CORSAIR

CORSAIR

By Andrew Paul Grell

“A letter of which, Thad?” Cletus Oglethorpe fancied himself considerably more informed about the peculiarities of Congress than the typical member. He looked around his office at the paintings of peaches and peach trees on the walls, which he always did when thinking, but he came up blank on his friend’s request.

“Marque. A letter of Marque and Reprisal.” Thaddeus Matolek and Cletus had been friends since high school; Clete clawing his way out of a shotgun shack and kissing the Jim Crow sharecropper life goodbye, and Thad’s family rowing under cover of darkness to a herring boat waiting off-shore at Gidynia to come out from behind the Iron Curtain. 

“What exactly is a letter of Marque, then?”

“Counting for inflation since the last time Congress issued one, about $50,000 in campaign contributions. I want to be a privateer. Stop known pirate vessels. Assist vessels in distress from pirates. Report on potential sanctions violators. Historically, the privateer keeps any captured pirate vessels and comes to an arrangement with the legitimate owner of the victim vessel for recovered goods. Traditionally, we would be allowed six 12-pound guns without being considered a naval warship. We won’t be needing them. We’re doing this to test some new technology in the field. Or in the ocean, in this case. Here’s a list by state and district of where the research labs for this are located, which will remain where they are if the tech works and the labs become factories. Whaddaya say, Clete? All aboard, I hope!”

“No promises, Thad, but I should be able to sneak this into an omnibus bill.”

“Here’s the information you need for a proper letter. Black Madonna Marine Security, I’m the president, the vessel is the Kuvair Corsair, Area of operation is from the Indian Ocean to the Red Sea.”

“Well, good luck, Thad, and bring me a Jolly Roger flag or two.”

“So long, Clete. Maybe you’ll be known as the Congressman who figured out how to keep the seven seas in order in the modern age.”

Thad almost skipped down the steps of the Capitol and un-docked a bike. The potential privateer took the Rock Hill bike trail to the National Zoo where he was to meet with his motley crew at the Gorilla Habitat. 

“Thad! Over here, by the silverback!”

“Pat! I knew you would be the first to make it. How did it go with the boat?”

“Oh, Thad, wait till you see this.” The marine broker handed over a phone.

“The Staten Island Ferry?”

“Yup. The Comte Charles Henri D’estaign. First man to not come into Manhattan because he couldn’t find parking.  I don’t think they figured out Mediterranean mooring back then. They keep it around for training purposes, especially drills about what to do if a ferry sinks. But its got three big decks and two bridges, vehicle capable, food prep, sanitary facilities. We can put the farm on the top deck and the animals in the middle. The old D’estaign had a complex relationship with the docks on either side of the bay. And then there was the machete guy. She’s a true piece of New York history. And the disguise will fit around it perfectly.”

“My compliments, Pat. Well done. A good ship and true. Pretty tall, too, all we need is a star to steer her by. I hope you don’t mind if we have to rename her to match the paperwork. Hey, check out the females, looks like they’re getting nervous.” Pat heard it first, then Thad. A Tarzan yell; doppler shift indicated it was approaching fast, but probably not so fast that someone was swinging on vines from tree to tree.

“Lieutenant Bligh, the other science guy, I presume. Thaddeus Matolek, your skipper. And this is Pat, Sea Lawyer and procurer, general all-around trouble shooter. Pat, Nigel is the ship’s Master.” After the three shook hands all around, the big apes went back to calm watchfulness.

One by one, the rest of the crew showed up and introduced themselves. Unlike most online group meet-ups, from BBS eyeballs to Facebook raves, there was know drama. Just people wanting to start the big adventure. Thad started a status check.

“Farm?” The mission needed a big, empty ship. The key to being able to sail without having to make port depended on being able to grow food on board in addition to catching fish.

“Chicks and ducks and geese are gonna be scurrying; seven breeding pairs of each and we’ve got rabbits George would be proud to tempt Lenny with.” Marvin Lee was the only person Thad ever met from A&M who was actually an agricultural engineer.  

