Glory for Sea and Space (Star Watch Book 4)

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  The three missiles hit their target at once—the combined fireball encompassed the entire beam of the great warship—an explosion of unparalleled magnitude.

  Perry, unconsciously, had brought a hand up to cover his mouth. The almost overpowering emotions he was currently experiencing: Loss—sadness—despair, would stay with him … He whispered the words, “I will never forget this. I promise.”

  Moments later, as the band quieted, everyone in the fleet watched the last remains of the Montana slowly disappear beneath the distant waves. There was not a dry eye to be found.

  Chapter 21

  Sol System

  Planet Earth, Central Valley Scrapyard, San Bernardino, CA

  __________________________

  Summer, 1995 …

  Captain Perry Reynolds hitched a ride on an Air Force C-130 transport plane, coming out of Guam. After a stopover in Hawaii, he finally made his way to Norton Air Force Base—a logistics depot and heavy-lift transport facility for a variety of military aircraft, equipment and supplies. The base, part of the Military Airlift/Air Mobility Command since 1966, located in San Bernardino, California, was in the process of closing down—another victim of mass military budget cuts, taking place in the mid-1990s. The base was formally Headquarters for the Air Defense Command for Southern California, during the 1950s and 1960s.

  After disembarking from the transport plane, Perry stood alone on the deserted runway, beneath a midday southern California sun. A silvery, low-lying haze partially obscured the distant mountains, as a lone tumbleweed hopped and cartwheeled past his feet, carried along in the steady and warm Santa Ana winds. Perry was surprised to see today’s base was a mere shell of its former glory. Several outlying buildings had their windows boarded up, and a heavy chain-linked fence now surrounded the recently closed-down property. In the distance, a forklift moved a stacked pallet from an aircraft hangar onto the outskirts of the tarmac. Flying in, he’d been told that if he tried to fly into Norton the following month, he’d be out of luck. No one would be here.

  Perry, his duffle bag hanging from a strap around his shoulder, turned to see an open vehicle heading his way. The lone driver slowed down, then stopped next to him, keeping the HMMWV idling. He had close-cropped black hair, aviator sunglasses—propped up above his forehead—and a strong, lantern-like jaw. His pale blue eyes held a moment on the silver eagle decorating Perry’s collar.

  “You look lost, Captain. If you’re looking for a ship around here … you overshot L.A. Harbor by about two hundred miles.”

  Perry acknowledged the khaki-clad officer, whose collars each held the single gold cluster of an Air Force Major.

  “Afternoon, Major … Captain Perry Reynolds.” He reached over a hand and the major shook it.

  “Major Phillip Rutherford … call me Phil.”

  “Looks like you’re one of the few personnel still around here.”

  “Yup … just a handful of us left.” Phil looked around—his expression fixed but a notable sadness to his gaze. “An era gone … military’s consolidating …” He shrugged. “Cold War is over.”

  Perry was more than aware that a similar situation existed within the Navy. Ships were being decommissioned at an astounding rate. Bases, along the east and west coasts, were shuttered up, not so different from what had happened here.

  “You need a ride?”

  Perry looked at the HMMWV. “You okay taking this off base?”

  “Who’s going to stop me?”

  “It’s about a twenty-minute drive from here … that all right?”

  “Not a problem, hop on in.”

  * * *

  Five minutes out, the major asked Perry, over the wind and engine noise of the open HMMWV, “You visiting … or you live out here?”

  Perry considered the question. “I grew up here. My father’s here … runs a scrapyard.”

  “Central Valley Scrap?”

  “Yeah … that’s it … you know it?”

  “Who doesn’t?” the major asked. “I’m betting you have more than a few of our old Jeeps in there.”

  Perry nodded. “At least five or six, the last time I was home. There may be more now.”

  The major gave Perry a sideways glance, then smiled. He slowed and eased into a sharp right turn, then continued on straight. The vehicle took up most of the narrow, back-county road. Far-reaching orange groves flanked both sides of the street. Perry inhaled the familiar citrusy smell—bringing back memories of an earlier time—when he and his sons hiked through these groves and filled buckets with fallen oranges.

