The Great Ark

by T. C. Driver

  Three weeks after Sarah's return from shopping was when the 'big attack' happened. Our ship's unknown, unseen, nobody, weak foe was able to fight back. One of our B44 planes, while incoming to the ship, was hit by small arms fire from an armada of small motor boats. Then, in an act of seemingly brazen, crazed stupidity, twenty-six motor craft charged toward the Ark, presumably each with explosives on board. A very fast, low-flying missile was miss-fired by our attackers. It skimmed the water just in front of the Great Ark, missing the bow by only one hundred yards. Then General Quarters was sounded, sending everyone scrambling. All hands were called into service. My B44 plane was second in line downstairs, behind the two planes on ready deck. My little plane was weighed down with full cannons, sidewinder type missiles and a large experimental fuel tank that we were using for the first time. Two solid rocket boosters came built into the big fuel tank to help 'kick' its extra weight off the deck. Only one of the two boosters worked, or fired, so my little B44s flight path sagged as she screamed off the ship. Ground effect or wave effect was put to full use by the plane's long, straight, out-stretched, glider like wings. I almost decided to cut the tank loose. We veteran pilots climbed to only five thousand feet and then folded up like a bird of prey; diving full throttle at the approaching motor boats below. The live heads-up computer display and huge bubble canopy combined onto a truly joyful, and deadly, weapons system. Laser guided missiles awaited my red button thumb commands. Each time I dived, I picked out one boat target for missiles and another for cannon fire. With patience and timing, I could take out two boats on 50% of my dives. Just past computer tone, I would fire missile first, then turn only slight degrees, affording the second target only a few seconds of cannon fire before and during my 'pull-out'. Bells and auto-pilot would jump in if I skimmed the waves too close. This battle lasted only twenty minutes tops, so my big tank was not needed. All surface boats, including five or six fishing vessels, and two unknowns, all within sixty miles of ship were destroyed. Our B44 planes flew so close together while hunting our targets, that twice my on board computer took over my flight controls. This sudden, unexpected 'G' force jolt was very unnerving and hurt my back. This system worked well, I suppose, because we could not run into each other, even if we tried. Flocks of B44s could fly together 'like birds', all changing direction at once. This was very dangerous because our little planes, although subsonic, could easily kill the pilot by simply making too fast a maneuver in flight. Only computer controls kept the plane within human limits; from snapping our necks or splashing our faces against the inside of our helmet. This bat like flying ability made us very hard to shoot down,

  I learned later that only ten planes had gotten off the ship and into battle. Three rockets, each much smaller than the first big miss had reached the Ark's flight deck. Fires broke out on deck involving two different types of tow motor trucks. It took nine minutes to clear the main elevators, three more minutes to get planes ready. Too late to join the fun! I mean the fight! Our enemy had done the impossible. The little bastards had hit us back. This fact awakened the sleeping, brain dead masses of students on ship, but of course, not for long. I was credited with seven 'kills' during the big attack. For a while, I was the talk of my shipmates. Alas, the phrase, 'all glory is fleeting' is well known to this old Navy pilot.

  That night, at the ship's snack bar, I met Ricky Powell, a young graduate student from VPI in Blacksburg. A nice enough guy (a nuke); he laughed a lot after each phrase of conversation. This habit of his was very irritating and unnerving. Ricky didn't like the attention Joe's daughter Sarah was showing to me. He talked about his older wife and their horses near Rocky Mount.

  “Hello, Old Timer” bellowed Ricky. “I heard you had quite a party in the sky yesterday (hahahahaha). “Your name's Cornelius, right? Great to meet you! Hahahahaha I'd buy you a beer, but I'm at my limit hahahahaha.

  “Yes, you and I both” I said. I then smiled while mocking his laugh.

  “You spend a lot of time with Sarah Coe. Too much.” said Ricky. “What's up with that, Doc? Between you two, I mean.”

