Oklahoma Salvage

by Martin Wilsey

  Oklahoma Salvage

  By Martin Wilsey

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events is purely coincidental.

  Oklahoma Salvage

  Copyright © 2015 by Martin Wilsey

  All rights reserved, including rights to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  Cover Art by Martin Wilsey

  For more information:

  Blog: http://wilseymc.blogspot.com/

  Web: http://www.baytirus.com/

  Email: info@baytirus.com

  The Solstice 31 Saga:

  Still Falling (2015)

  The Broken Cage (2015)

  Blood of the Scarecrow (2016)

  Short Stories:

  The Outer Ring (2015)

  Kill Valerie Hume (2015)

  The Black Pod (2015)

  Injuring Eternity (2015)

  Oklahoma Salvage (2015)

  "We had no idea we had prevented more deaths. We were just trying to get by in this godforsaken desert. Now let me get back to work."

  --Solstice 31 Incident Investigation Testimony Transcript: Harvey Reardon, Owner/Operator of Oklahoma Salvage, formerly known as Reardon and Sons. Questioned regarding the origin of $220,000 in gold found in his possession.

  <<<>>>

  Harvey Reardon recognized the sound in the distance of an old 18-wheeler even before the perimeter security drones notified him via Heads-Up Display (HUD).

  He got up from where he was lying on the ground under an old PT-137 Quad shuttle and dusted himself off. He lowered his shades, the ones that were more like goggles, and started walking back to the shop. He was rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders and grumbled as he walked.

  “I’m too old for this shit…” he mumbled. It was then he realized that he had lost his hat again. “Bloody hell.” In the fifteen minutes, it would take him to walk back to get it, that cursed desert sun would turn his bald head beet red. Alex would be furious with him.

  He paused and tugged at his white beard for a moment as he considered turning back. He had already walked past a few hundred planes, copters, and shuttle fuselages.

  As he watched, his hat blew across the road in the distance, taking flight in the dry desert wind. “Oh for sewers sake,” he cursed and kept going. Grease and dust were all over his coveralls, almost completely obscuring the lettering on the back: “Reardon and Sons – Salvage, Restoration, Sales, and Service.” It was called Oklahoma Salvage now. There was a new sign out by the highway to prove it. The new patch over his right front pocket was not as sun-faded as the lettering on his back, and all it said was “Harv.”

  As he entered the back door of the main building, he dropped the aluminum panel he had been using to shade his cranium to keep it from burning. He walked through his office, directly into the storefront behind the counter of the former diner.

  “You lost your hat again,” Alexandra Reardon said without looking up at her great-grandfather. She was annoyed.

  “How the hell do you know that?” Harv asked in his best crotchety-old-man voice. He slapped more dust off his coveralls. He knew she hated it when he did that in there. And she knew he knew.

  The sales counter was covered with electronic components, tools, and test gear. “What’s all this?” asked Harvey. When she didn’t answer right away, he glanced her way and drew in a breath. “We have customers coming, and you’re wearing that?!” She wore an old, black midriff T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, cut-off jean short-shorts, and Chinese wooden flip-flops.

  She ignored him.

  “Hunter told me already. It’s just Wendy. She’s coming for another catapult shipping container. Have you got one ready?” She already knew that he did. Hunter was the name of the yard’s Artificial Intelligence system and it knew what was ready.

  “I have eleven ready! You should get off your ass and sell them, dammit. We are a bit light on funds just now, thanks to all that shit Mark bought at auction last month.”

  The truck could be seen turning in from the road, raising a cloud of dust as soon as it left the pavement.

  “So what is all this?” He picked up a small device he didn’t recognize. It had dozens of wires hanging from it, and it obviously had power because blue LEDs pulsed on the main body of the tiny thing.

  “I was hoping that I could put together a Quantum Entanglement Communications Transceiver from these ten busted ones. Hunter says it might work,” Alex said as she touched one contact after another while watching for indications on one of the displays in front of her. She sat on an old bar stool behind the counter, just where the old cash register used to be. She had sold that register to a collector for over six thousand dollars.

