Margaritifer Basin (Margaritifer Trilogy Book 1) (2 page)

The students’ eyes
opened wide as murmurs and giggles filled the room.

“Most of you don’t
have six hundred and fifty-six dollars, do you?”

“No!” was the
unanimous response.

“I didn’t think so.
But your parents do, don’t they?”

Some students nodded,
some shook their heads,  and most simply looked puzzled.

“Alright, just for
arguments sake, your parents, each and every one of them, have decided to give
you six hundred and fifty-six dollars for you next birthday. Cash money, to do
with as you please. Now, you have two choices: you can spend that money any way
you wish, or you can all – and it has to be all – give it to NASA to pay for
some people to go to Mars. So, let’s have a vote. The majority wins. How many
of you want to give your six hundred and fifty-six dollars to NASA? Raise your
hands.”

Looking around the
room, Jeff saw not one hand go up.

“And there you have
it. We can afford to go to Mars, and we have the technology. And there are
those that are willing to accept the risk. But we, as a nation, choose not to
do it. It’s simply a matter of choice. In 1962 we chose to go to the moon.
Today, we choose not to go to Mars. Choice. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is
what you take from the study of… anything. The knowledge with which to make an
educated and intelligent choice.”

Just then the bell in
the hall rang, signaling the end of the period.

“Okay then, that’s
it. Everybody have a nice weekend.”

Jeff stood at his desk, smiling and nodding to his
charges as they collected their things and filed out the door. When the last
had gone, he smiled, feeling just a bit proud of himself and hoping that on
that day his students had actually learned something useful.

He turned out the
lights, locked the doors and headed straight for the parking lot. If there was
anything in his inbox in the teacher’s lounge, it could wait until Monday. His students
were not the only ones that relished the weekend.

Arriving at the car,
an utterly non-descript four-year-old Toyota Camry, he climbed in and started
the 15-minute drive home. It being Friday, Jeff exercised his weekly ritual and
pulled into the corner liquor store a few blocks from his house. He stood
patiently in the abnormally long line and, finally arriving at the counter,
glanced up at the Mega Millions lottery board.

“My word! Is that
right?”

The clerk, sounding
as though he had already answered the same question a few hundred times said,
“Yep, that’s right. It’s been rolling over for more than two months. How many
tickets you want?”

“Seven hundred and
fifty million dollars! Good grief.” Jeff usually bought just five tickets every
Friday, but a figure like that seemed to call for a small splurge. He figured
that’s how it got so large; everyone else was thinking the same thing.
“Alright, give me ten.” He choose his numbers, attempting to be as random as
possible, gave the clerk a ten dollar bill from his wallet and returned to the
car. “Seven hundred and fifty million dollars. That’s ridiculous. Someone is
going to have a life-altering experience, that’s for certain,” he muttered to
himself while climbing in. He tossed the tickets in the glove box, as usual. He
had six months to claim any winnings, so he just let them collect, then sat
down on a weekend every month or two and checked all the numbers on the
lottery’s web site. He’d won $150 three months ago and figured he was playing
on someone else’ money, discounting all that he’d spent in prior years. That,
of course, doesn’t count.

Jeff wasn’t much of a gambler, but Marsha had
regularly played the lottery, nickel slot machines on their occasional trips to
Las Vegas, and $20 would keep her busy for an entire day during the racing
season at Santa Anita. So, after she died, he kept up the routine. Just a tiny
reminder, sort of a mental Post-it note to keep her in his thoughts.

Linden Avenue was a
quiet little street of modest homes in Bixby Knolls, at least modest by Bixby
Knolls standards. Jeff and Marsha had bought the house in 1986, shortly after
they were married. It seemed a vast sum of money at the time, but the Cal-Vet
loan was reasonable and the place was worth an order of magnitude more today
than then. He turned into the driveway which passed down the side of the
Spanish-style stucco house ending at a detached garage, which Jeff thought all
fine and well except when it was raining. Exiting the garage, he walked past
the pool to the corner of the back patio, by the two elms that desperately
needed trimming, and up to the back door, which led through the service porch
to the kitchen.

