The huge creature landed on PFC Reagan, swatting his carbine out of his hands. The M320 grenade launcher, the stock and the upper all went flying in different direction. That looks like a fucking polar bear! the shocked Gunny thought. She didn't have time to ponder the meaning of a polar bear attack on a space ship, events in the cargo hold were unfolding too quickly.
On the starboard side, Sanchez stepped away from the wall to get a shot at the polar bear that was mauling Reagan. As he did he was shot from behind by a tall figure in blue. Shot was a bit of a misnomer, since no projectiles were involved. Instead, a flickering pencil thin beam of blue light reached out from the man's pistol, striking Sanchez in the back.
When the beam struck Sanchez, his arms and legs flew straight out from his body, jerking uncontrollably. His carbine was flung toward the ceiling by his body's involuntary reaction. Hearing the sound of the SAW firing, the Gunny looked to her left.
Washington had let loose a burst at the crewman who shot Sanchez. Unfortunately, he was holding the heavy weapon with both hands and, unbraced, the recoil from the machine gun threw the big man back. The burst went wide as Washington slammed into the crate behind him. The man in blue, who had taken cover behind a crate, popped back up and shot Washington with a blue beam of light.
The effect of the flickering beam on Washington was similar to its effect on Sanchez. Both of the big Lance Corporal's arms flew out wide, but Washington retained a grip on the SAW with his right hand. As his muscles spasmed he fired off random bursts, mostly in the direction of his own squad members.
Lt. Curtis viewed these developments on a screen sewn into the sleeve of her jumpsuit. She quickly holstered her sidearm and launched herself at waist height toward the large crate sheltering Washington and Sizemore. Twisting in flight, she drew her legs up and grabbed the securing strap at the corner of the crate as she flew by.
Grabbing the strap caused the tall Lieutenant to swing around like a gymnast on the high bar. As she swung across Washington's twitching body she kicked out with both legs, knocking the machine gun from the Marine's grip. Unfortunately, the Lieutenant lost purchase on the strap and the recoil from the kick sent her drifting forward into the center of the squad's field of fire.
Cpl Sizemore, currently in between bouts of retching, swung his weapon up, bringing it to bear on the helpless figure in black. Before he could fire, a blue beam struck him; this time the bolt had come from above. The Gunny looked up and saw another figure in black standing on the ceiling of the chamber, looking down at her.
Shit, he has us enfiladed, she thought, trying to raise her carbine. Then something large and heavy landed on her chest. Pain knifed through her injured shoulder and, just before she passed out, she thought she heard the polar bear say “drop the gun, Bitch.”
Chapter 7
AFTAC, Patrick AFB, Florida
Senior Airman Robinson had forgotten his desire to go off shift as the dramatic events unfolded in West Texas. AFTAC had monitored the squad of Marines entering the building via the comms link from the MV-22, then pandemonium broke out when garbled reports described the ship “blasting off along the ground” headed east. He had been expecting his satellites to pickup the speeding rocket ship as it accelerated like a silver daemon toward San Angelo and Goodfellow AFB, but his instruments reported nothing.
The eye witness accounts coming in didn't make much sense either. Evidently, the nearly 500 foot long, silver rocket ship wasn't a rocket after all. No pillar of fire blasted from its tail, propelling it forward. One sheriff’s deputy said it looked more like a Japanese maglev train leaving the station than anything else—except this train ran on no special track.
They really didn't have good tracking on the ship until it popped up off the deck and headed for space. Then the FAA radar on King Mountain picked it up briefly. By the time they got good lock, the ship had all ready cleared commercial airspace and was doing 12,000 miles per hour. From the trajectory it was following there was little doubt that Parker's Folly, as everyone was calling it, was headed for orbit and maybe beyond.
“Robinson, we're getting a video feed from the local TV down there,” Major Beldsoe called from the observers' platform behind his monitoring position. “Could you put it up on the large screen?”