  All the original barstools were still there on the other side of the counter. The stools, a few glass cases and the bell on the door were all that remained of the old diner on the inside. Outside, there was the faded sign that said “EAT” in dull, sand-blasted letters. The booths under the windows had been replaced with racks that held various parts and tools that were for sale. It was the same behind the counter. Where the stove, grill, chillers, and exhaust hoods had once been, now there were shelves that held all manner of used parts removed from salvaged ships, shuttles, and planes. Dust covered everything.

  The bell rang, and Wendy entered with a smile.

  “Hello, darlin’,” she said cheerfully as Alex looked up. “How you doin’?” She had a thick Texas accent, and Alex knew it was an affectation. Wendy was incredibly intelligent even though she tried to hide it.

  Harv stared at her ample bosom. She was wearing a low-cut halter top with a Navajo design that had been all the fashion twenty years ago. Jeans and cowboy boots completed the look. They knew she had a Stetson in the truck.

  “Why don’t you call ahead so I can be ready, dammit.” Harv walked up to the dusty window and saw she was driving a double. Two trailers behind the massive truck.

  “The same reason I drive way the hell out here to get them, old man. Discretion. But you know that, and you just enjoy belly achin’, Harv.” Wendy said, amused.

  “What’ll it be this month, Wendy?” Alex said, “We have eleven containers that are catapult-ready. All grav-plates tested and guaranteed. Five are basic Delta ore containers; three are standard C-19s, sealed without life support, but will hold pressure under hard use. The last three are Alpha boxes and have full inertial dampening, internal gravity, and they’re pressure tested and insulated. One of those Alphas is an A-11 and even has basic manual navigation control inside and are great for docking in outer space at the station without a tug. ”

  Alex hadn’t even brought them up on the system.

  “Let me have the A-11 and one of the C-19s. Are they painted the same?” Wendy asked as she dug into her back pocket for a large wad of cash.

  Harv replied, “Sandblasted and painted. Though they won’t look new anymore from sittin’ out there. No tracking numbers painted on; no tracers installed. If you want me to do it, you’ll have to wait about an hour. Want to see ’em?”

  “Nope. I’m good. Just load ’em up.” Wendy said.

  “That’s $3,000 for the C-19 and $12,000 for A-11. The A-11 has only a seat in the pilot booth. Empty otherwise,” Alex told her as Harv went out to the yard.

  Without haggling, Wendy counted out the cash. That told Alex that it was a no-questions-asked, straw man purchase, and she was passing the profit to Oklahoma Salvage for future preferential treatment.

  “That’s fine.” Wendy smiled. “Any luck with the other thing?”

  “Not yet,” Alex said. Wendy had a standing order for some fuel grade plutonium. They sometimes salvaged derelicts that had fuel remaining in the reacto
rs, if they got to it soon enough. Wendy just nodded. She had to ask because that info would never be communicated on any public Net for the same reason as the containers.

  “Need anything else today?” Alex folded the bills and stashed them in her bra.

  “Actually, there is one more thing,” she said, pulling a rabbit foot out of her pocket and handing it to Alex.

  Alex twisted and clicked the foot, and a memory stick was revealed, stored inside. Her stool was on wheels, and she launched herself along the counter to a terminal at the end. She slid the memory stick into the port, and a schematic came up that was the input file for a fabrication unit. Very few people knew Harv had one. Alex raised an eyebrow at the part but said only, “Do you want to pay now or when you pick it up? Either way is cool.”

  “Now is fine.” Wendy still had a considerable wad of cash in her hand.

  “Is this for you? Personal I mean?” Alex asked. It was an upper receiver for a 10mm cannon. Illegal in most territories.

  Wendy said nothing.

  “I will take care of it personally. Harv doesn’t need to know.”

  “Thanks,” Wendy said, as the clicking sound of the first container settling into the clamps on the trailer made them look.