  “Sarah is my sex slave, Ricky” I laughed. “I rent her out, but only to officers, though. Sorry for your loss, young chap. She's not as expensive as you might think.” hahahahaha Cornelius mocking Ricks laugh again

  “You know what happens to bucks that get too close to a Coe doe, Old Corny? Yeah, he takes them out; He thins the herd” answered Ricky, his voice cracking. Hahahahaha

  Ricky then referred to his old friend, Michael Lang (Harry Potter) who had fallen to his death earlier, his body landing not far from Rick's own (nuke) workstation at the bottom of our ship. Ricky stood up from his barstool and spoke in a drunken Irish accent. “A double-trouble warning that was, my man. And this lad got the message loud and clear! He looked bad, Cornelius. Not a word on the way down. That ain't natural if you get my drift.

  Hahahahaha Watch your step Pops, if Daddy doesn’t get you one of us young bucks might; besides, Sarah's too much for an old bull like you to handle” (hahahahaha).

  “Give it up, son” I said. The Coe girls do! You better stay down in your nuke dungeon. You're way out of your league up here. Don't try to play with the grown-ups”

  Ricky chugged the last swallow of his red plastic cup and slammed it down on the bar. “One really needs a glass mug to slam effectively” I said. He then bid me a silent jester adieu. No silly laugh this time. Except from me! Hahahahahah

  That night at the Gospel Cafe, my big round corner table filled up with young eager beaver, military types and their dates. Lifers, they're often called. Lou Goodliar, a stubborn old Christian professor and his tall, vivacious, out-going, young professor friend, Tommy Mute, both pulled up chairs and blocked in the booth. “Great! A captive audience” I said and ordered a round of drinks. This being my known custom and habit, drinks were now often expected by my guests. (I get a % deal off my bar tab from the Gospel Cafe manager, but don't tell anybody! The students tip well when they think I pay full price) 1st Lt and Rev. Lou Liken Goodliar, retired, nick-named 'Loud Lying Lou' by his students, started off our conversation.

  “Cornelius, they never let you make any money until you're forty or older. That's the rule” said Lou, while eating chips.

  “Yes, Lou, I agree” I said. “One group of suckers taken advantage of in every society is young people.” It's a known scientific fact that young boys can be easily talked into or made to do all types of stupid, idiotic things. Like charging beaches and scaling cliffs, all against machine gun fire; or the historical favorite: stabbing each other with bayonets. The boys are always suckered by the older, mature, male power structure. These mature males are called names like Sergeant, General, President or Captain. The young suckers, who are mostly working class, are called Private, Infantry or Hero. A few really dumb, upper class leaders called 'Loutenants' are needed for some spice (ha-ha). These young boys are always on a great mission or cause, often for God, to save the day, the Fatherland or Motherland, little sister, the flag or the world. Whatever sounds good or popular at the time? These young suckers are baited by a chance to be welcomed into a state of full manhood, or to be no longer boys. Never are they offered much money. Young boys can be easily suckered by ruling mature men of any and all tribes and cultures, between the ages of twelve and eighteen. After that, the young door of stupidity quickly closes. In a few, short years these same men would simply laugh at the old men trying to talk them into mischief and will not listen.

  The young women are of course also easy prey to being put into arranged marriages during these ages. To become breeders; but only if you raise them right. They are sold off to the highest bidder. To successful, mature men or their sons. This is the way of the world in most cultures.

  Within a few years, both the young men and women mature and are much harder to fool. The old system has all but been broken down now by government schools teaching kids for years not to listen to their parents, especially and particularly, their Fathers. Also teaching a
gainst the bible and laughing at its 'sex only in marriage'. They teach rather to marry in more mature years and to just screw around for about ten years. By then, many are set in their ways and do not breed families at all, destroying the family system and lowering birth rates. This was the goal of humanist religion leaders in our government schools in the first place. In all of history, throughout all ages, in every tribe, older men have the younger 'bucks' charge across the fields while shooting at each other or stabbing each other with bayonets. The bayonet is the all time, cost effective favorite because it saves bullets. These young fools basically kill each other off for no other reason than their Father's monetary gain, or land. War of course, also gets rid of excess young bucks, this saving some breeding age women for second wives to older men.

