Parker's Folly

by Doug L. Hoffman

  “Captain, it would be helpful if you could send a couple more hands to aid in placing the charges. Turns out that this heavy armor reduces manual dexterity to practically nothing.”

  “I'll see what we can do, Lieutenant. Anything else we can do for you?”

  “No, Captain. Sir, have you heard from Lt. Bear's party?”

  “That's a negative. I'm hoping they'll check in soon. We will let you know when the sled embarks.”

  Lt. Bear's Party, Alien Probe's Bay

  “Here's the plan. If that centipede thing returns with another egg, we rush the probe ship. JT and Reagan cover the left flank, Feldman and Sanchez the right. I'm going right up the center.” For Bear, this was pretty much the height of tactical planning.

  Given the general lack of cover and the 300 feet of open space between their current hiding place and the alien ship, even JT, who's tactical sense was a bit more refined, didn't see much choice. “We'll try to take down the spiders, you see if you can catch that centipede thing and grab the egg,” he said in response to Bear's plan of action. “Marines, try not to shoot the egg, we do not want the damn thing blowing up on us. But don't be shy about hammering the ship—the more damage to it the better.”

  Bear bobbed his head, signaling his agreement. “OK, people. Let's do a weapons check.” With that he stood up, rising to his full three meters. In the nearly black armor Bear looked like the shadow of death come to call. Reaching around behind his back on both sides, he slipped his forearms into the special cuffs on his backpack. When he brought his arms forward, each was adorned with an appropriately wicked looking weapon.

  In early tests it became clear that Bear was unable to operate his old rail gun when wearing the new space armor. This had given JT an opportunity to indulge his superhero, action film fantasies with regard to weapon design. On Bear's right forearm was a six barreled mini-gun, each barrel being in essence a 5mm flechette rifle. Since firing one of the flechette rifles at more than 1,200 rounds per minute tended to cause barrel meltdowns, higher cyclic rates were problematic. This arrangement allowed sequential firing from all six barrels, keeping the individual rail guns cool and jacking the aggregate firing rate to 6,000 rounds per minute.

  Unlike conventional mini-guns, the barrels on Bear's new toy did not rotate. As a consequence, each barrel's aiming point was slightly different from its brothers. But since the whole idea was to create a sort of “fire hose of death,” the lack of pinpoint aiming accuracy was not missed. To feed the six ravenous rail guns a flexible ammo feed snaked back to the pack on Bear's broad back. Standard load was 12,000 of the 5 gram flechettes.

  Not wanting Bear to be unbalanced, JT created a second weapon for the Lieutenant's left forearm. This one had only three barrels, but they were all 20mm grenade launchers. Between the three launchers the cyclic rate was near 1,000 rounds per minute. It too, was fed through a belt from the ursine Lieutenant's backpack. Because of the greater weight and bulk of the 20mm HE projectiles, Bear could only carry 500 of those.

  Operating in an airless environment, the HE explosives were not run of the mill terrestrial stuff either. Most earthbound explosives depended on consuming oxygen from the surrounding air for complete combustion. In space there is no excess oxygen available. Because of this, all the crew's weapons used an advanced nano-engineered material that combined both explosive and oxidant in the same, stable molecules. A side benefit was that, weight for weight, the nano explosive yielded 4-5 times the energy of conventional explosives. All up, Bear was carrying close to 120 kg of ordnance—and unlike conventional, chemically propelled rounds, all of it could be sent down range.

  “You know, brother Bear,” JT remarked to the giant black figure looming above him. “I doubt the aliens are even going to notice the rest of us.”

  On suit-to-suit Feldman said to Sanchez, “You know, Joey, it does sort of make a man feel a little inadequate.” To which Sanchez replied, “It ain't what you have, Bro, it's what you do with it.”

  Lt. Curtis' Party, The Alien Egg Room

  Lt. Curtis had Yuki pick the eggs to be transported back to the ship. The physicist chose two of the largest containers, each massing an estimated 250 kilos. He also added a half dozen of the smaller eggs. “To experiment on before tackling the big ones,” he explained.

