Parker's Folly Page 15

  “So, in the mean time, we need to find something to keep us busy—I propose a trip to the Moon. It's in the neighborhood and I for one have always wanted to go there.” This triggered a renewed round of conversation among the crowd.

  “And what will we be doing during this little jaunt to the Moon?” Susan asked. She was not being critical and was actually excited by the possibility of filming a report by the big viewport with the Moon's craggy surface in the background. First reporter on the Moon! She could almost taste the Pulitzer Prize.

  “The crew has plenty to keep them busy. Since this is Folly's maiden voyage, we will be checking out her equipment and capabilities along the way. As you might have noticed we are a bit undermanned, having left three quarters of our complement on the shore. And that brings me to the primary reason for this meeting.” Jack took a deep breath and pushed on. “I would like to offer those of you who are not already part of the ship's crew... employment.”

  The lounge erupted. After several minutes of babbling and shouted questions, the Captain managed to regain control of the meeting.

  “Here are the terms—they differ somewhat depending on individual circumstances. First, I have asked Dr. Ludmilla Tropsha to assume the duties of ship's surgeon and she has graciously agreed. Dr. Yuki Saito will join Dr. Gupta on the science and engineering staff, while Col. Ivan Kondratov will serve as an officer attached to my staff. His knowledge and training will no doubt prove invaluable.”

  “Ms. Write, since you are familiar with communications I think your place will be with the bridge crew. The same applies to you Mr. Taylor. I understand that you have a degree in astronomy?”

  “Yes, Sir. A Masters from UT Austin.”

  “In that case, you might find it interesting to man our observational instruments and perhaps help a bit with navigation. As for our two stowaways, you will be offered entry positions as deck crew. Your precise duties will be determined by the ship's First Officer, Lt. Curtis, and Chief Zackly.”

  “What if we don't wanna join your crew?” asked the male half of the duo.

  “What's your name son?” Jack asked.

  “Tommy Wendover, and I ain't your son.”

  “Well, Tommy. You can either work for your passage or spend the voyage in an eight by four foot metal room with just a cot and a toilet, and live on bread and water until I find a place to dump your worthless carcass.”

  “You can't do that! We didn't do nothing.”

  “You obviously don't know me, mister. The other alternative is to put you out the airlock.”

  “Begging the Captain's pardon,” interjected Lt. Bear, “if you're just going to toss them out the airlock I'd like to have them. I always enjoy some really fresh meat.”

  “Please no!” the smarmy stowaway pleaded, panic in his eyes.

  “That's ‘please no, Sir.’” Perspiration was beading on Tommy's forehead and both of the stowaways now looked truly frightened. “So Mr. Wendover, and you Miss, what are your answers.”

  “Jolene Betts, Sir. I'd be happy to join the crew.”

  “Yeah, me too... Sir.”

  “Fine, that's settled. Chief, take our new crew members in hand and get them squared away when the meeting is over.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.”

  “Now that brings us to the hardest part—the Marines.” The four Marines and their Navy Corpsman were standing together near the back of the lounge. Hearing the Captain refer to them, they came more or less to attention.

  “You and your squadmates represent a hostile force that tried to commandeer my ship. For that I should clap you in the brig for the duration. But since I don't have a brig large enough to hold the lot of you I would rather offer you a deal.”

  “A deal, Sir?” the Gunny replied for the squad.

  “Yes, a deal. I would like you to fulfill the normal function of Marines on board a Navy vessel. Under direction of the ship's officers, you would assist the crew in their duties and, if the circumstances should arise, form a boarding party.”

  “Boarding party, Captain?” Now the Gunny was really confused.

  “I don't anticipate the need for a boarding party or for your Marines to repel boarders for that matter. But I want you to understand that you would be serving as the ship's Marines. Do you understand, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, Sir. I'm not sure I can do that, Captain, legally I mean. We are all still in the U.S. Marine Corps.” The Gunny whispered back and forth with her four squadmates for a half a minute and then said, “Sir, could I have a word with you in private regarding this matter?”

