Sorry, the scheduler didn’t schedule…
Having talked to a few Brits that flew the “Shacks” as the Shackeltons were known, their instructors were the guys that few the Sunderlands during WWII. To a man, they said the ‘boys’ that flew the Sunderlands were crazier than bedbugs!
They had NO altitude restrictions, and one Group Commander remembered on one of his early training flights they almost hit the water, due to the instructor ‘forgetting’ the Shacks weren’t flying boats…
It’s been an interesting couple of weeks…
First it was a week of volunteering… And working with a friend, in an ‘unusual’ environment… HERE is his post. But I will take exception to #18, it wasn’t a smile, it was a grimace… 6 miles a day, only a few months after knee surgery. 800MG Motrin was my friend!
Southern BBQ is NOT Texas BBQ… It’s good, but the sauces are entirely different…
This past week was spent in Jacksonville, at a Symposium for the ASW and Reconnaissance community. These two Admirals were my commissioning board, 25 years ago when they were O-6s. I wonder if they would have done it knowing what they know now…
One of them murmured something about a courts martial, but I don’t think I heard him right… LOL
Briefings, dinners, golf and more meetings, including with the WWII veterans made for a truly great week. my TBT post, HERE, talked about the briefings the vets gave…
And meeting the ‘kids’ who have filled our shoes in the community and are taking the various programs forward, including transitioning from the venerable P-3, now going on 54 years old, with the potential to still be flying for another 10 years, to the brand new P-8 Poseidon (a modified 737-800) and the new systems it contains…
We all got a good laugh out of the media fixation that the P-8 is a ‘spy’ plane… It’s primary mission is ASW, which is keeping everyone busy with the Chinese, and resurgence of the Russian Navy. The secondary is search/rescue coordination, e.g. MH370, and the three sailors in Micronesia, HERE.
It was funny, in a sad way last night, when some of us old farts got to chatting at the social about our favorite bars…
The Brass Nut, the Fly Trap, George the Crooks, China Fleet, The Tennis Club, Club Masirah, ‘Po City and VP alley, BC Club, and a few others. Including when the Stag Bar in the club used to have strippers come in on Friday… 🙂
And a young, if thirty-something is young, O-4 said he’d never even HEARD of any of the places we were talking about, much less strippers in military clubs. Sigh…
Come to find out he was BORN in 1982… Double sigh…
And the Lieutenants, I swear look about fourteen! One of the admirals said something to the effect of, “Ghad, did we ever look that young?”
One of his cohorts replied, “No, you were a grouchy old asshole as a LTJG, and you’ve only gotten worse over the years.” That cracked all of us up, and left the younger officers shaking their heads in wonder (They’ve apparently heard stories)…
And might have paid attention the Admiral Harris’ speech on Wednesday night, about callsigns that were in HIS logbook as instructors from back in the day, including three that were in our little conversation…
More and more of us are totally retired, either by choice or due to disabilities, and we were joking about how long it would be before we would be the wheelchair brigade!
That brought up the number of folks that had passed in the last year, and we had a toast to them, knowing we will be following them, sooner or later.
It was a great week, and sadly much too short, but the kids have to get back to work, and us old farts need to get some rest. All that exercise and travel had us reaching for the Aleve on a regular basis…
Can’t wait until next year!!!
The old man started to turn onto three-eighty-five south and glanced over to the little grocery store parking lot to make sure nobody was coming out. An older Hispanic male was walking toward the door, and that tickled something in the back of the old man’s mind. Where do I know that sumbitch from? Wants and warrants? Or did I arrest him? Shit…
Pulling into the little parking lot, he turned around and started to pull behind the truck the Hispanic was driving, but saw that he’d parked where he could pull straight out. Backing up at an angle, he tried to get over by the gas pumps and fake getting gas. He wanted to run the plates, but Ortiz was giving a long report over the radio.
