by T. C. Driver
The Great Ark
T.C. Driver
Copyright 2012
By
Thomas C. Driver
926 Indiana Ave NE
Roanoke, Va. 24012
All rights reserved
This book is dedicated to my fellow Virginians who don’t matter, who don’t count, no matter what race or sex they may be. Many men are held in jail without a trial, or bond, having not been convicted of anything. I know what I’m talking about I was in jail serving a just sentence myself with them. Other men were being held without charge for years after their lawfully court appointed sentence was over. This power has been and will always be abused. The doctors and lawyers who run the civil commitment system in Virginia are lazy no good blood-suckers on the taxpayers and should be cut off of the state gravy train. It does not cost $100,000 plus per prisoner to lock up these pitiful men. To call most of them dangerous to the public safety is so silly as to be insane in and of itself. Most of these pitiful men pose no danger to your wife and kids what so ever and their crimes are tracked and registered. They are not worth giving up our rights for. Just like modern medicine the new pill often does more harm than the disease or sickness did in the first place.
T.C. DRIVER
Jesus is Lord
Jesus will be our Judge
All illustrations in this book were done by my friend and fellow inmate a WVRJ Mike Fitch. Mike is from Christiansburg Virginia. Thank you Mike, I hope we can work together again in the future.
Chapter 1: The Water Desert of Brazil
I boarded my shuttle craft, an older model thirty-five foot cabin cruiser, before four am that morning. Now daylight, I was awakened by nonstop captain bells and horns. The sea was choppy; with two foot, windblown white caps. Aching and stiff, I balanced to my feet. My sea legs sure were getting old. I cursed the ache under my breath and glanced starboard. Was my new assignment a damn aircraft carrier? While scanning the sea for another vessel, my eyes gazed upon the most beautiful sailboat I had ever laid sight upon. Her graceful lines were enchanting as of a woman. Snap out of it, Cornelius! I quickly speed dialed Rosie while walking up port deck. Rosie was the nerve center and only employee of my small employment company back in St. Augustine.
The grand ole carrier was steady underway making about eight knots. We pulled through its wake as if giving chase. Climbing onto our boats bridge just as Rosie picked up, I watched straight ahead and said nothing. We drove at one third throttle right into the back, or stern, of the ship. This boat ate us like a big fish! The mouth, or back door, did not shut behind us and we docked inside.
A gangplank came down and two crew members boarded us from port. Over the radio, someone shouted: “Good job, Sarah! Welcome aboard!”
Having lost cell with Rosie, I turned toward the captain as long strawberry blond hair spilled from her cap. With few words, she directed our quick steps, giving me a silent, warm smile as the elevator doors closed. In less than two minutes of docking, we walked out of that elevator straight onto the ship’s bridge. I thought, Star Trek (ha- ha). Looking like an airport tower, the bridge bustled with activity and commands. Nine young men stared into computer screens. Three older men stood behind them as if instructors. Five others stood around a mockup of the ship’s hangar, main and flight decks in clear plastic. From behind me, the same loud voice bellowed. “Welcome aboard, Cornelius!”
It was Captain Coe himself in Navy dress whites just like Sarah's. I was stunned that he knew my name and saluted. “Good morning, Captain!”
“Stand down, Cornelius” replied Captain Coe. “None of that on this bridge, no time for formalities. Welcome to the Ark. We officers do dress for dinner; 1900 sharp. We will talk about old times then. Officer Booth will now take you to your quarters”
Booth and I walked across the ship not talking much.
“Who are these people” I thought to myself. The Ark was not an American Navy warship. The U.S. Navy had gone out of business two years before. It would be months before I received a proper tour of the ship; sixty-eight months before my tour ended. Not in food service, but as a flight instructor to college and post graduate age kids. This ship, named simply, The Ark, and owned by God only knows who (or what), was commanded by one Joe Coe. He was a one-time school acquaintance of mine. My stay aboard The Ark is the strange story I tell you in this book. Little did I imagine that the next six years of my life would be spent aboard her or that my life and vision of the world would be changed forever?
That night we did dress for dinner, as we have every evening since. I met a staff of four hundred sixty-two other officers. Thirty-six were old Navy pilots like me. We pilots sat at the head table in the Officer's Mess with Captain Coe, two of his daughters (Sarah and Haley), four other women and Captain Coe's six disciples who never left his side. His daughters, who were twelve years apart in age, and of two different Mothers, were the Captains crowning jewels and the object of much attention in our group.