  Gretchen and the Gunny moved out onto the ramp to greet the arriving hover sled. To her surprise, Susan and Tommy Wendover, both wearing standard spacesuits, hopped off the sled when the Chief slowed to a stop in front of the first open doorway. The Chief also dismounted after settling the sled on the ramp surface. “Chief Zackly, reporting to the expedition commander with a party of three,” the weathered old boatswain barked, throwing Lt. Curtis a crisp salute.

  Gretchen returned the salute and said, “Chief, I don't know if that clear helmet counts as cover.” Cover is navy speak for a hat, Navy personnel generally don't salute when they are not wearing cover. “Wearing cover or underarms, Lieutenant,” the little chief smiled, patting the pistol on his waste. “Or when reporting to the CO.” Clearly, the Chief was having the time of his life.

  Col. Kondratov dismounted without trouble if a bit less gracefully. “I'm thankful that your Chief stopped to pick me up. Otherwise I would have had to hike all the way back up here.”

  Stepping within suit-to-suit range, the Chief said to Lt. Curtis, “If I had knowed it was the Ruskie I'd have left him standing with his thumb out.” It was all Gretchen could do to suppress an un-commanderly snicker. Instead, over the squad frequency she said, “thank you for making the trip down and back, Colonel.”

  “Wendover and Miss Susan, grab those bags of demo charges,” the Chief ordered over the squad channel. He had evidently taken to calling Susan by the same pet name that JT used for the lady reporter.

  “I'm still wondering what you are doing here Susan,” Lt. Curtis said, as the newcomers unloaded the skiff. “Or for that matter young Wendover.”

  Turning to face the imposing bulk that was Lt. Curtis' armor encased figure, Susan explained. “I was on the comm when your request for some additional hands came through. The Captain talked to the Chief, who said the only spare personnel he had was the ‘stowaway shitbird.’” Susan, head clearly visible within the standard suit's fishbowl helmet, motioned in the direction of Tommy Wendover. “So I volunteered,” she finished with a bright smile.

  “Susan, this is a very hazardous mission,” Gretchen began.

  “Gretchen, I mean Lieutenant, I understand the risk. I'm tired of people thinking that I'm just some frivolous air-head reporter who can't contribute to the mission.” The look in her eyes was both determined and pleading.

  “Very well, Miss Write. We need to rig these egg things for demolition, and I mean right now.” Inside of her armor, Gretchen slowly shook her head, Susan really had no place being here, deep in alien country and in a normal suit that was not up to the rigors of combat. But then, they had a mission to accomplish. Over the squad net she ordered, “All right people, let's get this place ready to blow. Kwan, Davis, assist Dr. Saito in getting the chosen eggs loaded on the sled.”

  Tommy was visibly hurt by Susan referring to him as the ‘stowaway shitbird’ but Col Kondratov moved in smoothly to calm the waters. “Come Tommy, I'll show you what to do,” he said, hustling the ex-stowaway and his sack of explosives inside the egg room.

  * * * * *

  As the pair moved to the far side of the egg room, outside of suit-to-suit contact with the others, Ivan said to Tommy, “Quick, give me a couple of the demo charges and a detonator.”

  “What for, Colonel?” the befuddled young man asked. “What are these things we are supposed to be blowing up?”

  “Just fuel containers, do not worry. I have a plan to set things right.” Ivan spoke with conspiratorial urgency. Then, with venom in his voice, “You want to see justice done, don't you, Tommy? The Captain, these other arrogant asses punished?”

  “Yeah sure, Col. Kondratov,” Tommy said, surreptitiously handi
ng Ivan a couple of the shaped charges and a detonator. As far as Tommy was concerned, anything that messed with the crew was OK with him.

  Chapter 20

  Lt. Bear's Party, Alien Probe's Bay

  Bear, JT and the Marines were sheltered behind the metal mounds of the hedgerow lining the side of the probe's landing bay. Since he needed all four legs to run at a respectable rate, Bear had re-holstered his weapons. The Homo sapiens, being bipedal, were able to run flat out with weapons at the ready, one of the few things the Lieutenant envied about his human companions.

  Sanchez was the first to spot the returning centipede. “Yo, we got a centipede carrying an egg at three o'clock, headed for the probe.”

  “Is it the same one?” asked Reagan.