  “So, coming back home for a while?” the major asked.

  Perry nodded and thought about his real reason for coming back to San Bernardino. This would not be a happy homecoming. Over the past month, he’d received two desperate phone calls, while still at sea, in addition to a flurry of barely-legible, hand-written letters—sometimes receiving several the same day. Evidently, Ol’ Gus was losing touch with reality. Perry, when he spoke to the onboard doctor about the situation, thought it sounded like Gus could be experiencing some form of dementia. Though still not seventy yet, Gus appeared to be exhibiting the same sort of symptoms, so Perry should prepare himself to deal with that. Per recent events, the Montana among them, Perry was done with the Navy. His father, evidently, needed to be watched. Hell, if he hurt himself, or someone else—God forbid—Perry would never forgive himself. Perry had been given two weeks to change his mind … but he knew he was done with the Navy or with anything to do with the military. Right now, he wanted to concentrate on Ol’ Gus. Most likely, he’d have to find a place for him … maybe something like a nursing home.

  Perry noticed Phil glancing upward, as if looking for something in the sky. “Lots of sightings out this way in recent months.”

  “You mean like birds—hawks … eagles?” Perry asked.

  That made the major laugh. He shook his head. “I’m talking about the unidentified flying object kind of sightings.”

  Perry turned a skeptical expression in his direction.

  “There’s been a string of sightings. Of exactly what, who knows? Get them out at the base too. Strange lights, slicing through the nighttime sky at impossible speeds, plus vibrations and abnormal sounds.”

  “Sounds like people having too much time on their hands,” Perry said. “I don’t remember that kind of stuff going on … and I grew up here.” His mind flashed to some of the crazy things his father, of late, had jabbered on about but quickly discounted the coincidence.

  “Things have gotten … a bit strange. To be honest with you, I’m not unhappy to be transferring away from here.”

  Perry didn’t reply to his comment.

  “Hell, maybe the military shutting down some of our bases is premature,” the major said, “considering the increased number of UFO sightings.”

  “Now you’re pulling my leg,” Perry said, seeing the major’s crooked smile. Up ahead, Perry saw a familiar faded sign, painted onto the sharply angled, corrugated tin roof, atop the tallest work shed:

  CENTRAL VALLEY SCRAPYARD

  The HMMWV rolled to a stop. Perry grabbed up his duffle and climbed out. “Thanks for the ride, Major. I really appreciate it.”

  “Nah … don’t mention it. Hey, stay safe!” The HMMWV continued on, U-turned twenty-five yards down the street, and headed back, picking up speed. The major honked twice and waved.

  The twelve-foot-wide metal gate at the yard’s entrance was secured with a locked, doubly wrapped, heavy rusted chain. “Gus! Hey … anybody home?” Perry listened and heard nothing, other than a dog barking off in the distance. Even as a kid he’d called his father Gus. Everyone called him that, or sometimes Ol’ Gus.

  He gave the gate a good shake, hoping the big rusted Master Lock would just miraculously pop open. Damn it! Where is the old coot?

  Hands on hips, Perry turned toward the street and contemplated what he should do next. There seemed to be no two ways about it: He’d simply have to climb the gate.
He turned and looked up at the seemingly insurmountable high obstacle—all eight feet of it. Frustrated, he threw down his duffle, spit into his open palms, and—reaching up over his head—grabbed ahold of two vertical bars. He pulled himself up, attempting to find purchase with his feet. The gate shook and the metal chain began clanging like a dinner bell.

  “What the hell are you doing? Get off there before you break something!”

  Poised halfway up the gate, his legs flailing, Perry noticed the balding head of Ol’ Gus first, then the rest of him, as he hurried up the gradual rise on the other side of the gate.

  “Are you an idiot? Why not push the damn button?”

  Perry let his body slide back down to the driveway, then slapped his hands together to rid them of all the grime and dust that had transferred onto his palms.

