Parker's Folly

by Doug L. Hoffman

  “Very good, Mr. Adams, assist the Doctor and try to contain the mess.” Globules of vomit had a tendency to go everywhere in zero-g. Clean-up in the engineering spaces would not be pleasant.

  “Environmental, Bridge. Your status please.”

  “Bridge, Environmental,” came the immediate reply, in a deep rumbling voice. “Bear here, Captain. I'm fine but Melissa is hurt.”

  Melissa Scott Hamilton was a horticulturist and one of the environmental techs. She mostly stayed in the hydroponics section, tending to the plants that helped recycle Folly's air and which would eventually provide the crew with fresh vegetables. A slight, shy young woman from Louisiana, she and Lt. Bear, the ship's gruff security officer, had developed a mutual attraction. Lt. Bear could usually be found in Ms. Hamilton's company when his duties didn't require him to be elsewhere.

  “What are the nature of Ms. Hamilton's injuries? Are they life threatening?”

  “No. She has a broken foreleg but is OK otherwise.”

  “You mean one of her arms is broken, Lieutenant?”

  “Yeah, right, her right arm. I'll take her forward to the sick bay.”

  Ah yes, that reminds me. “No, Lieutenant. Make her as comfortable as you can and then go forward to the cargo hold airlock. We have some uninvited guests in the hold.”

  “Guests in the cargo hold?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant. We seem to have acquired a squad of Marines just prior to takeoff. Monitoring is up so you can keep them under observation, but don't take any action on your own. I will come aft with First Officer Curtis and some of the ratings—that way we can hit them from both ends at once.”

  “Yes, Sir,” came the eager reply. “And what are we expected to do with the Marines?”

  “I expect us to quell them, Lieutenant.”

  Passenger’s Dayroom, Lower Deck

  When the oppressive acceleration that held her in the lounge chair was replaced by zero-gravity, Lt. Curtis figured they were in orbit. The two news people were looking around, big eyed, clutching the arms of their chairs with viselike grips. Chief Zackly came up out of his chair slowly, only to drift off helplessly across the dayroom.

  His feet no longer in contact with the deck, the little man was running in place in a vain attempt to find firmer footing. Waving his arms at the furniture, just out of reach, a steady stream of mumbled obscenities emanated from the frustrated boatswain.

  Lt. Curtis glanced at the floating chief, shook her head and took something out of a pouch attached to her waist. Carefully, she brought one knee up and reaching down slipped a booty over her footwear. Placing that foot securely on the deck, she repeated the process for her other foot. Newly shod, the Lieutenant stood up and took two careful steps toward the windmilling chief, who was now upside down.

  “Chief,” said the First Officer, offering the stranded sailor a stabilizing arm, “stop flailing about and put your deck booties on.”

  “Yes, Ma'am,” came the embarrassed reply, as the Chief accepted the proffered arm and with considerable grace, pivoted and planted his feet back on the deck. He too, extracted a pair of the slip-on booties and quickly installed them over his shoes, mumbling “never needed booties to stick to the deck of a destroyer.”

  Talking into the pip on her collar, the Lieutenant said, “Bridge, lower deck Dayroom. Lt. Curtis here.”

  “Go ahead Dayroom. What is your status Lieutenant?”

  “I am with Chief Zackly, the two news people, and a pair of construction types who got stuck on board, Captain. All of us are unharmed.”

  “Good, Lieutenant. Could you please bring your party to the lounge on the upper deck? It seems we have more unwanted stowaways on board, specifically a squad of Marines in the cargo hold. We need to get the civilians stowed in a safe place before we neutralize the Marines.”

  “Aye aye, Sir.”

  “I'll meet you in the lounge. Captain out.”

  “Alright, you heard the Captain. We are going to move to the second deck.” With this announcement, the female dock worker began whimpering again and her companion added a frightened edge to his guilty demeanor.

  Susan and JT, on the other hand, had overcome their initial fear and were floating just above the chairs they had been seated in. Rather than being stressed out by the wild takeoff they were goofing around like a couple of school children, both savoring the new experience of weightlessness.