“Propulsion?” One of Bligh’s team had developed a forced-water jet system. No vibrations to trace, no heat signature.

“We’ve got the strap-ons, when we see the boat, we’ll see if we have to mount them” inboard.”

“Good. Medical?”

“Got my black bag right here, skipper.” 

It went on until only one person hadn’t reported. The skipper wandered over to the pile of boulders that served as a boundary to primate country. One of the very few on the crew that Thad knew “in real life,” Kyle was behind one of the big rocks.

Thad whispered in the physicist’s ear. “BABY BOY???”

“It’s in pieces, but I have all the pieces. You can’t really schlepp a nuclear reactor around, even a little research reactor. They really frown on that, you know.”

“How does that commercial go? Thank you, Captain Obvious.” Thad immediately knew he shouldn’t have prodded the smartest member of the crew.

“Sorry, Kyle. That wasn’t fair. Do you think we can maintain 8 to 10 megawatts without anything leaking?”

“Can your boat handle six tons of lead shielding?”

“It was able to carry 30 tons of passengers which won’t be on Kuvair Corsair.”

“Fair enough.”

Status finished, Thad went back around to the group; he was pleased that everybody was smart enough not to toss peanuts to our ancestors. He blew his bike whistle, got everyone together and directed them to leave individually and make their own separate ways to the agreed-upon rendezvous at a Greek diner in Alexandria where the party room had been reserved. Thad himself showed up last; the skipper couldn’t resist a stroll through Crystal City, an underground shopping mall on top of an even more underground patent office and repository. Thad breathed in the air of true wealth.

“Glad to see nobody got lost. The Indian Ocean is pretty empty. All we have to do is avoid North Brother Island and we’ll be okay. They’re still in the Neolithic and they kill everyone who tries to land. Anyway. I’m Thaddeus Matolek, I’m a renewables and alternatives entrepreneur and an eight-year veteran of the Coast Guard, and now your skipper.  My big contribution is the e-Voiturette; you may have seen them on the streets and wondered what they were. They’re very alternative and they can run on the most renewable thing there is, human sweat, when the electric booster motor is off. I’ve branched out into vertical farms. Our boat will have a vertical farm and we’ll be eating from it. The gentleman at table three wearing white shoes is Lieutenant Bligh. Mr. Bligh is funding this floating rodeo and is the Master of the ship. By day, we’re going to sail around stopping in ports and giving tours of how easy sustainability could be.

“And now, here are the bad points. The boat will be powered by something long-lasting enough to be effectively renewable; a small thorium research reactor. It can’t melt down and it’s fairly easy to shield. But if you’re opposed to nuclear power of any kind on principle, you should find your own adventure, no hard feelings. Next, Kuvair is a semi-military vessel. We’ve managed to get Congress to issue us a Letter of Marque. Traditionally, that means going around looking for pirates, seizing their ships, repatriating whatever was stolen, and if necessary making them walk the plank. Just kidding on that last one. The letter gives us a lot of freedom and lets us do things normal commercial vessels can’t. At some point, we will have to capture some pirate ships. Kuvair will be armed with a submarine mass driver. Anyone here how had a physics course probably saw a demonstration of the Lorenz force. If you’re my age or older, it was probably watching the pull tab from a can of soda accelerate and hit the other side of the lab, likely leaving an impression. Anyone who is non-violence committed can, like the anti-nuke folks, go on a different trip. I ‘m not seeing anyone leaving, so I guess I did a good job picking out the crew.

“One more thing. I’m sure many of you are used to grant applications, funding requests, maybe even subsidies for working prototypes. Lt. Bligh believes, as do I, that part of sustainability is that it can support itself. We may have some commercial enterprise on the voyage. That’s all the negatives I can think of. After we finish lunch, the sailors are heading to Staten Island where our boat is at anchor. The rest of you will come to New York in shifts and take some sea training. In one month, we load up at Nyack Seaport and sail down the Hudson to the Atlantic Ocean. And the adventure of a lifetime.”