He scribbled the plate number in his wheel book, then looked up to see the Hispanic walking from the store back toward his truck. The old man grabbed the mic and said, “Dispatch, car four out with one Hispanic male, three-eighty-five and Gallagher.” He hopped out of the car, telling Yogi to stay, and walked quickly toward the man, “Senor, solo un minuto!”
The Hispanic glanced at the old man, and continued quickly toward his truck. The old man jogged over, unsnapping the holster and putting his hand on the 1911, “Dentener! Do not get in the truck, Senor!” The Hispanic male opened the door, jumped in and started the truck as the old man got to the window, 1911 drawn, “Dentener!”
The Hispanic male peeled out of the parking lot as the old man holstered his pistol, turned and ran for his car, “Dispatch, car four. Pursuit, one Hispanic male, jeans, dirty white wife beater t-shirt, camo gimme cap. Eastbound on Gallager.”
The old man jumped back in the car, and took off after the truck, lights and siren going. He saw the truck turn right in the distance, and slid through a turn onto South Texas, but didn’t see the truck. He kept going south, looking at each cross street. He killed the lights and siren, and heard other units responding, then heard the sheriff, “John, where are you?”
The old man picked up the mic, “Texas and El Paso, Jose. I lost him. Break, dispatch plate is hotel echo november three two seven three.” The old man pounded on the steering wheel in frustration and thought about where he was and where the Hispanic male, Ortega, dammit, Jorge Ortega, that sumbitch has a bunch of warrants out!
Dispatch came back, “Car four, plate comes back to two thousand six Chevrolet pickup, light brown, registered to Edward Bonin. Address as follows.”
As the sheriff pulled up along with a city car, the old man keyed the mic, “Dispatch, runner was Jorge Ortega, Hispanic male, mid-forties, five nine, five ten, one sixty. Check wants and warrants, he’s got some outstanding.” Dropping the mic in disgust, he got out of the car and walked to where Sergeant Alvarado from city and the sheriff were sitting, “Sumbitch got away from me. Ortiz wouldn’t get off the damn radio long enough for me to get a word in edgewise. Ortega made me, and ran, even after I pulled my pistol on him.”
Alvarado whistled, “That boy didn’t want to be stopped did he?”
The old man shook his head grimly, “Nope. And I was stupid. I should have gone in the store after him, but if that had gone wrong, nobody would have known where I was.” Looking up he saw Ortiz and two other city officers pulling up.
The sheriff said, “We’ll handle that later. We thought you were in a foot chase, from the initial report.”
The old man chuckled ruefully, “Nah, I was running for the car after the sumbitch hauled ass on me.”
Dispatch came over the radio, “Car four, Jorge Ortega wants/warrants, nine. Drug dealing, theft, grand theft. Three to five in Huntsville, released January third this year. All wants/warrants since January. Call in to probation to get a current address.”
Ortiz came up, “What happened, Captain?”
The old man growled, and the sheriff jumped in, “Ortiz, y’all spread out. Check parking lots, apartments, alleys. Let’s see if we can at least find the truck.”
Alvarado smiled and waved at the sheriff and old man, “We’ll scour the area and see what we can come up with.”
“Thanks Sarge, sorry I let this one get away!” The old man replied. Turning to the sheriff he continued, “I’m getting old and slow, Jose. I wasn’t sure it was Ortega initially, and it didn’t come to me till a few minutes ago who he was.”
The sheriff clapped the old man on the shoulder, “You can’t win ‘em all, John. And your batting average is a lot better than most in that respect. Let’s go see what we can dig up, okay”
The old man nodded, and they went back to their respective cars, rolling through the area, and seeing numerous other county and city units as the crisscrossed the entire neighborhood.
***
The old man was sitting at Miguel’s eating a couple of tacos while Yogi ate his from a bowl under the table and Miguel laughed as the old man related the tale of the morning’s aborted pursuit. Suddenly the old man’s radio went off, “Dispatch, car four. Your suspect vehicle located behind a duplex on Mill Street. Address as follows.”