  Harv’s container tug had the entire top cut away. The pilot seat jutted from the rear of the tug so he could watch the container as he clamped on. It had no roll cage, no AI control, and no seatbelts.

  It was a death trap. A fun, fun death trap.

  In short order, the second container was also loaded. From the tug, Harv could hear the clamps grab it.

  Harv set the tug down in the parking lot and jumped out quickly as Wendy was inspecting the clamps. She watched him jog up. This worried her. He never ran anywhere.

  “Wendy, there is a truck coming. The drones spotted it way out.” Harv looked serious, and rested a hand on her shoulder, “It looks like a military transport.”

  Wendy gave him a quick hug, and a kiss on the cheek.

  “Thanks, Harv,” Wendy said with a hand still touching his face. “I owe you one.” She ran for her rig and was moving in a matter of seconds. She drove south, away from the truck that was coming. The winding path through the salvage yard obscured her departure in no time.

  Harv watched in his HUD the image of the truck as it slowed and entered the canyon of his salvage yard, passing the sign: “Twenty Square Kilometers of Junk. Or Treasure.” The number 20 had been sloppily spray painted to replace a crossed out number 10.

  The truck was a modern T-16 ground transport. No wheels. It had fixed position Grav-foils for float and steering, with an open three-meter-long flatbed with crates tied down in the back covered with a camo tarp. It was the same desert-tan with camo as most military transports these days. The cab could hold four, but there was only one inside. His security system, with Hunters help, informed him it was registered as a civilian transport registered to a David Keener.

  Harv went back inside. Though it was still sunny, the temp was dropping.

  ***

  Noiselessly, the driver of the truck parked in front of the shop. Even though it had Grav-plates and no wheels, it kicked up a giant cloud of dust as it powered down and settled to the ground.

  Alex watched casually from behind the diner’s dusty windows, knowing that the man behind the wheel could not see her through the tinted, mirrored glass. He hopped out and walked around the truck, checking the tie-downs on the load. He was lean, fit and on the tall side. He wore jeans, cowboy boots, an untucked flannel shirt and a straw cowboy hat that had seen better days. The truck had a Texas ident code. But the man didn’t need one. Unlike most of the people that came in here, none of his mannerisms were an affectation.

  He took off the hat and tossed it into the cab of the truck. He ran both of his hands through his hair in a futile attempt to eliminate the hat’s impression. Alex thought he needed a haircut.

  As he approached the door, Alex suddenly felt like she needed a haircut as well.

  The bell rang as the door opened.

  “Morning,” Alex said as the door closed behind him and the bell rang again.

  “Good morning, ma’am. May I use your bathroom straight up? Otherwise, I’ll be dancin the whole time we talk.” He made a polite bow with his greeting.

  Alex smiled at him. “Only if you never call me ‘ma’am’ again. It’s Alex.” Pointing down the hall, she said, “All the way down there to the left.”

  “Thank you, m… Alex.”

  While he was in there, she looked out the window and studied his truck. The T-16s were old by now, but this one was in perfect condition. She had always wanted one but had never had the spare cash. And where would you find one these days? When parked, the bed of the truck was only ten centimeters off the ground. Perfect for use around here. And they had AI remote control capabilities. It would make Hunter way more useful. Not to mention that a T-16 could go anywhere. Well, anywhere she wanted to go.

  She caught herself combing her fingers through her own black hair. She combed it off the side that she kept shaved so that the tattoo could be seen on the side of her head. The tattoo was a fireball at her temple, with trailing fire arcing over her ear. Up close, you could see its amazingly subtle details, and recognize it as an exploding Planet Defense Force fighter.

  A few minutes later the man came out. His face was freshly scrubbed and his hair damp from a thorough cleaning up.

  “Ahh. Much better. Thanks,” he said as he rounded the counter on the far end.

  “Thirsty?” Alex asked, as she hopped down from the stool and hammered a fist on an ancient vending machine button. A bottle of Orange Crush rolled out. Alex held it up so he could see.