  Only then did he spot what Gus had shouted out about—located at the far right side of the gate was a black push-button, centered in the middle of a square sign:

  PUSH BUTTON TO CALL FOR ATTENDANT

  “When did you add that?” Perry asked, gesturing toward the sign.

  Ol’ Gus unlocked the padlock and began unwinding the chain. “Years ago.” He pulled the gate to the side, letting it roll just wide enough for a person to squeeze through. Perry entered, carrying his duffle, and waited for his father to close and relock the gate.

  “Seems like a lot of security for the middle of the day,” Perry noted.

  Gus turned and appraised him. “You look good, son. Put on a few pounds, huh?” He patted his own ample middle and gave Perry a toothy grin. “Thought you weren’t coming till tomorrow.”

  “Caught an earlier transport.” Perry took in his father’s clothes: His Levi’s were streaked with grease and hung baggily over his ass. A gray T-shirt could be seen beneath an old plaid work shirt, its sleeves rolled midway up his thick forearms. His face was dirty, yet tanned, and showed a three-to-four-day white stubble.

  “You look pretty much the same as you did when I saw you last,” Perry said.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” Gus didn’t wait for an answer. “Come on up to the house … we’ll get you situated.” He wrapped a gnarled hand over Perry’s shoulder and gave him an affectionate squeeze. “Damn, it’s good to see you.”

  “Good to see you too, Gus.”

  They made their way toward the back of the rickety old ranch-style house—the same three-bedroom, one-bathroom home his boys grew up in. As they proceeded, Gus pointed out subtle changes and additions in the scrapyard: a 1941 Ford F1 pickup; an old ambulance that could still kick over; and several more older Jeeps, brought over from the base. What interested Perry most was one simple fact—Ol’ Gus seemed just as lucid and sane as ever. Perhaps it was something that came and went.

  Chapter 22

  Sol System

  Planet Earth, Central Valley Scrapyard, San Bernardino, CA

  __________________________

  Summer, 1995 …

  Walking in through the backdoor of the old house prompted a flood of memories to rise for Perry—first of his own childhood, living here with his father, Ol’ Gus; then later, the sporadic visits home to see his kids. Gus took Perry’s duffle and headed down the hallway toward the bedrooms. Standing in the family room, it appeared obvious to Perry that nothing much had changed—the 1950s-era ranch house fit comfortably into the dingy, cluttered, scrapyard environment outside. But it was his home, just the same, and Perry suddenly, and unexpectedly, became filled with emotion. He heard his father mumbling to himself, the sound of drawers being opened and closed, a closet door opening then closing.

  “I hope you’re not doing what I think you’re doing,” Perry yelled toward the hallway.

  “Hush … why don’t you grab a Schlitz from the fridge.”

  In three long strides from the family room, Perry entered the kitchen. Opening the door of the twenty-year-old refrigerator, he grabbed two cold bottles from the top shelf. Like always, he found the bottle-cap opener dangling from a short cord tied to a cabinet knob.

  Gus emerged from the hallway, holding a shoebox in both hands. “Found this in the closet.” He placed the box on the lime-green Formica counter, then reached for the opened Schlitz. He and Perry clinked bottlenecks and drank.

  “Ahh … doesn’t get much better than this, does it?” Gus asked, smacking his lips and looking truly content.

  “You just moved out of the Master … didn’t you?”

  “Hush! You need to be comfortable.”

  The truth was the master bedroom wasn’t much bigger than the other two bedrooms, but the gesture implied was huge. Perry silently acknowledged Gus’s thoughtful gift as one coming from a father who had little else to give.

  Gus removed the top of the shoebox—revealing a half-filled box of faded Polaroid pictures. He plucked up the topmost photograph and looked at it. He chuckled, revealing a toothless gap space that a molar once filled. “You remember this?” he asked, flipping the photo around for Perry to see. Perry took it and held it at arms’ length, not having his reading glasses handy. It was the boys. He figured they must have been seven and eight years old at the time. Brian, wearing an old, far too big, U.S. Army combat helmet, was seated behind the wheel of a scrapped, olive green Jeep precariously suspended up on concrete blocks. Jason, sitting next to him, was pointing a BB gun—perhaps toward an advancing division of Krauts, or maybe Russkies.