The old man whipped out his wheel book and copied down the address, “Dispatch, notify city, we need to do a takedown on that duplex. I’m ten away.” Looking up at Miguel, he said, “This one may have a happy ending yet.” Handing Miguel ten dollars, he hopped up, “Come on Yogi, let’s go.”
Miguel laughed, “Good luck, Senor. Take the bad ones off the street please!”
The old man nodded as Yogi caught the old man’s mood, beating him to the car, pawing at the back door. The old man shook his head, “Just a minute dog. Damn, it’s not like we’re going to be able to do anything as soon as we get there.”
The sheriff came on, “Let’s meet at the tanks on Gonzales Loop. Then we’ll go from there.”
As the old man started to key the mic, he heard Sergeant Alvarado, “Dispatch, city is enroute with three cars.”
Ortiz chimed in, “Two-fourteen is five out.”
The old man finally keyed the mic, “Car four is eight out.”
The old man’s phone rang, and he jerked it out of the holster and hit speaker, “Hello?”
“John, Jose. We’re going to need to let city play. I’m thinking you and Alvarado take the front, Ortiz and I will take the back corners, and the other city and Hart can take the other side of the duplex. That leaves one city out front if we get a runner out the windows.”
The old man replied, “Makes sense. I’m pretty sure Hart knows this guy by sight, so it shouldn’t be an issue.”
“Okay, see you in a couple.” The old man disconnected and dropped the phone back in its holster.
***
After the sheriff laid out the details of the takedown and who would be positioned where, all of the officers started getting into position. When the sheriff and Ortiz came over the radio that they were in position, the old man keyed the mic, “Okay, we’re going in the front. Alvarado and Hart will block the two driveways.”
Slamming the car to a stop in front of the house, the old man jumped from the car, saying “Yogi, sit, stay!” He slammed the door closed as Alvarado jumped out of his car and met the old man at the front door. He courteously motioned to Alvarado to lead, as he stepped to the side and drew his 1911, holding it down at his side.
Alvarado knocked loudly, “Police department, we have a search warrant, open the door please!” He knocked again loudly and just started to yell again, when the front door was opened by a mousy, tattooed female, a small boy in her arms. “We’re looking for Jorge Ortega, is he here?”
She mutely shook her head, and the old man led her over to Beeman, the other city officer out front, to keep an eye on.
Peripherally, the old man saw Hart and another city officer enter the other half of the duplex, but he ignored that. Following Alvarado into the duplex, they quickly cleared the two bedrooms and the rest of the rooms, searching each of them thoroughly. He an Alvarado emerged at the same time as Hart and the city officer, and Hart mutely shook his head.
Taking out his wheel book, the old man walked over to the woman, “Do you know whose truck that is behind your duplex?”
She spat, “Yes, it’s Jorge’s. You missed him by about twenty minutes. His other girlfriend came and got him, since my car’s broke.”
The old man did a double take, “Uh, do you know what kind of car they are in, and where they might be going?”
“It’s an old silver van, and she lives over in section eight on Sherer Street. I don’t know which apartment, but it’s in the middle, upstairs.”
Writing quickly, he asked, “Do you know her name?”
She looked up at him, “Something Jackson, Shaniqua or something like that. She’s young!
He asked one more question, “Do you know if Jorge has a cell phone on him?”
She shook her head, grinning, “No, it’s in the house on the kitchen counter where he left it. You want it? Take it!”
Alvarado headed back into the house, returning moments later with a beat up cell phone, “This it?”
She nodded, “Yes, that’s it.”
***
Forty minutes later, the old man, the sheriff and Sergeant Alvarado had to admit they’d hit a dry hole on this one, as neither of them, nor the van were there. The manager had let them into the apartment, but other than a few drugs, which they’d marked into evidence and given to city, held nothing that would have helped in locating Ortega.