“Yes, Ma'am,” the Airman said, rapidly punching buttons on his console. A window containing the KWTEX News opened on the large tracking display on the wall. It was showing an exterior shot of what had to be the dirigible hanger with a pretty blond woman talking into a microphone. Robinson turned the sound up.
“...and as you can see from the size of its hangar, TK Parker's spaceship is truly Texas sized.” The scene jumped to an inside shot of a long, cylindrical vessel stretching off to farthest reaches of the huge hangar. The voice of the woman continued.
“Though the ship hasn't been officially named, many of the workers refer to it as Parker's Folly, implying that it is just the wild dream of an eccentric old billionaire. Even TK Parker himself uses the name, but to him it is anything but a joke.” The picture now showed an interior shot of a classy bar and lounge area with a large, odd shaped picture window.
“As you can see, the Folly is not your bare-bones NASA spacecraft. She's more like a well appointed private yacht than the old Space Shuttle. I asked the ship's Captain, Jack Sutton, about that.”
The scene changed to show a tall, trim man in a black jumpsuit, sitting in a chair that could have come right off the set of Star Trek. Behind the man was the transparent nose of the vessel, glittering like a silver and crystal cathedral window. The Captain looked into the camera and began to speak. “That's right, Susan. This ship is a combination private yacht and research vessel...”
“Find out who that guy is,” said the Colonel. “From his speech and bearing I'd lay money that he's former military.”
“The FBI already identified him as John D. Sutton, former U.S. Navy Commander,” Maj Bledsoe provided. “He was evidently cashiered six years ago under questionable circumstances.”
“Was he charged with anything?”
“Not really, Sir. Evidently his XO disobeyed a direct order and, as a result, several sailors died in a bombing incident. Since Sutton was the ship's captain he got caught in the political fallout. Ended his career.”
“Did he suffer a breakdown or anything?” It would be easy to dismiss him as crazy like the old rancher, except he doesn't sound like a madman or a fool. On screen, the interview with the Captain was wrapping up. The reporter had just asked when the ship was ready to depart.
“We are still loading provisions and scientific lab equipment but the ship is space-worthy and can takeoff any time. We expect to be leaving Earth on her maiden voyage any time now. Of course, that's up to Mr. Parker, the owner.”
“Thank you, Captain,” the blond reporter said, the scene cutting to a panning shot of the glass enclosed bow. “There you have it. A West Texas rancher with his own space program has built one very impressive spaceship. Will it actually fly? We promise to cover the takeoff when it does right here on KWTEX News. Susan Write, reporting from Upton County.”
“What happened to that reporter? Did our people down there talk to her?” asked the Colonel as the news show moved on to the local weather report and SrA Robinson cut the sound.
“Another strange thing, Colonel,” said Maj Bledsoe. “The news team consisted of one Susan Write, aka Peggy Sue Whitaker, who you just saw, and her cameraman, a James Leotis Taylor. Their news van is still at the ranch house but they are nowhere to be found. The federal Marshals think they might have been on board when the ship took off, along with the missing squad of Marines.”
“Do we have any idea how many people were on board?”
“No, Sir. I'm afraid not” Then the Major added, “we also have a video of the ship ascending. Some amateur cameraman at the San Angelo airshow was facing west, filming a sun dog in the overhead clouds, when the spaceship ascended. As the ship pierced the cloud layer the shock wave destr
oyed the sun dog, very impressive sequence.”
“How did we get that footage? Can we keep it out of the news?”
“We got it off of YouTube. I'm afraid its already gone viral, Sir.”
“Naturally!” the Colonel snorted. “Welcome to the future, Major. We are supposed to be watching outer space for threats to the nation, yet we have civilians building spaceships and it's all over the news and the Internet before we even hear about it.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“So now we have a mystery ship filled with an unknown number of civilians, a news crew and a squad of Marines somewhere in low Earth orbit. We have no way to contact them and the folks over at the Solar Dynamics Observatory have just issued a warning saying we are about to be hit with the largest solar storm since the 1800s. Satellite communications are already starting to break down. If that ship is in orbit when the storm hits, it's going to get fried. I wonder if those folks knew they were flying to their deaths?”