  “How should I know? They all look alike to me.”

  “Get ready,” Bear ordered, as he gauged the centipede's speed and direction, mentally calculating an intercept course. “Now! Go, go, go!”

  The four humans sprang from hiding, spreading out and making tracks toward the alien vessel. Bear lagged behind, his armor encased paws finding little purchase on the metal deck of the landing dock. The humans had covered half the 100 meters to the probe before Bear managed to accelerate his not inconsiderable mass to a full gallop. On Earth, an Ursus maritimus can run at 40 kph, near 50 in a short burst. Under low G conditions and wrapped in heavy armor, Bear was not moving that fast, but still making about twice the speed of the Marines as he overtook them.

  There were four spiders visible outside the probe, two at the open hatch, one near the rear and another one forward along the vessel's fat midsection. They showed no signs of recognizing the charging squad of earthlings as a threat when Bear, closing to within 10 meters of the racing centipede, launched himself at his quarry in a low dive. As Bear went airborne, JT shouted, “Take 'em out!”

  The Marines pulled up, dropped to kneeling positions and hit the two outlying spiders with flechette bursts. JT, firing on the run, took down both the spiders at the door. Meanwhile, Bear landed on top of the moving centipede, trying to grab the egg off its back.

  Encased in armor, and with no claws to grasp his intended prey, Bear's attempt to grab the egg instead sent it skittering across the deck in the direction of the probe's open hatch. The centipede reacted to the loss of its payload by wrapping itself around Bear's left front leg and trying to bite him with a pair of previously hidden mandibles.

  A fifth spider emerged from the dark hatch and moved to pick up the sliding, spinning egg. The hexapod creature managed to stop the egg and was in the process of lifting it off the deck with three of its six legs. JT, who had not stopped running while shooting at the spiders, yelled, “don't fire on the egg!”

  Running at full tilt, JT smashed into the egg juggling spider. Letting his rail gun dangle from its carry strap, he wrenched the egg from the spider's grasp, breaking off one of the spider's legs in the process. The egg's smooth surface provided as little purchase for JT's armored mitts as it had for Bear. It slid from his arms to the dock's surface.

  JT crouched down to recover the egg, now laying at his feet. The injured, but not disabled, spider scuttled forward with undoubtedly the same goal. Cradling the egg in his right arm, JT rose up from his crouch, swinging his armored left arm with all his strength in an arc from the deck to connect with the charging spider's spherical metal body.

  At impact, JT felt the spider's shell crumple where armor met metal. The force of the blow sent the spider flying in a high arc that peaked about 20 meters above the deck. Feldman, who was an avid skeet shooter, could not resist the perfectly presented target—he hit the spider dead on with a shotgun round from his 20mm. The alien's body underwent what a NASA spokesman once euphemistically called “energetic dissociation,” with legs and other body parts flying in all directions.

  “Nice shot,” JT called. He was waiting for the stiffness caused by his armor's impact sensing under-sheathing to lessen so he could transfer the egg to his left arm. Bear was finishing off the centipede by the simple expedient of smashing it repeatedly against the deck. Legs and body segments flew as the last coil of the beast parted. “Nasty little shit,” Bear commented to no one in particular. Then, turning to JT, he added, “and you're stealing my moves, primate.”

  “Not bad for a green beanie,” Feldman quipped, “could you wait until I call ‘pull’ next time?” The rest of the squad was scanning for more targets but nothing presented itself.

  “Hey Lieutenant,” JT called, moving the egg to his once again mobile left arm and reclaiming his weapon with his right. “How about putting a good long burst of HE into that hatch?”

  “Thought you'd never ask,” Bear said, rising on two legs and drawing his triple-barreled grenade launcher. He fired a two second burst through the open hatch, sending 34 explosive rounds, each twice as powerful as a conventional 40mm grenade, into the alien ship's gut. A series of bright flashes followed, accompanied by ejected debris and a gout of flame from the opening at the tip of the probe's slender tail. “Damn, that's satisfying.”

  “Oh shit. I think you just kicked over the hornet's nest, Lieutenant,” Sanchez said, as multilegged shapes began appearing along both hedgerows surrounding the bay.