The sheriff shrugged philosophically, “Well, there is always tomorrow. I guess you need to go add another warrant to Mr. Ortega’s growing resume, John.”
The old man shook his head, “Yowza boss, I be writin’ boss.” Shaking hands with Alvarado, he said, “Thanks for the backup, and sorry we came up dry twice.”
Alvarado held up the evidence bag, “Not totally dry, and we’ll see what we can do with Ms. Jackson, when we catch up with her. This still beats sitting in the office all day.”
***
Over dinner the old man had regaled Jesse and Aaron with the events of the day with Ortega, and Aaron asked a number of probing questions about law enforcement and how they’d gone about the searches and what the next steps were.
Finally, the old man pushed back from the table, walked over and picked up the coffee pot, “Coffee anybody?”
Jace toddled over, holding his hands up, and the old man laughed, “I don’t think so Jace.” He poured himself a cup, and looked at Jesse and Aaron.
Jesse shook her head, but Aaron said, “Sure, why not.”
The old man pulled another cup down, poured it and brought them both to the table, handing one to Aaron. He sat back down with a sigh, and turned to face them. “I’ve got to go down to Mexico for a couple of weeks, take care of a little business. I’ll be taking off Saturday.”
Jesse asked, “This is in connection with the meetings down in Laredo?”
The old man nodded, “Yep, got to meet up with a Mexican Marine down in Cozumel. There are some issues they want some help with.”
Aaron perked up, “Mexican Marines? I’ve worked with those guys. They are probably the least corrupt bunch in Mexico. Pretty good shooters too!”
The old man asked carefully, “How long ago did you work with them?”
“About two, no three years ago now. Just before we deployed. Down below Acapulco. We did some counter drug and counter personnel stuff,” Aaron said with a smile. “Fun times!”
Jesse looked sharply at the old man, “Papa, what are you leading up to?”
Steeling himself, he said, “Well, I was thinking Aaron might like to go down there, and since he’s got some experience with the Mexican Marines. I’ve never dealt with them. Might get a little shooting in with them too.”
Jesse sighed, “What kind of shooting, Papa? And why now? It’s almost Thanksgiving.”
The old man shifted, “Well, it needs to happen sooner rather than later. There is a timeframe issue for what they want me to work with them on.”
Jesse gave Aaron an unfathomable look, then said, “If you want to go Aaron, go ahead and go.”
Aaron looked at her, “Are you sure?”
Jesse said, “You can go. Maybe you and Papa can talk and he can help you sort out what you want to do. I know you’re not happy sitting around here.”
Aaron started to reply, and Jesse just held up her hand, “Don’t lie. Just don’t.” Jesse picked up Jace and headed down the hall, leaving the two men sitting at the table.
The old man looked at Aaron, “Well, that didn’t work out too well. I’m sorry if I put you on the spot Aaron.”
Aaron grimaced, “More like I’ve put myself on the spot. Nothing you did, sir. But if you think I’d be a help…”
The old man nodded, “You would be. There will be some shooting.”
Aaron replied, “Then I’m in. That I know how to do.”
Usual disclaimer, not edited yet, but almost done…
Hope y’all enjoy it!
Sooo… I’m in Jacksonville for the MPA Symposium, and the speakers yesterday morning after VADM Shoemaker were two veterans of VP-21 and VP-44, from WWII.
AMMF1C (That stands for Aviation Machinist Mate Flight Engineer 1st Class) Clarence ‘Bud’ Lane enlisted at age 16 in March 1941. After boot in San Diego he never got his 30 boot leave, was sent school and then to Hawaii and VP-21 at Ford Island. He arrived in October 1941, and flew various flights in VP-21, leading to a ‘good deal’ flight back to the states in late Dec 1941, to get his 30 day leave…
However, Dec 7th intervened! He told us he had liberty, and was walking down battleship row in his whites, toward the hangar to catch the liberty launch to main base, when he heard explosions. He said he vividly remembers watching a Japanese Kate come down battleship row and drop its huge torpedo into the water. He guesses it is probably the one that hit the USS Shaw, since it exploded within a minute.