Jeff grabbed a beer
out of the fridge and immediately headed back to the patio where he could
exercise, with political correctness, his only vice: he smoked. Not much, maybe
half a pack or so a day, but he acknowledged his status as a societal outcast
and conducted his vile deed only in the privacy of the sanctity and solitude of
his backyard. Lighting up he inhaled deeply, “Ah, that’s better.” Beer, coffee
and cigarettes, left over mementos of the Navy. But Jeff was pretty sure he
wasn’t a Benedictine monk, and refused to behave like one. He strolled out to
the pool deck, dropped into a lounge chair and savored his smoke, his beer, and
a comfortable southern California late afternoon.

“Uh huh. Thought I
smelled a Winston.”

Ed Fielding was
Jeff’s next door neighbor and a retired longshoreman that Jeff figured was
probably working the docks when the
Cyane
arrived in Monterey in ’46…
1846.

“Hey Ed, how ya
doin’?”

Ed was leaning on the
top of the redwood fence, attired in bib overalls and a dungaree shirt, and
sporting about four days-worth of snow-white whiskers. All-in-all, about how he
usually looked.

“Doin’ good boy. How
‘bout yourself? Say, can I bum a smoke?”

Ed had emphysema and
his doctor made him quit smoking years ago, sort of. Jeff was Ed’s evil
enabler. He figured Ed was plenty old enough to make his own choices and wasn’t
about to judge him.

“I’m doin’ good. Yeah,
sure.”

Over the years this
had become a daily routine. Ed knew when Jeff was due home from school and
always made certain he was in the backyard at the appointed hour.

“Here you go. Need a
light?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“How about a kick in
the chest to get you started?”

“Naw, I can manage.
Thanks.”

“You know those’ll
kill you.”

“Boy, I sure hope so.
Don’t know how much more of Edna I can take.”

Ed and Edna. Jeff asked Ed about it once, “Did you
two plan this Ed-Edna thing?”

Ed had laughed, “No, that’s just the way it is. You
know, back in Oklahoma everyone’s named Ed or Edna. What choice do you have?”

Ed was forever
complaining about Edna, but Jeff remembered attending their 50
^th
wedding anniversary a few years back and figured they were probably going to go
the distance… no matter what.

“So, what’s Edna done
now?”

“Ah hell, the usual.
She’s just a nag.”

“Ed, she’s always
been a nag. And it’s for the best, you need a nag. If you didn’t have a nag
you’d just be cantankerous and slovenly.”

“But I am
cantankerous and slovenly.”

“My point exactly.”

The two men stood
there in silence for a minute, enjoying their tobacco in peace, away from nags,
spousal or societal.

“Say, you want to
come over for supper tonight? Edna made up some stew. Big chunks of some
meat-like byproduct. I wouldn’t recommend it, but thought I’d ask.”

“Thanks Ed, but I
think I’ll pass. Gonna plant my ass on the sofa, turn on a ballgame – I think
the Angels and Dodgers are playing an interleague game – and sleep through it.”

“Good call. May do
the same. You take her easy. Thanks for the smoke. Later.”

“See ya, bub.”

Ed turned and slowly
strolled toward his porch. Jeff dropped his cigarette in the soft soil next to
the fence, stomped it out, kicked a little dirt over it, and headed back to his
house as well.

Passing through the kitchen, Jeff grabbed another
beer and peeked in the freezer. “Hmmm, Marie Callender lasagna. That’ll do.”

Jeff sat down on the
sofa with a plate of hot lasagna and a beer and turned on the television.

“The Mars
Scientific Laboratory, or MSL, is now just over half-way through its journey,
some 56 million miles from Earth and traveling at a speed of more than 33,000
miles per hour.”

Jeff took a bite of
lasagna and started to reach for the remote.

“If all goes
according to plan, the $2.5 billion MSL will land on the Martian surface early
next August and begin it’s work attempting to locate signs of life, past or
present.”