  “Certainly, Sergeant.” The Captain addressed the rest of the assembled crew. “Alright everyone, please familiarize yourselves with you new stations. Lt. Curtis will tell you where to go if you are unsure. Lt. Bear, please keep the rest of the Marines company in the lounge while I talk with the Sergeant in my sea cabin.”

  The meeting began to break up. Dr. Saito headed aft to see the engineering spaces with Dr. Gupta. Col Kondratov, JT and Susan headed forward with the bridge crew. Dr Tropsha hesitated before heading aft and finally spoke, “Captain, might I request the presence of the Marine medic? I will want to review my new patients' conditions and she would be most helpful.”

  “Certainly Doctor. Corpsman White, would you please accompany the Doctor to sickbay?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Betty nodded, taking the Captain's question as an order.

  “Now, Sergeant. Shall we go forward?”

  As the Captain and the Gunnery Sergeant disappeared forward, Chief Zackly turned to his two new deck crew. “Alright you two, down the companion way and aft to the crew quarters. We'll get you rack assignments and some new work uniforms.”

  “Don't get your nickers in a twist, pops,” Tommy sneered at the diminutive Chief, his swagger returning with the departure of the Captain. In a flash Chief Zackly was in Tommy's face.

  “Why you young punk! I'll turn you upside down and spit in your asshole! You got trouble written all over you and I'm only gona' say this once—do not mess with me.” Spittle sprayed the young man’s face as the Chief proceeded to hand out an old fashioned ass chewing. “And you better obey all of the ship's officers and other ratings too. Keep this in that conniving little mind of yours, scupper turd, I'm the Chief Boatswain's Mate and that means I got them airlock codes just like the Captain. You piss me off and you'll find yer self trying to breath vacuum!”

  As the thoroughly cowed new recruits and the still fuming Chief disappeared down the companionway, Lt. Bear turned to the three Marines left in his care and said, “Belly up to the bar boys, I didn't hear the Captain order it closed.”

  Captain's Sea Cabin, Parker's Folly

  The Captain was seated at his desk with the Gunnery Sergeant standing at parade rest in front of him. She had only one hand behind her back, because of the sling on her right arm. On entering the cabin, GySgt Rodriguez behaved precisely as she would in front of an American Navy officer. She took one step forward, stood to attention, saluted with her left hand—her right arm being in a sling—and barked out “Gunnery Sergeant Rodriguez, reporting to the ship's Captain as ordered, Sir.”

  Out of long habit, Jack returned the Gunny's salute and got her to assume parade rest by telling her, “At ease, Sergeant.” The Gunny politely refused to take a seat, however.

  “OK, Sergeant, tell me what's on your mind,” the Captain said. He had dealt with Marines when he was in the Navy and agreed with a statement attributed to an Army general—“There are only two kinds of people that understand Marines: Marines and the enemy. Everyone else has a second-hand opinion.”

  Jack was never a Marine and he hoped that he would no longer qualify for the latter category when this meeting was over. Trying to keep the Marines in the brig—if he had a brig—even with half the squad in sickbay would place a hell of a strain on his already thinly stretched crew.

  “Sir, according to the military code of conduct, even if captured I am to resist by all means available. I must make ever
y effort to escape and aid others to escape. I can accept neither parole nor special favors from the enemy. Please explain how this offer you are making is not in violation of the code of conduct.”

  “Well, Sergeant, first off you were sent to seize the ship, but those aboard were all citizens of the United States. You are not at war with us and we are not your enemy. Second, what can you do? The ship is in space, so you cannot escape. If you did manage to commandeer the ship you could not operate it or safely return it to Earth. And finally, space is a very dangerous place. There are enough hazards without continued hostilities among those on board.

  “I don't think that these are the circumstances the code of conduct was written for. All that I'm asking is that, for the sake of your men and all on board, you cooperate for the duration of the voyage. Restrain from sabotaging the ship or harming any members of the crew, and you have my word as an officer that I will return you and your squad to Earth when the voyage is over.”