  Watching the pair, Lt. Curtis could not help but smile and shake her head. Turning to the Chief and his two stowaways she said: “Chief, go up the companionway first and I'll send the civilians up one at a time. You two, stay seated until I tell you to move.”

  “Aye aye, Ma'am,” said the wiry little sailor, moving catlike to the aft portside corner of the dayroom. There a cylindrical companionway led to the upper deck. About a meter in diameter, a ladder was built into the back side of the tubular passageway. The Chief took a long graceful stride into the well of the companionway, grasped the rungs of the ladder and disappeared up the tube in one smooth motion. The Chief was evidently trying to prove that his earlier out of control performance was an anomaly.

  “OK, Miss. You first,” said Lt. Curtis, motioning to the young woman.

  “No, no, no,” came the frightened reply as panic spread across the woman's face.

  “We don't have time for this!” And with that, the Lieutenant plucked the woman in gray out of her chair, slid over to the companionway in a single gliding step and tossed her up and out of sight, yelling “heads up, Chief!”

  She turned to the remaining three civilians and said: “Next!”

  * * * * *

  “Mr. Vincent, I understand you have a passing familiarity with firearms?” Asked the Captain, as he floated to the starboard side of the bridge.

  “Yes sir, Captain. I know my way around a rifle or a pistol.” came the somewhat careful reply.

  “Then come with me. Mr. Danner, you will remain at the helm. Mr. Medina, you have the Conn. Mr. Vincent and I are going aft.”

  The Captain disappeared down the starboard passageway, in the direction of the lounge, with Billy Ray attempting to catch up.

  * * * * *

  In the lounge, Lt. Curtis emerged from the companionway, which terminated in the left rear corner of the large dining area and bar the news people had toured earlier. The Chief had the two construction workers seated on a couch in the lounge area while JT and Susan were amusing themselves by bouncing back and forth slowly, from one end of the lounge to the other. JT even had his camera and was filming Susan as she drifted past.

  The Chief, who was rummaging around behind the bar, found what he was looking for and bounded over to the couch holding the couple in gray. “Here's some booties, put 'em on. And for you, Missy, a barf bag. Do not puke on my deck! If you feel like chumming, use the bag.”

  “I see you have things well in hand, Chief.”

  “Yes, Ma'am. 'Cept for the flyin' Wallenda's there,” he said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the cavorting news crew.

  Favoring the Chief with one of her rare smiles to show that he wasn't in trouble for the news crew's antics, the Lieutenant stepped forward and deftly snagged the passing Susan, gently grounding her on the deck.

  “Aw lieutenant, this is fun! We have to get some footage to beam back home!” adding in a hushed voice, “I'm so glad I wore pants today and not a skirt.”

  “There will be ample opportunity for recording once everything on board has been secured, Ms. Write.” Curtis reached out and hooked the passing JT who was traveling in the opposite direction of his on-camera talent. “You too, Mr. Taylor. There will be time to frolic later in the voyage. Right now, I need you to put on the booties the Chief has and stay in contact with the deck—seated would be even better.”

  “Come on, Lt. Curtis. You have got to know that this is the experience of a lifetime!” said the now grounded JT. “Come to think about it, you and the Chief seem strangely familiar with zero-gravity, like you have been here before.” />
  “In a way, Mr. Taylor. Mr. Parker sent most of the crew members to a firm in Arizona that operates a specially modified Boeing 727, a ‘vomit comet’. It flies parabolic arcs creating a weightless environment allowing you to float as if you were in space.”

  “That is just too cool,” said JT, as he donned the floor sticking booties given to him by the Chief. “How can I get a job like this?”

  “Not so fast there, Astro-boy. Don't be so quick to jump ship,” said his partner, floating somewhat sideways in her struggle to slip her booties on. Ever the reporter, Susan righted herself by grasping the arm of a nearby chair and asked “how much did that cost? A bundle I bet.”

  “They normally charge $5,000 per person or $175,000 for the whole plane. TK got a deal—only $500,000 for an entire week. By the end of the week it was much more like work than play—two prospective crew members quit and left after a few days.”

  “Regaling the media with harrowing tales of astronaut training, Lieutenant?” asked the Captain as he floated up. Behind him, another crew member in a blue jumpsuit was bouncing off the walls and furniture, hurrying to catch up.