  “I don’t remember taking this,” Perry said.

  “You wouldn’t, as you’d already left—maybe a week or so prior. Headed to somewhere in the Mediterranean, I think.”

  Perry rifled through the box of photo mementos. Feelings of nostalgia—switching to regret—invaded his thoughts. He realized most of what he viewed brought forth such few remembrances—most had no place in his memory. He’d missed so much of his sons’ younger lives. Had it been worth it? Probably not. Definitely not.

  Perry put the lid back on the box and looked at his father with concern. “How are you doing, Dad? Really? Talk to me—tell me how you’re holding up.”

  Ol’ Gus shrugged and shook his head, like it was the most absurd question he’d ever been asked. His face twisted into sudden anger. “You think I’ve gone bat-shit crazy, don’t you?”

  “Gus, it’s not like that. There comes a time when we all have to face our limitations. I don’t want you to worry about anything. I’m not going anywhere. I’m leaving the Navy … it’s just a matter of paperwork at this point. So we have plenty of time to deal with … you know … our situation.” Perry did his best to look supportive.

  The time Perry agonized over had finally come. From here on out, life was going to be different for Ol’ Gus.

  “The letters. The phone calls. I know you’re certain I’m senile. Let me guess, you’re thinking it’s nursing home time—maybe an institution?”

  “No decisions have been made. Look, there’s time to talk about what’s best for all. First things first, we speak with appropriate—”

  Gus started laughing halfway through Perry’s awkward ramblings. “Why don’t you save that patronizing speech for later. If you still want to shuffle me off to the nut house after you see what I want to show you, then have at it. Until then, just shut your trap. I put a change of clothes … your old jeans and a sweatshirt … on the bed. Hurry up!”

  “Gus … Dad … the doctor told me it might not be a good idea to … um … to indulge your … you know … fantasies.”

  “I’m still your father and I can still kick your butt, if it comes to that. Now get your ass into those jeans. I think there’s some old boots in the closet … too.”

  * * *

  Perry found Ol’ Gus waiting for him in the yard. An ancient-looking satchel hung over his shoulder and he grasped the top knob of a five-foot-long walking stick. Without speaking another word he spun around, heading into the myriad of rusted-out old automobiles, all in various forms of ruination.

  Perry decided to placate his father. Let Gus get whatever he wanted to sh
ow him out of his system, then talk over things later. The truth was, it was good having this time to bond. They weaved through more than a hundred wrecked cars, approaching the farthest section of the scrapyard, when Perry sighted the top of a backhoe. Several small mountains of freshly churned up dirt lay beyond it. Ol’ Gus glanced over his shoulder—his expression said … you just wait … you’ll see!

  Gus slowed and held up. As Perry moved to his side, Gus held his staff horizontally like a railing. “Careful here! Ground’s not stable and it’s very deep.”

  Perry stared down into a void of total blackness. The hole was approximately twenty foot square, with a sloping path excavated downward.

  “What is this? What am I looking at?”

  “Didn’t you read the letters? Listen to what I said on the phone?”

  Perry shrugged noncommittally. “Why don’t you tell me again?”

  Exasperated, Gus said, “It was a few months back. I noticed the Grime Moving and Storage van … you remember it?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, it was sitting at a peculiar angle. I didn’t think much of it, but I checked it out just the same. When I got over here, I noticed its rear wheels had sunk five or six feet into the ground. It seemed pretty evident a sinkhole lay beneath the truck. I returned later with a flashlight and peered into the hole behind the rear axel; the same hole, opened up, that you’re looking down into now. Over the following days, mostly using a shovel, I cleared a wider opening. Then I used long ropes, erected some makeshift scaffolding, and made climbing down there more accessible … then I began to explore.”

  “You know that was extremely dangerous, don’t you? You could have fallen in … gotten trapped down there. You do know that, right?”