The next day, I met one thousand nine hundred plus veteran seamen that made up the ship's crew. For the next nine weeks we had the ship to ourselves. Then we were joined by fifty-eight professors, two thousand two hundred students, two hundred fourteen associate professors, one hundred twenty-four elderly passengers and thirty-six mysterious military commando types. Yes, it was in Brazil that the big empty ship came to life. For now, officers and crew alike went about the job of training, learning the ship and their various duties. The crew was hard-working, very professional and well paid. We worked twelve-on/twelve-off for three days with the fourth day off. Most officers and senior crew worked overtime, making for long days and sound sleep. Down time was plentiful and our work not very stressful. The cruise was enjoyable; a labor of love for most. Our quarters were comfortable; almost cruise ship luxury. We had barely enough crew to run this size ship. The Ark had a department for everything. She was a floating city. Her officers and crew were assigned to A, B and C duties as needed. Food service did a great job. That being my focus the last nine years, it was taken notice of closely by me. I could find no complaint with them. Truly, they amazed me. Laundry, Brig, Ship Maintenance, parts, Aircraft and Vehicle Maintenance, Flight Deck, Main Deck, Medical, Supply, Pharmacy, Dentistry, Water Plant, Sewage Plant, Safety, college, Purchasing, Weapons, Fire, Police, Commissary, Library, Bridge, Damage Assessment, Communications. Each group did drills and training including us pilots, even though as yet, we had no planes on our main or flight decks, except for an old mail plane. We did have shells of planes in the garage for parts.
Our ship anchored and moored at a long beautiful dock in Brazil. We would stay longer than I expected, over nine months. This was a full year of study for our students. We old guard pilots started training in Boeing B44s at our own local airstrip. Both dock and airstrip were non-military and private. They were very close to, but not right in, any major city or town. Our operations were not secret; but rather mysterious.
The Boeing B44 planes were light-weight, Australian designed, one seat, high performance fighters with a large bubble canopy. They could turn right or left without banking. These planes had long wings that could pivot and sweep back; connected to a short, straight wing coming from the bottom of the fuselage by two vertical stabilizer fins. Both wings joined at this pivot point. The long wings that pivoted, and the tail fins, could flex their skin and shape during flight. Our B44 planes were powered one high bypass turbo fan jet engine right behind the cockpit. They were a joy to fly, with a maximum cruise speed set at 585mph. Coe was a fuel efficiency nut, so we often cruised at the plane's fuel sweet spot of 465mph with wings ¾ swept back. These planes could dive with full-swept wings like a bird of prey, gaining speeds of over 600mph. Each pilot put in at least two hundred hours in the B44s before landing on s
hip. Our training included gunnery and bombing practice using electronic and laser simulators built into our planes on board computers. I assumed correctly that arms did exist, but that we could not afford the cost of live fire practice. It also appeared that these planes could fly themselves. Or be flown from remote control and had very little, if any, radar image with the safety beacon off. These assumptions would be proven correct, but now I had not yet been briefed on these subjects.
Landing on the ship was a breeze. These planes could take-off and land in a short distance. When landing, we would spread our long wings out straight, slowing us to glider speeds before touchdown. That’s when powerful thrust reverse and the plane's brakes would stop us in our tracks. Our flight deck used much less personnel than the former U.S. Navy. During takeoff, our computer governed engines were set for two minutes of extra fuel burn and higher rpm, which produced a three to one thrust to weight ratio with “cannons only.” By this I mean that no bombs or missiles or extra fuel tanks were loaded. None of the catapults or restraining cable systems found on old Navy aircraft carrier flight decks was needed with our light-weight planes, but a cable system was on deck; but not used or trained for. We had twenty B44s, but we only used twelve. Eight planes were held in reserve. Four others were for parts only and not flight ready. During this time, twelve singe-engine sea planes started using the ship's big door at its stern to taxi out into the harbor and up river, flying grad students and professors on constant “save the planet” trips to nowhere. Many students were flying these simple sea planes, but as yet, only staff flew B44s on and off ship. A wide variety of water craft also started using our big back door to come and go from the ship. The students used many jet-skis and air boats; and of course, there was Sarah Coe and her cabin cruiser' one of two aboard the Great Ark.