He said he ‘hauled ass’ as fast as he could run to the hangar, only to see it explode. He paused for a minute, then went on, the only person killed in the initial attack was his shipmate, Theodore Croft, who was standing watch in the VP-21 side of the hangar when it was hit by a stray bomb.
He talked about the next few days of trying to clean up the place, and then being sent to VP-44, which flew into Ford Island in March of 1942. He was on Midway and later served on the USS NASSAU, then became a flight engineer and got out in 1947. He was pissed that he NEVER got his 30 day boot leave.
The other speaker was LTJG Richard Watson, who was also in VP-44. At the time, Dick Watson was a Aviation Machinist Mate 3C and port waist gunner. He told of flying patrols out of Midway looking for the Japanese they ‘knew’ were out there somewhere. One of the patrols they were jumped by a Betty, which tried to shoot them down, then tried to ‘sink’ them by dropping 500lb bombs from above them. Thankfully they missed!
He showed copies of the flight schedule he’d somehow hung on to from June 2, 1942, shown below.
He pointed out that this was identical to the flight plan the next day, June 3, 1942 when ENS Read found the Japanese.
He also told us the ‘rest of the story’, concerning that flight… If you’ve studied the history of Midway and the battle, you ‘know’ that Reid’s crew discovered the main fleet over 100 miles further out than they were supposed to patrol…
ENS Read and 44-P-4 landed back at Midway with little fuel to spare after 14 plus hours. When asked why they were able to stay aloft for an additional 3 hours, Bob Swan (the navigator) replied, ”Raymond Derouin (the plane captain) has three dependents-a wife and two daughters. He always puts in an extra 50 gallons for each one.”
So, the Japanese Fleet was found because a flight engineer put extra gas on the airplane to get his ass back home… (Nowhere have I ever read this, but Dick was there, so I’d tend to believe it was true, especially since I had engineers that were known to add a few thousand pounds extra for mom and apple pie…
Dick went on to fly from Espiritu Santo, including night bombing with the PT boats, and later became a pilot, continuing to fly both in WWII and Korea. Continue reading
Wordless Wednesday…
Got to have some fun yesterday, got a round of golf in, sucked at it, but broke 100 (hey, I’ll take that, since it’s been 10 months since I played a round), and got some BBQ for lunch. Then spent the afternoon fishing on the Savannah River (I didn’t catch anything, but the other two got a couple of decent bass).
By the time you read this, I’ll be heading to Jacksonville for a maritime patrol symposium. It will be a chance to see old friends, have a beer or three, and get in another round of golf… 🙂
So far it’s been a good trip, and although I haven’t had connectivity for most of it, that’s actually been good too! I really don’t miss having my phone beeping/dinging every 15 minutes with ‘updates’ from various people, apps, etc…
The other nice part, NO POLITICS!!! For a whole week, no discussion of politics, not watching the news per se, and kicking back on the back porch after dinner for real conversations, good coffee, and great desserts!!!
Worked on the short story a bit more, almost ready to send it out for edit, hopefully by Friday.
When contractors began work on four classrooms of old Emerson High School in Oklahoma City, they knew their work would lead to school betterment, but they never expected it would impact local history.
Looking to upgrade the rooms with new whiteboards and smartboards, the workers had to first remove the outdated chalkboards. But when they began to pull away those old boards, they made a startling discovery
Oklahoma City school officials aren’t just taken back by what’s written on the boards, but also by how beautifully it is written. Penmanship like this is clearly a lost art. One board reads, “I give my head, my heart, and my life to my God, and One nation indivisible with justice for all.”
And math too!
And though the boards’ style and subject matter might be unfamiliar to today’s younger folks, they certainly resonate with older generations. Principal Kishore told The Oklahoman what it was like to show her 85-year-old mother the boards: “She just stood there and cried. She said it was exactly like her classroom was when she was going to school.”