  “Oh, my Maker. I haven’t seen one of those since I was a kid. Thank you,” he said.

  She opened it on the bottle opener and handed it to him, then pounded the machine again for herself.

  She opened her bottle too, and they enjoyed a moment of silence as they both drank.

  “Harv keeps them extra cold. These are his favorite,” she said, looking down at the label, then setting the bottle down and sitting again. “How can I help you today?”

  “Do you mean Harvey Reardon? If so, I am in the right place. I have to say, the directions I was given were bad. Nothing in this region is mapped right anymore. I had to get close, then zoom out with a self-locater hack in the truck. Once I did that, the place was easy to spot from cams on Freedom Station.” Alex raised an eyebrow. She had not thought of that angle and made a mental note to look into it. The space station called Freedom was taking a higher interest in the planet recently.

  The man paused a moment and looked abashed. “Oh, I’m Dave. Dave Keener.” He held out his hand to shake. She shook it firmly, even though the gesture was way out of fashion because of irrational pandemic fears.

  “So what are you looking for today?” Alex asked.

  “It’s a long shot.” It was almost like a confession. “I’m looking for a shuttle. It doesn’t have to be pretty. Just a good tight seal and big enough to fit my T-16. Manual flight controls are fine, but if it has a standard AI interface, that would be a plus.” He looked out the windows at the assorted derelicts and sighed, “I know a shuttle is a long shot.”

  Smiling to herself she thought, I might have to close early.

  “I need to get Harv to help you. He doesn’t keep that kind of inventory on hand. Just parts.” She reached over to press a button on her console and said, “Hey, Harv. Can you come up front to help this customer?”

  Harv’s disembodied voice replied, “Let me finish taking a shit and I’ll be up.” She rolled her eyes, and before she could reply, he said, “Yes, I’ll wash my hands, dammit.”

  Dave smiled and said nothing.

  “Quite the place you have here. How long have you been here?” he asked conversationally. Everyone asked that.

  “My whole life. I was born here. My dad too. The place has been in the family for generations. My cousin Mark is the buye
r, auctions mostly. Harv is my great-gramp.” She smiled and leaned in, “Don’t tell him I told you. He still thinks he’s thirty.”

  They heard a crash in the back and a series of mumbled curses, followed by some smaller crashes and more cursing. A couple moments of silence went by as they both stared at the door smiling.

  Harv came directly out from behind the counter extending his hand. “Howdy. I’m Harv Reardon.” The two men shook hands without a moment’s hesitation. “I hope Alex hasn’t pissed you off already. That’s usually why I get called up here.”

  Alex hammered the soda machine again and opened an Orange Crush for Harv. He took if from her with a nod and took a long pull as Dave spoke.

  “Like I was telling Alex, I am looking for a shuttle with a good seal.”

  Harv interrupted him before he could go any farther. “What’s your budget? Availability is all about the budget.”

  Dave coughed a little and averted his eyes. “I was hoping we could keep this a cash transaction.”

  Harv raised an eyebrow and looked over at Alex. She said, “He needs one big enough to hold the T-16 out there. Manual flight controls, but future upgrade capable.”

  “Gonna start private hauling to Freedom Sstation? Luna maybe?” Harv asked.

  “Maybe even system-wide, depending on what we can work out,” Dave said.

  “Cash only?” Alex asked.

  “Look, I heard you were straight up. Trustworthy.” He looked out the window again. “You should know people out there kinda know your inventory. They are making coin just trading on the info. They said cash and my own fuel would get me the best deal.”

  “Don’t tell people that, boy. A good way to get yourself kilt,” Harv said as he drained the bottle and set the empty on the counter, heading for the door. “Let’s go have a look.” Dave followed suit.

  Alex called after them, “Harv, your hat!”

  ***

  Harv kept an open channel with Alex as he and Dave tooled around in an ancient golf cart. Hunter followed with a small remote controlled drone.