Parker's Folly Read online

  The football and cowboy crowd were put off by her intelligence and sharp tongue while the smart, nerdy boys were intimidated by her physical beauty—it was lose-lose in the romance department. She had to ask a boy to take her to the senior prom in order to get a date. Two things taught her how and when to hide her intellectual gifts and when to use her feminine wiles: the Miss Texas beauty contest and going to college.

  She came in third runner up for Miss Texas, which taught her that she couldn't depend on being the prettiest girl in the room to get her what she wanted. But third runner up was good enough for a scholarship that allowed her to earn a degree in communications and journalism from Texas A&M.

  That degree, along with being telegenic and smart, had gotten her a job as a roving reporter for KWTEX, the “West Texas News Authority.” Not that bouncing around the Permian Basin dust bowl in a news van was where she wanted to be, but it was a start.

  Reality intruded on her reminiscence in the form of Stevie Ray Vaughn blasting out the opening of “Texas Flood.” Stevie Ray was another Texan musician who's life was cut short by an aeronautical mishap—what was it with rock stars and airplane crashes? In this case, the smoking hot blues song indicated an incoming call from her boss, station manager Ed Stanton.

  “Yes, Ed?” she asked, bringing the iPhone to her ear.

  “Suzy, I need you and JT to get on down to Upton County and check out a rancher who's building a rocket ship on his spread,” her boss said without preamble.

  She sighed. She hated it when he called her “Suzy” but he signed her paychecks. “Are you going to tell me who this rancher is and where he's located? Or do you intend for us to just start asking about him at the next roadside diner?”

  “Terrance Kinkade Parker, goes by TK,” her manager replied, ignoring Susan's sarcasm. “Made a fortune in oil and the last gas boom. He's rumored to be worth billions.”

  “Imagine that, a rich, eccentric Texas oilman. We've never done that story before.”

  “Not one with his own space program we ain't. I want this for the six o'clock tonight, so tell JT to hustle y'all on down there.” The line went dead.

  “Great, he didn't give the address.” Sometimes she really hated that overbearing old redneck.

  “What's up, Miss Susan? Are we off on a hot new assignment?”

  “Yeah, Big Ed has heard a rumor about some billionaire oilman who's building his own rocket ship in Upton county.”

  “OK,” he replied, leaning over to play with the satnav system between them. “You know that may not be as far out as it sounds. With NASA pretty much out of the manned rocket business there are a number of rich private investors trying to get into the astronaut transport business.”

  “Yeah, you know you're right? Ever since the shuttle was retired our astronauts have had to hitch rides to and from the ISS with the Russians.”

  “Un huh, damned humiliating for NASA. And expensive.”

  “Looks like this guy's ranch is northeast of Castle Gap, pretty much in the middle of nowhere,” Susan announced, consulting the Internet via her iPhone. “You need to head for Crane, then south on state road 385.”

  “Ah, Crane, another thriving metropolis,” JT muttered, as he turned the van south, off of Interstate 10 and onto the state highway.

  “County seat of scenic Crane County, and right next to the Upton County line,” she replied. Oh well, she thought, it was better than talking to some podunk town's mayor about his plans to revitalize the local golf course. “Then look for Ma Earp Road heading east past Castle Gap to county road 300.”

  “And just what is Castle Gap?”

  “Castle Gap is a mile-long break in the Castle Mountains 12 miles north-northwest of Horsehead Crossing. It's bordered by King Mountain on the southern end and Castle Mountain to the north.” Susan smiled her best beauty contest smile and brightly announced, “Why everyone who was anyone in West Texas history visited the Gap at one time or another.”

  “This,” JT said, “sounds like more fun than when we covered the Pecos Cantaloupe Festival.”

  “You keep driving, I'll fiddle with the navigation system.” She put the phone away and turned her attention to the in-dash map display. What did people do before we got these things, she wondered? Wander around lost a lot, most likely.

  Goodfellow AFB, San Angelo, Texas

  There are no Marine bases in the state of Texas, but there is a Marine presence in the form of an air wing and pilot training facility co-located with the Corpus Christie Naval Air Station. As with all branches of the military, since the winding down of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, it was a time of tight budgets and threatened program cutbacks. As a result, public relations had become an even more important part of the Marine Corps' daily mission.