  If you think I overstate my point, let me say it plain and simple. None of these young boys fighting out in a field has ever had any real point or purpose. Their fighting, win or lose does not change the world or make any difference whatsoever, except to make the elite social class members money and to get rid of excess, unneeded and unwanted young boys. Only when 'warfare' is a money loser or is 'brought home', like with the bombing of cities, does the mature man talk peace. Yes, only when their butt is put on the line.

  “What about the brave men at Normandy in World War II, Cornelius? Are you saying they were suckers, or heroes?” asked student Brenda Saunders.

  “All suckers, Brenda” I answered. “We must be brave enough now, each of us, to face the truth.”

  “Let us look at all American wars. All of them are boys fighting in a big field. What does that matter in the end? How could it change anything? You men go fight and see if anything changes. What if the revolutionary war had not been fought? It wasn't even popular at the time. OK, once from the beginning:”

  “Just suppose the revolutionary war had not been fought. What if we had stayed with England? Are the people of England very much less free or different than Americans today? How about Canadians or Australians? Just imagine that first 'boys in a field' stupidity had not taken place, and then of course the War of 1812, also. How many extra young bucks would have been running around sowing their seed? Our main weakness now, in the West, compared to the slave camps in the East, is our under- population. When projecting economic and military power both India and China outnumber us three to one. There are simply not enough of us to matter.”

  “Next in history comes the War Between the States. Would we have bothered with the war if we were still part of England?

  “What about slavery, Cornelius? The evils of slavery?” shouted Kishia and two other young students.

  “We've already talked about the fact that the so-called Civil War did nothing to end slavery. Think, Kishia! Did slavery continue in Canada? Or continue in England, in Australia? What caused slavery to end where there was no Civil War? I tell you; young, idiot boys, who fight in a field has never changed the world. How could it?”

  “What about the Alamo, Cornelius?” said Josie.

  “Yes, remember the Alamo!” shouted Kirk, raising his glass. Josie's brown eyes drilled her boyfriend Kirk with evil, angry contempt. He quickly shut his mouth in mid sentence.

  “I explained that earlier” I said. “Our Spanish neighbors to the south did not have much success with boatloads of population growth or migration. Mexico is a European style serf/slavery system. This enslavement of indigenous, primitive cultures is very expensive. Killing off the natives is always best; even Biblical. The Spanish used the Great American Desert to lower the cost of their slave camps; a natural barrier; less people pointing guns. The Lords in Mexico had to cut back the size of their slave camp enterprise because of a flood of Englishmen, and the “close by good land' made Texas too costly”

  “What if Teddy Roosevelt had no Rough Riders in Cuba? Of what difference would it make today?”

  “Would World War I ever have started if the British had still been united with America? World War I caused World War II. That's how it works. Would Hitler have even tried? During both World Wars, Germany hoped that America would not fight. Germany played with America's divided affections, but we all stayed British in the end.”

  “Hitler was evil, Cornelius”, spoke up Tommy Rosenberg.

  “Yes, he was, Tommy” I said. “The dark angel himself was Hitler's council. I'm sure of that fact. Yes, evil. He was a fascist socialist, humanist and anti-church. But so was our ally in Russia, Joseph Stalin. Our ally killed thirty million people. Five times the killing of Adolf Hitler. Death is the trademark of all democratic, socialist elites, also the banner and calling card of the dark angel. Death and rebellion against God go hand in hand. Our modern democratic, socialist party in America is the party of death. America and Mao's China are tied for the worst of the worst in all of human history. That is unless you count the Great Whore of Babylon, the Roman Church herself. I'm talking now about socialist leaders. Then, America and China are history's two worst killers by far. God will not be mocked.”

  Kishia started crying out loud and screaming: “That can't be true, Cornelius. My Mother is a democrat!”