  “Sir, in the absence of a Marine Officer, the Gunnery Sergeant requests a more formal description of her duties under the prospective parole agreement.”

  Well, Jack thought, this is interesting. It's not like we have our own set of service regulations. Then he had an idea. Consulting his tablet he quickly found what he was looking for, a description of a gunnery sergeant's duties from an old Navy manual. “Sergeant, I am going to read you a passage from congressional testimony regarding the qualifications of a Marine Gunnery Sergeant.” He did not add that the testimony had been given in 1912:

  “He should have sufficient knowledge of the system of accountability of the United States Marine Corps to take charge of and properly render the accounts of a guard aboard ship, and should be competent in all respects to perform the duties of a first sergeant in charge of a guard on ship to which no marine officer is attached; also a knowledge of the duties involved in the subsistence of men ordered on detached duty, as well as the duties of an officer in command of a part of a landing party on shore.”

  “I'm asking you to act as would any Gunnery Sergeant in charge of a shipboard detachment of Marines. Do you see a problem fulfilling any of those duties, Sergeant?”

  “No problem, Captain. The Squad would stay under my control?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Lt. Merryweather will be in command if he recovers enough to resume his duties?”

  “Certainly. If you will give me your parole and your Lieutenant recovers enough to resume his command, I will release you from your pledge and put the same question to him. I will honor whatever course of action your officer chooses, when the time comes.”

  “And can I get this parole agreement in writing, Sir? No offense.”

  “None taken Sergeant. Grant's of parole are traditionally made both verbally and in writing, to preclude any later misunderstandings.” Like courts martial, he added mentally.

  “I guess I can agree then, Captain.”

  “Very well Gunnery Sergeant. I formally ask you to give your parole and that of those who serve under you.”

  The Gunny came back to attention and replied, “Sir, I give you my parole and those of my men.”

  “Great, now that that is out of the way we can get on with things.”

  “Begging the Captain’s pardon. Who should I see about getting my squad fed and bedded down, Sir?”

  “Ah yes. A good officer or non-com always sees to the comfort of his men first. You need to talk to Lt. Curtis, she'll assign your men quarters. There will be announcements later regarding meal times, the use of the showers and such. And Gunny,”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Don't hesitate to call on Lt. Bear or Chief Zackly if there is something you need or can't find.”

  “Yes, Sir.” The Gunny paused. “Pardon me, Sir. Is Lt. Bear really an actual polar bear?”

  “Yes indeed his is. In fact, I personally went to the Arctic to recruit him. Dismissed, Sergeant.”

  North of the Arctic Circle, Six Years Ago.

  Tendrils of snow writhed across the frozen waste, as the bitter cold wind howled, shrieking in protest as it passed over the pressure ridges that scarred the solid pack ice. A party of Inuit hunters were hunkered down behind one such ridge, crouching as low as possible in hopes of remain out of sight until sunset.

  Three of the party were already dead, their shattered and bloodstained remains lying where they fell. They had been shot with something bigger than any of the party's hunting rifles. Something that caused heads to explode and could blow a man's chest out through his back with a single shot.

  Peter Epoo was the first of the hunting party to die. The hunters were paralleling the pressure ridge on their snowmobiles, looking for a good place to cross it, when his head exploded, parka hood and all. A shot echoed across the empty ice as Peter's headless body fell off of his machine, which continued on a short ways and then stopped.

  Tagak Uyarasuk jumped off of his sled and ran over to Peter's body, trying to figure out what had happened to his friend. The back of his sealskin parka suddenly erupted as bone, gristle, lungs and blood formed a red fountain spurting from Tagak's ruined body. The echo of the shot was heard as the lifeless hunter fell to the ice on top of his dead friend.

  The remaining three hunters—Jobie Annahatak, Willie Kiatainaq and his son Noah—quickly took shelter behind the ridge. They remained still for twenty minutes, nothing moved but the wind blown snow. Then Jobie decided to look over the ridge to see if he could spot anyone. As he stuck his head up it exploded in a cloud of pink mist. Bits of bloody brain and shards of skull with skin and hair still attached rained down on the terrified father and son.