Cargo Hold, Parker's Folly
Crewman Hitch fired the last shot of the battle for the cargo hold, loosing a stunner bolt at the Navy corpsman huddled against the aft bulkhead. HM2 White felt the tingle of the near miss in her left arm and leg. Quickly she tossed her carbine toward the middle of the cargo hold and threw up her hands, shouting “I'm the medic, I surrender, I surrender!”
“CEASE FIRE! they are all down,” the Captain announced over the PA. Then, holstering his stunner, he launched himself from the ceiling. Floating down, he did a half flip with a half twist, landing upright on the deck facing the Gunnery Sergeant, who was still obscured by the bulk of Lt. Bear. “You can let her up, Lieutenant. I believe she's passed out.”
“Yeah, I thought Marines were supposed to be tough. These clowns were more like pups.” Bear was still visibly excited by the brief action, nose crinkling and nostrils flaring as he sniffed the air.
“Half of them were taken out by the g-forces during takeoff, and no doubt the others were banged up pretty badly as well,” said Lt. Curtis, who had finally reached a solid surface and was once again upright on the deck. “Add to that never having fought in zero-gravity and I think they acquitted themselves quite well.”
“Yes, First Officer. If they had done any better we might well have lost,” the Captain acknowledged, then, addressing the only uninjured, fully conscious survivor: “You there, you claim you're a medic?”
“Yes, Sir. Hospital Corpsman 2nd Class Belinda White, five-three-seven...” She began reciting her serial number.
The Captain cut her short, “I don't need your serial number, Corpsman, I need your help.”
“Uh, yes Sir?” the still shaken medic replied, unable to take her eyes off the hulking Lt. Bear, now hanging from the bulkhead with one paw around a stanchion.
“Yes, we have a fully equipped medical section on board. Unfortunately we don't have a doctor. That makes you it, Ms. White. We need to triage the wounded and get them to sick bay, before someone dies of his wounds.”
“Yes, Captain. I think that Lt. Merryweather might already be dead. He was crushed by that big crate when the ship blasted off.”
“Check him first then, and then the man Lt. Bear disarmed.” The aforementioned Lt. Bear averted his eyes from the Captain's gaze. The 600 kilogram nearly 3 meter long security officer had paws the size of dinner plates, each tipped with five large, sharp claws. The ursine Lieutenant had almost literally disarmed PFC Reagan when he swatted the Marine's weapon out of his hands. The Private's arm was shredded from shoulder to wrist and bleeding profusely. Droplets of blood and barf drifted around the hold, creating a thoroughly unwholesome atmosphere.
“Yes, Captain.” The medic was grateful to have work to concentrate on, instead of the tense confusion all around her.
“Lt. Curtis, I will leave you in charge here. I'll take Jacobs with me to sick bay and leave the mid-deck airlock open on the forward bulkhead. You can float the wounded through there and directly to sick bay. Bring the others as Corpsman White indicates.” Turning to Lt. Bear, he said, “Lt. Bear, perhaps you could go fetch Miss Hamilton and escort her to the sick bay.”
“Yes, Captain,” the big officer said, anxious to be away from his captain's disapproving stare. He quickly scampered up the bulkhead and disappeared through the airlock opening he had first appeared from only a few minutes before.
“Lt. Merryweather is still alive!” called HM2 White, “But he is going to need splinting, plasma and a surgeon.”
Great, thought the Captain, heading forward to collect the wounded Jacobs. Where are we going to find a surgeon in low Earth orbit?
ISS, Low Earth Orbit
Ludmilla managed to corral her two companions for a last call with mission control at NASA's Johnson Space Center in Houston. The voice from the ISS Flight Control Room sounded no different than it had on countless other occasions. The unwritten NASA code of male machismo, inherited from the testosterone driven culture of military test pilots, required everyone to remain cool and collected at all times—at least while on the radio.
“We have an update on the impending solar event,” said the voice from Houston. “It looks like radiation levels are already starting to rise and communications are being degraded. New estimates from the SDO say the bulk of the storm should hit in about three hours.”