Simply amazing! It seems they must have done this over the holidays in Dec 1917, and never took the old boards down, just put the new ones up right over the old ones!!!
h/t Jimmy D
Having spent time both over the Indian Ocean, and on it, the detail in this one is amazing and completely correct for the water colors, and the typical clouds…
Thinking about putting this short story up on Amazon for $0.99 to see if anybody likes my MILSF attempt. Comments/recommendations???
Note- This is not edited yet.
McDougal felt the ground shake and glanced down at his data comp, then remembered it was sitting in his office. Shrugging, he entered the last bit of programming into the still to start making the hooch. The ground shook again, much harder, and he cursed under his breath, hit enter on the unit and headed out of the tunnel.
Resetting the hologram to mask the entrance, he started walking quickly back down the main tunnel, automatically checking the overhead runs to make sure nothing had come loose. A third ground shaking, crashing noises from the tunnel head, and he started running.
Reaching the tunnel head, he waved at the door sensor and heard grinding as the door started sliding slowly into the recess. It stopped after about twenty-four inches with a metallic screech, smoke pouring through the opening. McDougal squeezed through the opening, coughing at the odor of burning plastic and ozone. He stumbled over something, felt the wall and made it into his office. Grabbing his EBA, he donned it as he ripped the band that blanked his chip off his neck.
Scrabbling for his beeping datacomp, he saw it flashing red and touched the screen to display the alert.
WARNING ORDER- IMMEDIATE EVACUATION OF LOCAL HQ
DRAGOONS HAVE LANDED IN FORCE, ESTIMATED ATTACK IN OVERWHELMING FORCE IN 30 MINUTES. SECTOR COMMAND AUTHORIZATION C6B48EQ. EVAC VIA TANNHAUSER GATE AND DESTROY ON EVAC.
SECTOR COMMAND SENDS
He cleared that alert, only to see another pop up.
ALCON-
MANDATORY EVAC MUSTER TGATE IN 15.
HINZ
Clearing that, another one.
SSGT MCDOUGAL
MUSTER IMMEDIATELY
HINZ
McDougal shook his head, knowing he’d screwed the pooch. Taking the datacomp off was a write up at the least, and a courts martial at worst, much less blocking his chip, which was a straight up courts martial offence. Dreading what he’d see next, he cleared that message too.
ALCON-
THREE MINUTES. BUCKLEY, CEASE SEARCH FOR MCDOUGAL. ASSUMED CAPTURED OR DEAD.
HINZ
MAJOR-
I HAVE APC, WILL MAKE ONE MORE PASS, THEN DUMP APC AT THE TGATE, KEY DESTRUCT SEQUENCE AND CROSS OVER.
SSGT BUCKLEY, SECURITY
BUCKLEY-
NEG. EVAC NOW KINETICS INBOUND ETA 20 SEC.
HINZ
KKKK
SSGT BUCKLEY, SECURITY
Looking at the times, he realized that forty minutes had gone by since the initial evacuation order had been sent. He sagged back against his desk thinking, then turned to the armor sitting in the back corner of his office, and powered it up. As it kneeled for him to get in, he took a last look around his office, then ripped the EBA off and clamored into the armor.
Running through the BIT checks, he paid particular attention to the weapons status and was thankful to see that Buckley had reloaded his bead rifle magazine. Even though he was a maintenance tech, and could work on damn near anything, getting those last links of beads into the magazine correctly was beyond him without a lot of cussing.
The suit came up all greens on the HUD and McDougal tongued the comms over to the open channel, hoping to hear someone. After a few seconds of static, he said, “McDougal on open. Anybody copy?”