I had daily access to shore leave during this time, over nine months in all. The ship lingered here so long, I wondered if we might ever put to sea again.
I met my girl Josie during this stay, but could never convince her to join me aboard ship. Josie would stay behind when our sail date did finally come. She was “all girl” and not ashamed of it. Not conflicted as are so many western women. We spent many good times together; a needed break and sanity check from life aboard The Ark. A store in town named “Kelly's” sold great cuts of meat. Kelly's and grilling out was my constant path. We often went bowling or lizard hunting in a local stream near Josie's place. What they did with the lizards I could not figure. Sometimes you just don't know.
For a fourteen week summer season, the ship's flight deck was taken over by students in open-air, ultra-light, one man flying crafts. They would buzz the long beaches toward the city; where “the action” was! Their brightly colored wings filled the bright sky. Our beautiful dock was near, but not in, a town that was a suburb of Atkins, Brazil. Even the ultra-light planes could make landings to one other town. It sounded like Sao-Luis. I always pronounced the name as Saint Louis just to aggravate Josie and her family. My Portuguese language skills were close to zero and I simply did not care. People should speak the Queen's English or nothing (ha-ha). Our ship was out of sight of most locals and tourists alike.
I had always thought Brazil was covered with thick tropical rain forest or farm land; there was none of that here. This area of Brazil was covered with sand dunes, just like the Sahara desert; only wet, with puddles everywhere. If this sounds crazy, a big wet desert, I apologize, but truth is, Brazil is sand dunes as far as the eye can see. Some students would land on these sand dunes and have trouble getting back into the air. Like the Outer Banks at Kitty Hawk, this sand was a good place for foolish horseplay and dare-devil flying. Sarah and I would take off with the other men from our crew, but not with the students. Our small group would stay to ourselves, and soon started playing with large, brightly colored beach balls. Dropping the balls and catching them with the wing-struts of our plane before they hit the sand below. This game of catch became so popular that there was a local shortage of beach balls. The endless sea of sand hills, often with water puddles, was a strange and eerie sight. Some students, each day needed rescue, but most found their way back to the ship with stories of valor to last them a lifetime; all without serious injury.
One funny day I remember well, Sarah landed on a moist, hard section of sand to pick up beach balls, and a herd of wild goats moved in front of her plane, blocking take-off. These animals took a liking to Sarah and would not leave, even when she tried her mean face and screaming, she was stuck.
The other four ultra-lights in our group flew around her laughing so hard that we ran out of fuel before getting back. Running out of fuel was frowned upon and “against the rules”. Refueling by another ultra-light was a fairly common practice and easy to do. We used five gallon fuel plastic fuel jugs and had plenty of places to land in the hard, wet sand next to the surf.
One particular hot summer day that season, a loud mouth, goofball, showoff student named Anthony Strange got slaphappy and splashed down his ultra-light in the harbor on take-off. His little open-air, ultra-light was over loaded with party ice bombs. He was famous for buzzing friends on campus and on the beach, often hitting an open cooler with ice. Joe and Chief of Staff Friday would raise hell and lock him in the brig; all to no avail. This tall, thin, likable, “mule stubborn”, loud, young, black man was uncontrollable and a constant entertainment. Haley, the younger and slightly better looking of the Coe sisters, dove off the flight deck into the harbor, getting to the young man, Anthony, and unbuckling him quickly before his plane sank. She was credited with saving his life. Joe Coe scolded Haley for her daring technique, but hey, it worked! Why fuss?
“Don't expect this old man to dive off this ship's flight deck! That dive is over fifty-five feet” I called out to young Haley.
Haley was a rare combination of beauty, strength, brains and humor, a pleasure to know. She was an Army officer from the now closed West Point, a part-time model and a combat hero in Afghanistan before the Chinese moved in. Haley, still in her twenties, had been through a lot in life, but was still Joe Coe's baby girl. Sarah; twelve years older and by Joe's first wife Gloria, I was always closer to. Sarah often felt upstaged by her perfect little sister. Joe had a middle daughter back home named Blair and both a younger and older son. The older son was also from his first wife, Gloria. I learned quickly that their sissy, older brother was a family disgrace and was not to be mentioned around Captain Coe.