  One of the programs that had been in jeopardy since its inception was the V-22 Osprey, a twin rotor, tilt-wing aircraft that was intended to become the Corps' primary rotary wing asset. The V-22 Osprey takes off and lands vertically like a helicopter but flies like a plane by tilting its wing-mounted rotors to function as propellers. The idea behind its design was to combine a helicopter's operational flexibility with the greater speed, range, and efficiency of a fixed-wing aircraft.

  Begun in 1982 by the Army and funded in part by the Air Force, the V-22 became primarily a Marine Corps program paid for by the Navy. Development had been troubled from the start, with a number of deadly crashes that claimed the lives of 34 men, 30 of them Marines. Even so, attempts to kill the program—including one by then Secretary of Defense Dick Cheney—all failed. Eventually, after almost 20 years in development, the first Ospreys entered the service.

  The Marine version, designated the MV-22, can transport 24 fully-equipped troops some 200 nautical miles at a speed of 250 knots, significantly exceeding the performance of the CH-46 “Battle Phrog” medium-lift assault helicopters the MV-22 was meant to replace. In Afghanistan, the MV-22 was able to fly two missions to every one flown by the more conventional CH-53 heavy-lift helos. Faster, farther, higher and with more lift capacity, the Osprey was intended to be the backbone of Marine Corps Aviation Assault Support for the 21st Century.

  The Corps now had several hundred of the aircraft in service and planed on buying several hundred more, assuming its critics and congressional budget cutters could be held at bay. And that was why the Corps sent an Osprey and a squad of Marines to the yearly Air Fiesta at San Angelo Regional Airport. It was hoped that seeing one of the multimillion dollar beasts up close and personal would make civilians think more kindly of both the Corps and its primary aerial transport. Reminding Texas voters that the Osprey was assembled in Amarillo couldn't hurt either.

  The Osprey had been in the Corps longer than Gunnery Sergeant Jennifer Rodriguez, and the way things look it would outlast her as well. Soon to be discharged from the service, this could be her last ride in one of the cantankerous aircraft. All she could think of when she had been ordered to form a squad of soon-to-be-separated Marines for “special duty” at the San Angelo air show was the term “vortex ring state.”

  VRS was a technical term for exceeding the Osprey's flight envelope by descending too fast. Essentially, the craft could fly into its own downdraft and lose control. The result was generally dead Marines. According to Marine Corps scuttlebutt, this was what happened when your transport tried to perform unnatural acts on itself during flight. All Rodriguez could think of was that it would be a real bitch to die at an air show after spending twelve years in the Corps.

  “Where are we going again, Gunny?” asked Lance Corporal Feldman. Like the Gunny and the seven other Marines and one Hospital Corpsman on Operation Air Fiesta, Jon Feldman was due to muster out of the service in less than a week. The military was cutting back everywhere, including personnel. That didn't mean they were only letting the screw-ups and misfits go, but you couldn't prove it by this group.

  “Mathis Field,” Gunny Rodriguez shouted back, “by way of Goodfellow Air Force Base. Now shut up and enjoy the
ride.” At least one good thing could be said about the MV-22, it was about 75% quieter inside than a CH-46 Sea Knight or the heavier CH-53 Sea Stallion.

  Established long ago as Carr Field, the squads' eventual destination had been a military training center since before World War II. Over the decades, it was known by a number of names, including at one time Concho Army Air Field and San Angelo Army Air Field. Finally, after WWII, it was designated Mathis Field in honor of Jack Mathis, a B-17 pilot who was posthumously awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for some now forgotten act of aerial daring-do. The airport was now owned by the City of San Angelo and was classified by the FAA as a commercial primary, non-hub airport. In other words, it was the local regional airport. Still, it was the only commercial airport serving the Concho Valley and its three runways stayed open for operations 24 hours a day to commercial, private and military aviation.

  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!

  Parker Ranch, Upton County, Texas

  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.