Jeff thought to
himself, “$2.5 billion to put a high-tech gocart on Mars, hoping to find the
remnants of some three billion-year-old microbe that probably never existed in
the first place. You guys need to put people up there. You need human brains.
You need footprints in the sand. You need to put a damn flag up there that says
‘We are mankind and we got here first – Keep Out!’” He picked up the remote and
switched channels to the baseball game.

By the bottom of the
sixth inning the Angels were ahead nine to one and already high-fiving each
other in the dugout. “I wouldn’t be too proud of that accomplishment,” Jeff groaned
at the TV, “I think my 8
^th
-grade softball team could beat those
bums.” He turned off the TV and headed for bed. It was late and, as this was a
Reserve weekend, Jeff had to be up early and make the drive to San Diego.

Jeff had attended college at UCLA and majored in
chemistry. Following graduation he joined the Navy, attended Officer Candidate
School in Newport, Rhode Island, was commissioned an Ensign in the Naval
Reserve, and volunteered for EOD – Explosives Ordinance Disposal. Growing up
near the beach in southern California, Jeff had been a surfer and diver and had
been on the water polo team at UCLA. So, EOD just seemed to be a natural fit.
He had served on active duty for six years commanding a mobile EOD team, plus a
six month extension during the Gulf War disarming unexploded ordinance and
booby traps left in the smoldering Kuwait oil fields courtesy of Saddam
Hussein. He thought seriously about a career in the Navy but, following his
Kuwait deployment, Marsha was having none of it. Still, he was able to convince
her that staying in the active Reserve was safe enough. So for the past 21
years, one weekend a month and two weeks during the summer, Jeff had gone off
to do something of marginal service to his country. Two years ago he’d thought
the end was nigh as he’d been passed over twice for Captain and didn’t expect
to make it on his third and last look. But for reasons passing understanding,
the promotion came through. It meant a bit more retirement money when he
reached 60, but more importantly it gave him an extended lease on a life that
he’d always enjoyed. It was something different to do. He was now the Reserve
Commanding Officer of EOD Operational Support Unit Seven, or EODOSU7, at the
Naval Amphibious Base, Coronado Island. It was largely a symbolic and
ceremonial title and why the Navy kept him around was a mystery to all, but
there it was.

At 5:00 a.m. Saturday
morning, Jeff’s alarm clock went off. He showered, donned his service khaki
uniform, got in the car and started off on the two-hour drive to Coronado. As
was his routine, he stopped by McDonald’s in Oceanside and picked up an Egg
McMuffin and coffee. Jeff had done it so often, the staff there knew him. When
he walked in the door it was always, “Good morning, Captain, have it for you in
a minute.” Jeff liked that.

At the NAB Coronado
gate, Jeff received a smart and proper salute from the Marine guard and was
promptly waved through; the eagle beside the blue vehicle sticker on his
windshield did have it’s benefits. He drove across the base and pulled to a
stop in the EODGRUONE visitors parking lot – a Navy Captain and didn’t even
warrant his own parking space. Oh well. Though there were some 70-odd
Reservists in the group, the facility was largely deserted even on drill
weekends as most of the enlisted team members were in the field training.

“Morning, Master
Chief. How’s that grandson of yours doing?”

Master Chief
Explosive Ordinance Disposal Technician Garland Stewart snapped to attention.
“Good morning, sir. The rug rat is well, kind of you to ask, sir.”

“Kind of me to ask, my ass. Gar, when was the last I
didn’t ask you about your grandson?”

“Before he was born,
sir.”

Jeff grinned. “Right. Give me the message board.
Anything interesting here?”

“No sir, pretty much
the usual. Rags did detonate a good sized ANFO bomb in Baghdad. Blew up a
mosque and about 200 locales. Triggered with a Russian 122mm artillery shell –
don’t know where they found that.”

“Jeez! Where the fuck
are they getting all this ammonium nitrate?”

“
It’s
Iraq, sir.
They probably truck in a hundred tons
of the stuff a week from Syria.”

“Yeah, but we’re
still the 800-pound gorilla in theater, you’d think we could at least put a
lock on the fuckin’ cage.”