  The only ones left now were Willie and Noah. It had been more than an hour since Jobie had been killed and both hunters were feeling the cold. “Poppa, what should we do?” asked the frightened boy, barely into his teens.

  The feeble Arctic Sun was getting low on the horizon, soon the brief late winter day would end. They had yet to catch sight of their tormentor. “Stay down, Noah. Better to wait for darkness. Then we try to run.”

  Laying prone on the next pressure ridge over was a large figure covered with white hair. He was intently peering through the Leupold 4.5×14 Mark 4 telescopic sight of a Barrett M107A1 semi-automatic, 50 caliber sniper rifle. Capable of lethal accuracy beyond 2,000 yards, the hunters could not have returned fire even if they knew where it was coming from.

  The rifle itself had been painted white to blend in with Arctic conditions. The trigger guard had also been removed to better accommodate the shooter. The frigid conditions and howling wind didn't bother the marksman in the least because he was a large male polar bear.

  As the great white bear patiently waited for his quarry to show itself another figure approached him from behind. It was a tall man in a fur parka. “I know you're back there,” the bear said, not looking up from the rifle scope.

  “I wanted you to know that I was,” the man said evenly. “It's generally not a good idea to sneak up on someone holding a weapon.”

  “I'll be with you in a minute, there's only two of them left,” the bear rumbled. He figured that if the man behind him intended to kill him he would have done so already—either that or he was unarmed. Either way, he would deal with the man after he finished off the hunting party.

  “You know you really shouldn't kill all of them.”

  “Not your business.”

  “I'm guessing that you are trying to send the Inuit a message.”

  “Yeah, ‘I hate you little pricks and I'm going to kill you all.’”

  “That's my point. If you kill all of the hunters there will be no one left to tell the others.”

  “Tell 'em what?”

  “That a great white bear with a rifle is out on the ice, hunting the hunters.”

  “You know what?” There was a painfully loud report as the sniper rifle fired.

  Across the ice, Willie was struck in the shoulder by a 661 gr bullet traveling in excess of 2,500 feet per second.
His left arm was severed from his torso, but it was the shock that killed him.

  “Ddwa! (father)” Noah cried and stood up. As he started toward his father's crumpled body he looked in the direction the shot had come from. There, on the next ridge, was a polar bear—a big male. The bear stood up on his hind legs and raised something over his head. It looked like a large white rifle.

  The bear pointed the rifle in Noah's direction, sending the boy racing back to his snowmobile. He started the engine and without looking back he sped away to the south.

  The bear dropped down to all fours and rolled around to face his interlocutor, rifle in paw. “What you said made sense. Now tell me why I'm not going to kill you.”

  “Well, for a start you're curious.”

  “About?”

  “About how I found you, why I approached you alone and unarmed, and most importantly, why I was not surprised when you spoke to me.”

  “Yeah, I was wondering about that. Most humans shit themselves when I say something to them.” He's standing there totally calm and unafraid, the bear thought, this guy is either crazy or knows something I don't. “So what do you want?”

  “Have you ever wondered why only some polar bears can talk? And how that came to be?”

  “Hey, we ain't all the same. Anymore than all you apes are the same. Most polar bears are just big dumb brutes. Only a few of us can talk, only a few of us are smart enough to even know what talking is.”

  “Would you like to know more about where your kind came from and why you are different?”

  “You're saying you got all the answers?” There was a threatening edge to the white bear's question.

  “Hardly, but I do have some of the answers and I know were we can find out more. You see, my ursine friend, both talking bears and talking apes have something in common—we have both been messed with by parties unknown.”

  “Really? And what are you going to do about that?”

  “I'm going to go find those who did the messing and ask them why. Want to come along?”

  The 1,300 pound predator cocked his head to one side as he considered what the man had just said to him. He had never really had a conversation with a human before, at least not one that didn't involve screaming and then a meal. The man had said he was unarmed and the bear figured he could always kill him and eat him later. “OK, you're on.”