“So we have approximately two orbits left?” Col. Kondratov's question was more of a statement.
“Yes, that's affirmative. I want you to know we tried every way we could to send you folks some relief. We talked with India, China and even commercial operators, none had any man-rated resources that could be launched in time.”
“Yes, of course, Houston. We know you did all that could be done.” The code of cool continued to hold.
“ISS, we have some ideas that might make the next 12 hours more survivable. Donning spacesuits and moving some of the equipment around you to form shielding could help diminish the radiation levels.”
“We have been over this before, Houston,” Dr. Tropsha interrupted. “The storm is going to be too strong and last too long for such measures to make any difference. We would simply be postponing the inevitable. I for one, would rather spend my last few hours comfortably, not locked inside a spacesuit.”
“Of course, Dr. Tropsha. Wait one.” There was a short pause before Mission Control resumed talking. “There are a few things we would like you to do to the ISS systems prior to the storm's arrival, if you don't mind. As you know, most of the station's electronics are probably going to be damaged and that could adversely impact some of the major onboard systems.”
“What is it you want us to do?” asked Ivan. Being the ranking cosmonaut, he was now acting mission commander.
“We'd like you to shut down the tracking on the solar panel arrays, and the stabilization system. Also the main heat exchanger.”
“Very well, we will do as you ask.” Like that will change anything, thought Ivan. The station, like its crew, is as good as dead. Maybe they are just trying to keep us busy, to take our minds off what is about to happen.
“Thank you, ISS. We will probably lose communication contact at some point but we are going to stay with you—there are a lot of people down here praying for a miracle.”
“Thank you, Houston. We will sign off now and start shutting down systems.”
“Roger ISS. Godspeed, Houston out.”
Sickbay, Parker's Folly
The unwounded members of Folly's crew had returned to their duties—Billy Ray was back on the bridge while able spaceman Hitch and Freddy Adams from engineering were busy squaring away the cargo hold. Mat Jacobs' flesh wound and Melissa Hamilton's broken arm had been treated and they were sent forward to the mess to recuperate.
The three stunned but otherwise unharmed Marines had been handcuffed with plastic zip cuffs and secured in the crew dayroom on the lower deck, under the watchful eye of Lt. Bear. The remaining Marines were now resting in sickbay beds under restraint. Most seriously injured was Lt Merryweather, whose
broken limbs had been splinted and was now under heavy sedation.
Next on the list was LCpl Reagan, whose badly lacerated arm had been cleaned and bound. He too, was under sedation and Doc had started a plasma drip. That left Davis, Kwan and Feldman with various fractures, dislocations and sprains in need of setting. After giving them all something to dull the pain, Corpsman White was working her way down the patient list with the assistance of Lt. Curtis. Before ministering to the remaining squad members, the medical team turned to the squad's injured leader, GySgt Rodriguez.
The Gunny regained consciousness as Doc White moved to set her shoulder. “Lieutenant, could you please hold the Gunny steady. Gunny, this is going to hurt.”
“Get on with it, Doc.” Then, as the Corpsman pulled the Sergeant's arm back into its socket, “Arrgh! Damn that hurt! Thanks Betty, where the hell are we?”
“We are in the ship's sickbay, Gunny.”
“I take it since she seems to be in charge,” the Gunny said, jerking her head in the direction of Lt. Curtis, “we lost.”
“Yes, Gunny. Reagan got cut up pretty bad but nobody died and all the wounded are being treated.”
“And might I ask who you are, Ma'am?” Rodriguez asked Lt. Curtis, noticing the officer's insignia on her jumpsuit collar.
“I'm the ship's First Officer, Lieutenant Curtis, Gunnery Sergeant.”
“What about my people, and how's the LT?”
“Your Lieutenant is pretty busted up, Sergeant. We have stabilized him as best we can but we have no doctor on board and your medic says he needs a surgeon. As for your other Marines, the ones without any broken bones or lacerations, they are being held below under armed guard. The rest are here in the sickbay.”
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