Driver, T. C.

 
This book is dedicated to my fellow Virginians who don’t matter, who don’t count, no matter what race or sex they may be. Many men are held in jail without a trial, or bond, having not been convicted of anything. I know what I’m talking about I was in jail serving a just sentence myself with them. Other men were being held without charge for years after their lawfully court appointed sentence was over. This power has been and will always be abused. The doctors and lawyers who run the civil commitment system in Virginia are lazy no good blood-suckers on the taxpayers and should be cut off of the state gravy train. It does not cost $100,000 plus per prisoner to lock up these pitiful men. To call most of them dangerous to the public safety is so silly as to be insane in and of
 
 
itself. Most of these pitiful men pose no danger to your wife and kids what so ever and their crimes are tracked and registered. They are not worth giving up our rights for. Just like modern medicine the new pill often does more harm than the disease or sickness did in the first place.
    

                                                                   
T.C. DRIVER

                         
            
Jesus is Lord

                
Jesus will be our Judge

  
All illustrations in this book were done by my friend and fellow inmate a WVRJ Mike Fitch. Mike is from Christiansburg Virginia. Thank you Mike, I hope we can work together again in the future.

I boarded my shuttle craft, an older model thirty-five foot cabin cruiser, before four am that morning. Now daylight, I was awakened by nonstop captain bells and horns. The sea was choppy; with two foot, windblown white caps. Aching and stiff, I balanced to my feet. My sea legs sure were getting old. I cursed the ache under my breath and glanced starboard.
Was my new assignment a damn aircraft carrier?
While scanning the sea for another vessel, my eyes gazed upon the most beautiful sailboat I had ever laid sight upon. Her graceful lines were enchanting as of a woman.
Snap out of it, Cornelius!
I quickly speed dialed Rosie while walking up port deck. Rosie was the nerve center and only employee of my small employment company back in St. Augustine.

The grand ole carrier was steady underway making about eight knots. We pulled through its wake as if giving chase. Climbing onto our boats bridge just as Rosie picked up, I watched straight ahead and said nothing. We drove at one third throttle right into the back, or stern, of the ship. This boat ate us like a big fish! The mouth, or back door, did not shut behind us and we docked inside.

A gangplank came down and two crew members boarded us from port. Over the radio, someone shouted: “Good job, Sarah! Welcome aboard!”

Having lost cell with Rosie, I turned toward the captain as long strawberry blond hair spilled from her cap. With few words, she directed our quick steps, giving me a silent, warm smile as the elevator doors closed. In less than two minutes of docking, we walked out of that elevator straight onto the ship’s bridge. I thought, Star Trek (ha- ha). Looking like an airport tower, the bridge bustled with activity and commands. Nine young men stared into computer screens. Three older men stood behind them as if instructors. Five others stood around a mockup of the ship’s hangar, main and flight decks in clear plastic. From behind me, the same loud voice bellowed. “Welcome aboard, Cornelius!”

It was Captain Coe himself in Navy dress whites just like Sarah's. I was stunned that he knew my name and saluted. “Good morning, Captain!”

“Stand down, Cornelius” replied Captain Coe. “None of that on this bridge, no time for formalities. Welcome to the Ark. We officers do dress for dinner; 1900 sharp. We will talk about old times then. Officer Booth will now take you to your quarters”

Booth and I walked across the ship not talking much.

“Who are these people”
I thought to myself. The Ark was not an American Navy warship. The U.S. Navy had gone out of business two years before. It would be months before I received a proper tour of the ship; sixty-eight months before my tour ended. Not in food service, but as a flight instructor to college and post graduate age kids. This ship, named simply, The Ark, and owned by God only knows who (or what), was commanded by one Joe Coe. He was a one-time school acquaintance of mine. My stay aboard The Ark is the strange story I tell you in this book. Little did I imagine that the next six years of my life would be spent aboard her or that my life and vision of the world would be changed forever?

That night we did dress for dinner, as we have every evening since. I met a staff of four hundred sixty-two other officers. Thirty-six were old Navy pilots like me. We pilots sat at the head table in the Officer's Mess with Captain Coe, two of his daughters (Sarah and Haley), four other women and Captain Coe's six disciples who never left his side. His daughters, who were twelve years apart in age, and of two different Mothers, were the Captains crowning jewels and the object of much attention in our group.

