner ear under zero-gravity conditions, when it strikes and who will get it can be hard to predict. People who show an exceptional tolerance to motion sickness—at sea or when flying jets for instance—can suffer the worst symptoms in space. Fortunately, when the deck gravity generators come up that problem should go away. Until then things could get messy.

“Very good, Mr. Adams, assist the Doctor and try to contain the mess.” Globules of vomit had a tendency to go everywhere in zero-g. Clean-up in the engineering spaces would not be pleasant.

“Environmental, Bridge. Your status please.”

“Bridge, Environmental,” came the immediate reply, in a deep rumbling voice. “Bear here, Captain. I'm fine but Melissa is hurt.”

Melissa Scott Hamilton was a horticulturist and one of the environmental techs. She mostly stayed in the hydroponics section, tending to the plants that helped recycle Folly's air and which would eventually provide the crew with fresh vegetables. A slight, shy young woman from Louisiana, she and Lt. Bear, the ship's gruff security officer, had developed a mutual attraction. Lt. Bear could usually be found in Ms. Hamilton's company when his duties didn't require him to be elsewhere.

“What are the nature of Ms. Hamilton's injuries? Are they life threatening?”

“No. She has a broken foreleg but is OK otherwise.”

“You mean one of her arms is broken, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah, right, her right arm. I'll take her forward to the sick bay.”

Ah yes, that reminds me.
“No, Lieutenant. Make her as comfortable as you can and then go forward to the cargo hold airlock. We have some uninvited guests in the hold.”

“Guests in the cargo hold?”

“Yes, Lieutenant. We seem to have acquired a squad of Marines just prior to takeoff. Monitoring is up so you can keep them under observation, but don't take any action on your own. I will come aft with First Officer Curtis and some of the ratings—that way we can hit them from both ends at once.”

“Yes, Sir,” came the eager reply. “And what are we expected to do with the Marines?”

“I expect us to quell them, Lieutenant.”

When the oppressive acceleration that held her in the lounge chair was replaced by zero-gravity, Lt. Curtis figured they were in orbit. The two news people were looking around, big eyed, clutching the arms of their chairs with viselike grips. Chief Zackly came up out of his chair slowly, only to drift off helplessly across the dayroom.

His feet no longer in contact with the deck, the little man was running in place in a vain attempt to find firmer footing. Waving his arms at the furniture, just out of reach, a steady stream of mumbled obscenities emanated from the frustrated boatswain.

Lt. Curtis glanced at the floating chief, shook her head and took something out of a pouch attached to her waist. Carefully, she brought one knee up and reaching down slipped a booty over her footwear. Placing that foot securely on the deck, she repeated the process for her other foot. Newly shod, the Lieutenant stood up and took two careful steps toward the windmilling chief, who was now upside down.

“Chief,” said the First Officer, offering the stranded sailor a stabilizing arm, “stop flailing about and put your deck booties on.”

“Yes, Ma'am,” came the embarrassed reply, as the Chief accepted the proffered arm and with considerable grace, pivoted and planted his feet back on the deck. He too, extracted a pair of the slip-on booties and quickly installed them over his shoes, mumbling “never needed booties to stick to the deck of a destroyer.”

Talking into the pip on her collar, the Lieutenant said, “Bridge, lower deck Dayroom. Lt. Curtis here.”

“Go ahead Dayroom. What is your status Lieutenant?”

“I am with Chief Zackly, the two news people, and a pair of construction types who got stuck on board, Captain. All of us are unharmed.”

“Good, Lieutenant. Could you please bring your party to the lounge on the upper deck? It seems we have more unwanted stowaways on board, specifically a squad of Marines in the cargo hold. We need to get the civilians stowed in a safe place before we neutralize the Marines.”