  “Yes, Sir. They thought that the Chief was suspiciously agile under zero-g conditions and before they concluded that this wasn't our first flight I explained our extensive training for this mission. Wouldn't want any disinformation to be reported in the media, Sir.”

  “No indeed, Lieutenant. Chief, I would like you to stay with our guests and ensure their continued comfort. I also don't want them straying outside the mess until we get our Marine infestation problem solved.”

  “Aye aye, Captain,” answered the wizened Chief, coming to attention. “I'll keep a close watch on 'em, Sir.” Nodding to the boatswain, the Captain continued, “Mr. Vincent, Lt. Curtis, and I will be going aft to the cargo hold.”

  “Captain?” JT asked. “If you are going to talk with those Marines—and I am assuming that they are the same ones that were on the dock before we left—I would be very careful. They seemed a little trigger happy.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Taylor. We'll be careful.”

  Cargo Hold, Parker's Folly

  In the cargo hold, the shaken Marines were trying to literally figure out which end was up. Three of the wounded Marines had drifted away from the rear bulkhead where they had been pinned by the blastoff acceleration. So had the crate that crushed Lt. Merryweather, who's contorted body was also adrift. The loose crate had shifted when the ship rolled a while ago, and was now slowly tumbling above the deck in the middle of the hold.

  Davis and Kwan were the two Marines that slid prone into the bulkhead. Kwan was unconscious and Davis had a leg and an arm that stuck out at unusual angles, most likely broken. Feldman had actually landed on the forward side of one of the crates, he was not moving either.

  That left Reagan and Sanchez on the right and Sizemore and Washington on the left. Sizemore and Washington were clinging to the side of a large crate with Washington and his SAW farthest forward. Reagan and Sanchez were slowly working their way along the starboard wall. Doc was attempting to administer painkillers to the drifting Davis. The Gunny herself was only marginally operational. She had what felt like a separated right shoulder and was barely able to handle her weapon offhanded.

  No doubt about it, the squad was totally FUBAR. Rodriguez tried shifting position and was rewarded with a stabbing pain in her shoulder. Yep, it's separated at best, she thought.

  “Those of you that ain't so banged up, find someplace to hold onto and stay put.” Damn the Gunny thought, even yelling hurt. “Doc, can you get Kato and Two Can secured against the bulkhead. This thing could start maneuvering again for all we know.”

  “I'll try Gunny.”

  Good kid, Rodriguez said to herself, she's pretty banged up herself but she's not complaining. Then she heard a retching sound. Looking to her left she saw Sizemore puking his guts out, a spray of vomit droplets spewing out toward the center of the compartment.

  “Washington! Get Sizemore a sack or something.” Christ, they were down on firepower as it was. Not that it would be easy firing the machine gun or even a carbine while floating around the cabin with no gravity. Yep, definitely FUBAR.

  Forward Cargo Hold Airlock, Parker's Folly

  The Captain's party had made their way to the lower deck, after stopping at the arms locker, and were now in the lower deck airlock that opened onto the cargo hold. Along the way they had picked up Stephen Hitch and Mathew Jacobs, the two remaining crew members that were on board when the ship had so suddenly departed. All were armed with what appeared to be handguns.

  “Lt. Bear, this is the Captain. Are you in position?”

  “Yes, Captain. I'm in the upper deck airlock overlooking the cargo hold. It looks like half of the squad is already out of action—a couple are hurt pretty bad.”

  “We will get the wounded some help as soon as we disarm the lot of them,” the grim faced Captain told his Master-at-Arms, he didn't need to ask if Lt. Bear was armed.

  “OK, people, this is the plan: we will enter through the airlock door, spread out and work our way aft, using the crates and boxes for cover. Stay in contact and do not fire unless I give the word. Lt. Curtis, you and Jacobs take the port side. Mr. Vincent take Hitch and cover the starboard approach. I will go down the middle. I'm going to give them an opportunity to surrender their weapons peaceably. If they refuse we will shoot everyone that resists. Understood?”

  “What about Bear, Captain?” asked Lt. Curtis.