Static was the only response. Tonguing over to Tac, he tried again with the same results. Then he saw one red icon in the corner of the display, he wasn’t accessing the network. Cussing again, he toggled a reset, then stepped ponderously out of his office, careful to duck to clear the doorway. Nothing but smoke, so he flipped the visor to IR, and stared as he details of the destruction became apparent. It looked like the entire building had collapsed into what was left of the basement. About twenty feet to his left, there appeared to be a shaft of light penetrating the smoke.
Shifting beams and pieces of debris, he made his way over there and looked up. Peering over and around beams, he could see what appeared to be an ambient difference in light and temperature. Toggling through his menu, McDougal found the ferrets and saw that he had thirty on board. Arming his targeting laser, he marked the opening above with the carat, tagged a ferret to covert investigation and felt an external hatch slam open, then closed a second later.
The ferret, about the size of a matchbook, whatever that was, I always forget to look that up he thought, climbed up the wall on its articulated arms. He followed it with IR until it disappeared above, then waited until his HUD pinged. Still no network, but at short ranges like this, he could get a direct video and audio feed from the ferret. Toggling them on, he sagged as he saw a hole where building two should be.
Commanding the ferret to scan and search, he watched grimly as the ferret moved then panned from left to right, buildings three and four were gone, but building five still stood, and the TGate was still active! It was blocked by an APC sitting on its skirts, and something else.
Putting his targeting carat on the object he toggled the zoom function, and saw a red helmet protruding beyond the back of the APC. Fist clenched in rage, he knew Joe Buckley hadn’t made it. He flashed back to a conversation he and Buckley had a week earlier-
“Joe, how’d you end up on this ass end of nowhere deal?”
“Ah, payback for my last fuck up. It was either this or a bust back to sergeant. The colonel took pity on me, since we have a history.”
“A history?”
“Yeah, I don’t turn his ass in, he covers for me. But I’ve got a bad feeling about this det. I always said I wanted to die in bed at a hundred and thirty with two thirty year olds, but this place… This is your first det as the senior maintenance guy isn’t it?”
“Yep, first one where I’m running the show. After I made senior sergeant, I went back for school then I did the Orincon det as number two, the jump to Randall as the number two, and passed the tests and bumped up to number one for this one.”
“You guys don’t get out much do ya?”
“Nah, our job is keeping the home fires burning, and fixing all the shit y’all break. Well, me and Herbert and six mechs on this one.”
“That means you’ve got access everywhere and to everything, right?”
“Umm, yeah, why?”
“If I go down, there’s some shit in my locker that needs to ‘disappear’, if you know what I mean.”
“Ah, you’re just being paranoid, Joe. Ain’t gonna happen.”
“Just in case, okay… Just disappear that shit.”
“Okay.”
Well, based on the damage to the barracks, McDougal guessed that wasn’t an issue anymore. Setting the ferret back in scan mode, he saw building six was still up, which was why there was power to the TGate. Panning the ferret back to the TGate he lased the TGate, 334 feet. 334 feet from being able to get off this damn rock alive.
The ferret detected a grinding noise and pivoted toward it, blanked momentarily as it encountered a beam then irised as the video slewed and the ferret hopped to clear the beam. A clunky looking APC, obviously not one of the Patrol’s pulled into view between the wreckage of buildings two and four and settled on its skirts.
A squad of Dragoons in armor dismounted, started randomly firing into the wreckage, and toward any noise or electronic sources. McDougal reviewed what he knew about them, as he dumped the ferret into full covert mode and unconsciously crouched. Goons– Big, ugly, air breathers six-seven feet tall, two-fifty, three hundred pounds of pissed off. Bipedal, opposable thumbs, three fingered clawed forelegs, three toed clawed feet. Vestigal tails, vestigial wings. Nasty frikken fangs. Carnivorous, eat prisoners and dead. Patriarchal society, ruled by warriors. Expansionist slave culture, kits molt and mature at two years old, start training as warriors at three years. Can age to a hundred years.
McDougal relaxed the armor to a sitting position and took stock. Looks like I’m the only motherhumper left. The TGate is still up, but I can’t get there… Wait, I’ve got the tunnel. Ten feet a day, so eleven days, means a hundred and ten feet.