  Lt. Curtis' Party, The Alien Egg Room

  The boarding party's booty of antimatter eggs had been loaded on the hover sled, which was now pointing toward the spiral ramp leading back to the exit. The last of the shaped charges were emplaced and all of the party save Susan and PFC Davis had exited the pillaged egg room.

  “Come on people,” Lt. Curtis told the squad, “we need to exfiltrate this place now.” Susan picked up the explosives satchel, now empty except for a couple of manual detonators. “Coming,” she called. In front of her, Two Can bent over to retrieve the other satchel. As he did, his torso crossed the threshold of the egg room—his head and shoulders outside, the rest still within the antimatter repository.

  A pale blue luminous plane snapped into existence across the egg room threshold. Where PFC Davis' body intersected that plane a cascade of sparks appeared showering the floor and ramp beneath the Marine. In low G slow motion, Two Can's upper body fell, coming to rest on the ramp. Carried forward by momentum, his lower body fell into the flickering blue barrier, causing the Marine's trunk to flair brightly. When the pyrotechnic display abated all that was left inside the barrier were his legs. Susan ran forward, toward the fallen Marine.

  “Susan, stop!” Lt. Curtis commanded. The horrified reporter pulled up at the last moment. “Do not even think of touching the blue energy barrier.” It had just vaporized about a third of PFC Davis and he was wearing refractory armor. In a standard suit, Susan would disappear in a flash and a puff of smoke.

  “Son of a bitch!” Gunny Rodriguez was kneeling next to Davis' severed upper body. The heat of the energy shield slicing the Marine in half had cauterized the exposed flesh and organs in Two Can's chest. Even so, small bubbles could be seen on the charred tissue where remaining body fluids boiled off into the surrounding vacuum. The Gunny placed her hand on top of Davis' helmet, like a priest bestowing a blessing, and softly repeated, “son of a bitch.”

  “Step back, Susan. We will see if we can blast you out of there,” Gretchen ordered. She turned to the rest of the squad. “Chief, we need to get the sled away from the doorway. In fact, Yuki, Col. Kondratov and Wendover, get on board and head out. Gunny, you, Kwan and myself will try to breach the door once the cargo is safely out of here.”

  “Got it. Kwan, give me a hand with Davis.” The Gunny took what remained of Davis by one arm while Kwan took the other and loaded the grisly remains onto the hover sled.

  “What are you doing!” shrieked Wendover, almost jumping out of the skiff to avoid contact with Davis' body. In a low dangerous voice, the Gunny said, “He was a Marine. Marines don't leave anyone behind.”

  “And we still have a crew member trapped,” Lt. Curtis interjected, before one of the remaining Marines shot Wendover on general principle. �
��Chief, head for the ship. We'll follow as soon as we can.”

  “Aye aye, Lieutenant. Yous better hang on back there 'cause we're casting off.” With that, the hover sled sped silently away, headed for the spiral ramp back to the tunnel entrance.

  “Try shooting around the edges of the doorway, see if we can disrupt the mechanism making the force shield,” Gretchen ordered. She and the Gunny both shot the door frame using flechettes with no visible effect. “Damn, no good.”

  “Susan, find some cover. We are going to try HE rounds.” The Lieutenant and the two Marines stepped back from the door opening and let fly with a single HE round apiece. Bright flashes followed, but the only lasting results were scorch marks on the station wall. Gretchen went to full auto and sent the remaining six grenades in her weapon to the same spot at the far upper corner of the doorway, with much the same result.

  “Damn. Now what, LT?” asked the Gunny. Before Gretchen could reply a bright bolt of red-orange flame splashed off the wall above their heads. “Where the hell did that come from?”

  “Out there, Gunny,” Kwan answered, pointing to an approaching formation of four small flying objects. As he spoke two of the objects fired plasma bolts in their general direction. The Gunny took a knee and said to Kwan, “Aimed fire, short bursts. Take 'em out.”

  As the Marines concentrated on picking off their flying assailants, Gretchen crouched down and spoke to Susan. “Susan, we are taking fire and and our weapons aren't making a dent in the wall.”

  “How about one of the demolition charges? I could stick it on the roof at the edge of the door?” Susan asked hopefully. Gretchen could see the pleading in her eyes.