  “He is our reserve. If things go sideways, he will enter from the upper deck aft and reinforce our attack. Do you understand that, Lt. Bear?”

  “Yes, Sir.” came Lt. Bear's curt answer.

  “OK then, If t'were to be done, t'were best done quickly.”

  “What Sir?” asked Hitch, confused.

  “That'd be Shakespeare, Steve,” answered Billy Ray, “Macbeth.”

  “Sorry,” said the Captain, “the burden of a liberal education. Let's do this people.” The airlock door slid quietly aside and the five armed crew members moved into the cargo hold.

  As the crew members moved forward along either side of the hold, the Captain walked to the center of the large open space. He faced forward, hidden by the clutter of crates and equipment behind him in the hold. Flexing his knees, the Captain sprung from the deck, turned a half flip and landed on his feet on the ceiling.

  There were large pieces of equipment, including some of the ship's small boats, secured against the cargo hold ceiling. Using these for cover Jack worked his way aft. From his perch he could see the Marines below anxiously scanning the deck. They don't realize that combat in zero-gravity is a three dimensional affair, he thought. Good, we need every advantage we can get. He switched on the PA and spoke through the comm pip on his collar.

  Cargo Hold, Parker's Folly

  “Attention! Marines in the cargo hold. This is Captain Sutton, the master of this ship. Surrender your weapons and you will not be harmed.”

  Where did that come from? The Gunny looked about for a source, then yelled, “Show yourself! We'll see who remains unharmed!” These space assholes had wounded half her squad and probably killed the Lieutenant, she was not in a surrendering mood.

  “Gunnery Sergeant,” the voice continued, “I can see that you only have five effectives left. Your wounded need medical care. Put down your weapons and let us help you.”

  “My orders are to seize this ship, and that's what we're going to do. How about you surrendering and avoid any bloodshed among your crew?”

  “Sergeant, where are you going to go? The ship is in orbit and you are locked in the cargo hold.” The Captain could sense that this negotiation was not going well. “Get ready,” he whispered over the crew frequency.

  Just then, Jacobs, pistol in hand, came into view around one of the crates on the port side. Again it was Sanchez who fired the first rounds, aimed single shots this time. Bullets could be seen striking the crate around Jacobs when he was suddenly jerke
d back to cover.

  “Lt. Curtis, what's your status?” whispered the Captain.

  “Jacobs has a flesh wound, nothing life threatening but he's out of the fight,” came the Lieutenant's terse reply.

  Bloody hell! I need to end this quickly, Jack thought. “You need to control your people, Sergeant. There is nothing preventing us from withdrawing and venting the hold to space. Marines are tough but they can't breath vacuum. I'll ask you one more time, surrender and avoid further casualties.”

  That crewman in blue only had some kind of sidearm, the Gunny realized, they are only lightly armed. Even five of us should be able to take them! “Listen up, Captain. Your people don't stand a chance. We have automatic weapons and grenade launchers. You mess with us and we'll blow this ship to hell.”

  Damn it! The Captain's thoughts raced. I'm sure that the rifle bullets won't do any major damage to the ship but a 40mm grenade is another story. I have no idea what popping off a couple of those in here would do. And they might be able to breach one of the interior airlocks with a grenade. He peered down from his perch on the ceiling. Yes, that Marine by the crate on the right has a grenade launcher attached to his weapon, and one on the left, by the exterior cargo door has one as well. This has to end now.

  “Lt. Bear, I need you to take out the Marine on the starboard side with the grenade launcher. I'll take the one on the port side by the crate. Everyone else covering fire. On my mark... Now!”

  * * * * *

  Things had just quieted back down. From her position against the rear bulkhead, the Gunny was exposed, but had a good view of the entire area in front of the squad. Sanchez was swatting at the expelled casings from the rounds he fired—they had bounced off the wall beside him and were now floating around him like brass flies.

  Suddenly there were people in jumpsuits on both sides of the hold brandishing peculiar looking pistols. As shots erupted from the Marines, a huge white form streaked over her head. The white creature collided with the large crate drifting in the middle of the chamber. It landed on all fours, then lept off to the right, sending the crate spinning forward.