  “God is no respecter of persons, Kishia.'I knew you in your Mother's womb'. God said this, not me. Jesus will be our judge. Every knee shall bow. Every tongue will confess. God put his people back in the Holy land. God did not need England, and God does not need America. Our God could have used anybody. When our President Osoma stopped supporting Israel, look what happened to the old USA. We're finished. Yes, finished! Europe is trying to run the world and is united under a young German EU leader named Hein Bruch. He is a godless socialist just like Hitler. America herself voted for a fascist, humanist, Islamic socialist Osoma only sixty years after ten thousand young suckers died at Normandy, supposedly to save the world from Hitler. If they only could have seen the future and known that their own stupid, ignorant, spoiled brat grandchildren would vote for another socialist killer, with word for word Hitler's very same platform. Would they have bothered storming those cliffs? Those poor, dumb bastards in World War II died for nothing. Our freedom has been pissed away. All the graves in France are now pointless. A few poor, old men still survive, living to see the mockery of their own sacrifice.”

  “One thing that did happen of note in World War II was the A-bomb it was a big money maker. This bomb scared the hell out of the war merchants and ruling elites. Mature, old, powerful men now had their own butts on the line. Fear slowed down the old 'boys fighting in a field game', but not for long. Old men the world over soon used smaller low-key wars like Korea, Vietnam, Afghanistan and Sudan to keep the 'boys in the field' game alive. Always stopping the conflict before it got out of hand; meaning men over forty years old started dying. Nowadays, we mostly bomb the poor, dumb little bastards of the 'third world'. We do this for practice, sport, population control, to sell arms, to make money, and of course, to save the planet from being overrun with billions of more 'poor, dumb bastards'. Our ruling elites can always find men of low moral character, or of brain-washable will, who will kill for money. Men like you and me. We kill, or thin the herd, of unwanted population groups as defined by the elite authority in power. Men like us work for the likes of Castro, Stalin, Mao, and Osoma. You name the leader they are all cut from the same cloth. All have the same evil high priest. Guess what, children? It's not Jesus. It's not the Holy Bible. These men deal in death and lies. Not truth, life, freedom or liberty.”

  My many young students left the Gospel Cafe that night, off the coast of East Africa, encouraged once again to a life of military service and the Godly importance of our ship's mission. This mission of killing off all the Africans to save the world! That is the least I could do for them.

  On ship, I loved to listen to the many sounds, and look out over my high deck porch railing. At my quarters, during nights and early mornings, the smell of the ocean uplifted my heart. Often a beautiful star filled sky dazzled my eyes. Lou Goodliar roomed down the deck from me, he too enjoyed the solitude. Often, we made hand ges
tures, for it was too far to shout. The silence was broken only by the B44s screaming off the deck and the much quieter drones coming in, and or stretching for the sky. Life was good! I enjoyed life aboard the Ark. Anyone would. Well, any sailor.

  Most days of 'wartime' were lazy and uneventful. We did start making manned bombing runs to small port cities and villages. Targets were picked with care, but not by 'CARE' (ha-ha).

  These targets had to be found by satellite; a house here; a dock or boat there. One target was a lone dish antenna. Two of our B44s would be lost and two more out of service by the end of our four-month long deployment at Gumbo Station.

  Our longest 'feet dry' bombing run that was done with manned B44s was less than a week before the 'Big Attack' as we called it. I assumed that we, the ship I mean, had approached the shore too close to keep our bombing mission 'still night', which made it possible for the ship to be attacked. Twelve heavily loaded B44s with no cannons and no missiles, just one drop tank and two bombs on each hard point took off before midnight. Big, ugly looking cluster fire bombs, over one thousand pounds each, slowed our small, light planes. This was a 'long run' with our new hydrogen 'cold fuel' because hydrogen does not push you as far as the old 'dirty stuff' could. We were feet dry for over an hour before letting go and pulling skyward and south. Whatever we hit caused many secondary explosions. There was even some old time fireworks type anti-aircraft fire. That old gun fire didn't even start until after we were turned home; our target bright orange ablaze. I could not make out what we hit, but it was near a pretty big town. The fireworks were beautiful against the end of night mountain skyline. Of course, this night was quite different on the other side of those thin, early morning clouds, down on the killing side, on the crying side.

  Young student pilot Roger Mensink was my 'wing man' that morning. We took off together; five and six behind ready deck. Only two top student pilots of our now five (Harry Potter being dead), had been picked for the long bombing mission. Later, on board ship, I commended Roger on his flying skills. We two talked that night at length, about the mission and world events.