That summer, I often joined up with Sarah's boat for a ride into town. Sarah would buy clothes, and I would see Josie and buy beer. We often waited for the others in her taxi run. That's when Sarah and I started sharing time together on the huge, white sand beaches.
Those beautiful beaches were endless. There were people everywhere, but the beach was way to majestic to become crowded. When we sat on the beach, we could watch the slow, colorful ultra-light planes coming and going from the ship on the far horizon, but we could not quite make out the ship with the naked eye. College students loved buzzing up and down the beach and landing in a grass field by the college in town. Illegal sound systems were often put on these little craft, and tickets by the local police had become a common embarrassment to the Great Ark and Captain Coe. Our spoiled little college brats were “going wild” and having the time of their lives. A sign-up list kept all one hundred forty-four of these open-air, one seat fold up flying crafts in use. They were a graceful, ever present, beautiful sight. Their colorful wings and the drone of their little motors filled the blue sky.
Sarah Coe, one hot summer day, in her only slightly modest, two piece swimsuit was just about all this old Granddad of two could suffer. I wondered how foolish I was to sit in the sand, enjoying her company, us both flirting back and forth. Don't play the old fool, I kept telling myself. She seemed to light up around me. Often I stayed clear of her just to keep my sanity.
The Great Ark started taking on supplies at an increased rate. I knew setting sail was coming soon. I had worked B time in the purchasing off
ice. Over ten million dollars of supplies came aboard that last month, plus four and a half million dollars in aviation fuel alone. The ship made fresh water and also hydrogen fuel, none of this fuel we had yet used. This large volume of cold hydrogen fuel would make sense as time played out.
The ship was powered by a U. S. Navy nuclear power plant by B & W, but Indian Navy, Israeli, French, Italian, Russian, German, American and Japanese “nukes” were in and out of our “dungeon” power plant at different times, rotating in four groups of six each time. Always one group from VPI in Blacksburg, Va. VPI and the VPI of India seemed to be both experts on the power plant. They could have their ole dungeon; I loved the high perch of my cabin (and fresh air.)
That evening, on my high deck railing outside my cabin door, I was relaxing before going to bed and sipping three fingers of red wine. (It's good for the digestion) I was looking down the length of our beautiful cement pier. I always enjoyed its hundreds of lights reflecting on the sea. This evening was a treat; for oh what a tranquil sight. The most beautiful sailing yacht I had ever seen! This yacht was parked between the Great Ark and the beach. The majestic contours of this yacht anchored just below me brought to mind the open sea. Wow, I thought about having my own boat; being my own Captain. Hanging over the bow of this large sailboat was a pig; like the ones some barbeque places have.
“Hello, sailboat,” said I, “God speed!” I stood on my deck railing dreaming of just sailing away.
“Time for bed, Cornelius” a voice said, for I had started to doze. The next night we did leave Brazil. Our departure was uneventful; without fanfare. At sea the next day, a spirit of adventure filled the big ship. Our two helicopters, that I had never seen fly (too fuelish), were both pressed into hard service. All females had been tested and all pregnant girls were being shuttled to shore by, I suppose, Friday and Edison Oiler, the only two men I knew who flew the birds. Haley's friend Lisa St. Stevens was on the list. Captain Joe stood firm on his orders; no favorites; no exceptions. Haley and Sarah put ole' Coe through hell. Their screaming was heard throughout the ship. This was a humiliating embarrassment to Joe. Five or six gals would go on each chopper trip depending on how much junk each girl had. Eighteen or nineteen trips were made, so at least one hundred of our nine hundred coeds had gotten knocked up in Brazil. The girls in dorms A, B and C were different, or special. These ABC girls were very “popular” and “friendly” with both staff and crew. Not much like real college girls at all. These gals were much too sleazy for the college girl natural law of averages. I suspected that many were “pros” or that a “girl’s gone wild” video was being made on ship, but I never did ask about it. Our older staff and the young bucks alike were as “fed horses in the morning” with these girls. They seemed to enjoy their work; or study (ha-ha). Someone in personnel knew how to pick em and was evidently trying to keep the mostly male crew happy. These girls were not picked for brains or serious college study. Most did not even attend class. The sick, torrid display of immorality was constant and overbearing. Often my comrades did not bother to “get a room” and would take their dates to secluded parts of the ship, not caring if you walked up on them or not. This ungodly behavior was so open that I often wondered if the poor young women were not being drugged.