So two hundred twenty-four feet to the TGate, or… punching the datacomp, he pulled up the grid of the camp layout. One hundred eighty-one feet to the center of building six, no wait, that’s the plant. Expanding the grid, he focused on building six, If I come up there… Hooking the carat on that point in the grid he punched it to the digger mech currently scraping at the end of the current tunnel, reduced the size of the tunnel to eight feet by five feet and commanded the mech to quiet mode. The mech completed its calculations and a new countdown timer popped into the upper corner of the HUD, starting at 70:30:00 and rolling down.
He called up the mech menu, three of the six were still operational, and he commanded the closest one back to the tunnel entry. While it trundled back down the tunnel, he hit the ferret’s link for a burst download, and reviewed the data. Dismayed, he saw two more of their APCs were now in the camp, but the Goons were just milling about and shooting into the wreckage.
Wonder if I can get a message through the TGate… Maybe a ferret. Screw it, it’s worth a try! Calling the ferret menu up, he programmed it for an airborne passive search, hooked the first ferret and the TGate on the camp grid, and extended the distance another twenty feet on the bearing. If I’m right, this might get one through without it losing its tiny ass mind. He tagged it and felt an external hatch slam open, then closed a second later.
The second mech pinged his HUD saying it was at the tunnel entry and McDougal eased over to the door, using the power of the armor, he managed to move the door another two feet, and crouched the armor, sidled sideways through the opening, and look at the tunnel wall above the door. Putting his targeting carat at the top of the tunnel, he programmed the mech to laser bore a two inch hole through the wall into the basement.
Ten minutes later, a smoking hole extended through into the basement. McDougal programmed another ferret as a relay, and targeted it on the cooling hole, then tagged it. Turning to the door itself, he very gently pushed the emergency close panic button with one armored ‘finger’. He could hear screeching grinding and used the armored gauntlet to help the door move. Suddenly it came free and slammed home with a gong like sound that made him cringe.
Commanding the mech again, he directed it to weld the door in place. As soon as he’d done that, he realized his emergency rations were on the other side of the door and he laughed at himself, Starve or get killed and eaten. What a frikken choice! You are one stupid SOB! Commanding the relay ferret, he got an update from the stationary ferret and was thankful to note that none of the Goons had apparently heard the noise of the door closing.
Running an environmental scan, his armor determined the air was safe to breathe, so McDougal tromped down to the end of the tunnel and commanded the armor to kneel. As the seals broke he sniffed and was relieved to smell only traces of smoke. Climbing out of the armor with a groan, he pulled the datacomp free and jogged back up the tunnel to the maintenance tunnel.
He walked quickly through the maze of benches and piece parts to the fresher, and almost collapsed on the seat as his body started shivering. He put his head in his hands, and sighed, What the hell am I doing? I’ll never get off here. And if I do, I’m a dead man. Or I’ll at least be thrown under the damn prison. Shit… God damn hooch… Standing up, he stripped off his boots, skin suit and datacomp, and set the fresher on relax.
Fifteen minutes later, he stepped into his boots feeling much better and wearing a clean skin suit. He punched the datacomp, and located a cache of emergency rations in the supply tunnel across the main tunnel from him. That made him remember he had other digger mechs, and he commanded a second digger to the new tunnel, programming it to a cleanup mode, allowing the first mech to only perform the dig function. To his delight the counter dropped by almost ten hours, to 60:03:10 and counting.
He pulled an emergency ration out of the pack, cracked the seal and juggled it as he ran back across to the maintenance tunnel with it. Standing at the maintenance bench, he dutifully ate the entire ration, and drank the attached liquid pouch.
This is one of probably four chapters, 8-10000 words…
ARIZONA 101: HOW TO DRIVE IN PHOENIX
(you realize of course this is intended as humor… but most of it is true, and applies in Texas too!)
h/t JP