The next day, I met one thousand nine hundred plus veteran seamen that made up the ship's crew. For the next nine weeks we had the ship to ourselves. Then we were joined by fifty-eight professors, two thousand two hundred students, two hundred fourteen associate professors, one hundred twenty-four elderly passengers and thirty-six mysterious military commando types. Yes, it was in Brazil that the big empty ship came to life. For now, officers and crew alike went about the job of training, learning the ship and their various duties. The crew was hard-working, very professional and well paid. We worked twelve-on/twelve-off for three days with the fourth day off. Most officers and senior crew worked overtime, making for long days and sound sleep. Down time was plentiful and our work not very stressful. The cruise was enjoyable; a labor of love for most. Our quarters were comfortable; almost cruise ship luxury. We had barely enough crew to run this size ship. The Ark had a department for everything. She was a floating city. Her officers and crew were assigned to A, B and C duties as needed. Food service did a great job. That being my focus the last nine years, it was taken notice of closely by me. I could find no complaint with them. Truly, they amazed me. Laundry, Brig, Ship Maintenance, parts, Aircraft and Vehicle Maintenance, Flight Deck, Main Deck, Medical, Supply, Pharmacy, Dentistry, Water Plant, Sewage Plant, Safety, college, Purchasing, Weapons, Fire, Police, Commissary, Library, Bridge, Damage Assessment, Communications. Each group did drills and training including us pilots, even though as yet, we had no planes
  
on our main or flight decks, except for an old mail plane. We did have shells of planes in the garage for parts.

Our ship anchored and moored at a long beautiful dock in Brazil. We would stay longer than I expected, over nine months. This was a full year of study for our students. We old guard pilots started training in Boeing B44s at our own local airstrip. Both dock and airstrip were non-military and private. They were very close to, but not right in, any major city or town. Our operations were not secret; but rather mysterious.

The Boeing B44 planes were light-weight, Australian designed, one seat, high performance fighters with a large bubble canopy. They could turn right or left without banking. These planes had long wings that could pivot and sweep back; connected to a short, straight wing coming from the bottom of the fuselage by two vertical stabilizer fins. Both wings joined at this pivot point. The long wings that pivoted, and the tail fins, could flex their skin and shape during flight. Our B44 planes were powered one high bypass turbo fan jet engine right behind the cockpit. They were a joy to fly, with a maximum cruise speed set at 585mph. Coe was a fuel efficiency nut, so we often cruised at the plane's fuel sweet spot of 465mph with wings ¾ swept back. These planes could dive with full-swept wings like a bird of prey, gaining speeds of over 600mph. Each pilot put in at least two hundred hours in the B44s before landing on ship. Our training included gunnery and bombing practice using electronic and laser simulators built into our planes on board computers. I assumed correctly that arms did exist, but that we could not afford the cost of live fire practice. It also appeared that these planes could fly themselves. Or be flown from remote control and had very little, if any, radar image with the safety beacon off. These assumptions would be proven correct, but now I had not yet been briefed on these subjects.

Landing on the ship was a breeze. These planes could take-off and land in a short distance. When landing, we would spread our long wings out straight, slowing us to glider speeds before touchdown. That’s when powerful thrust reverse and the plane's brakes would stop us in our tracks. Our flight deck used much less personnel than the former U.S. Navy. During takeoff, our computer governed engines were set for two minutes of extra fuel burn and higher rpm, which produced a three to one thrust to weight ratio with “cannons only.” By this I mean that no bombs or missiles or extra fuel tanks were loaded. None of the catapults or restraining cable systems found on old Navy aircraft carrier flight decks was needed with our light-weight planes, but a cable system was on deck; but not used or trained for. We had twenty B44s, but we only used twelve. Eight planes were held in reserve. Four others were for parts only and not flight ready. During this time, twelve singe-engine sea planes started using the ship's big door at its stern to taxi out into the harbor and up river, flying grad students and professors on constant “save the planet” trips to nowhere. Many students were flying these simple sea planes, but as yet, only staff flew B44s on and off ship. A wide variety of water craft also started using our big back door to come and go from the ship. The students used many jet-skis and air boats; and of course, there was Sarah Coe and her cabin cruiser' one of two aboard the Great Ark.