The trip across the Atlantic provided time to set up the hydroponics and the plain-old-dirt planters and to figure out how to relieve chicken and rabbit seasickness. And some human seasickness as well. Fortunately, Thad knew the answer to that one. Take a one-inch cube of salted port, use a needle to thread it, have the victim swallow it, then pull it back with the string. Fortunately, there was no seasickness cases showing up, presumably because nobody wanted to take the cure.

Everyone oohed and ahhed at the Pillars of Herculese. The Mediterranean was fun. School groups were booked from Marseilles to Istanbul to Tel Aviv to play with the rabbits and chickens and see crops grow in water. There were some port calls with the usual mishaps and surprises, half good and half bad. Every once in a while they had to buy some marine diesel before anyone got suspicious. Thad didn’t like it but when they did that they had to run the electric engine from generators powered by the diesel. The boat hired out for weddings and parties to keep Lt. Bligh happy with monetary sustainability. Finally, the fun was over, and they went through the Suez Canal and into the hot zone.

“Now hear this. Now hear this! I always wanted to say that. But seriously, folks. We’re heading down the Red Sea towards the Somali coast. That’s where the pirates are. We’re going to form shifts of four, fore, aft, port and starboard with binoculars plus two people monitoring the satellite feeds and radar. Look sharp. The sooner we can stop a pirate, the sooner we can go back to sustainability.”

           Pat came over to Thad after he finished his inspirational speech.

“Do you think our crew has the attention span for proper watch?”

“What did you have in mind, Pat?”

“A drill. I’m going to take the Zodiac out at five tomorrow morning, get ahead of  Kuvair, and shadow the first soft target I find. Let’s see if I get spotted.”

“Careful, if you’re on a Zodiac someone might think you’re from Green Peace and take some pot shots at you.”

The plan was too good. Pat found a trawler and shadowed it; the forward watch reported suspicious activity and Thad ordered the crew to close distance.  But the trawler crew was equally alert and started shooting. Pat was smart enough to keep out of range of small arms fire, and sent up a blue flare and then orange, New York’s colors. Thad thought he might as well get some credit for Kuvair for saving the trawler from pirates. He invited the captain over for a drink and showed off Pat in a make-shift brig and the “captured pirate vessel.”

“Thad, I think we’re good to head down.”

It was Kyle who spotted the pirate set-up as Kuvair neared Somalia. A light freighter, the kind used frequently to smuggle opium, no radio ID, was shadowing an Omani yacht. Kyle had no lack of attention span whatsoever. The mass driver worked perfectly; it was firing rounds that would stick to a ship and release a sea-anchor, slowing the target to a crawl. There were three bull’s eyes, one on the boat and one on the two jet skis of the would-be boarders. The Yacht’s master presented Kuvair with a solid gold camel. They took the failed pirates and Kuvair’s crew seized the little freighter and set up a tow. And that was it for pirate chasing.

“Thad, we’re still not financially sustainable. Pat and I came up with an idea.” Lt. Bligh had plenty of ideas.

“There are plenty of people on watch lists, on the run, on the make, that could use a good place to not be found. Let me tell you about our idea for an Executive Suite on the aft bridge. Kuvair can’t be seized, searched, or inspected with the Letter of Marque in force. Feel like getting into the floating luxury hotel game?”

Kuvair came about and headed north to the canal. Everyone was breathing a little easier now that it was back to chicks, ducks, geese and bunnies and would soon be hosting school groups again.  And the vertical farm food was pretty good; there might be a market for it. Lt. Bligh arranged eight pick-ups for the executive suite. The project was now way beyond financially self-sufficient. Some of the guest pitched in on the farm. There was only one fight; it was between someone wearing one funny hat and a man wearing a different funny hat. That pretty much sums up the middle east.

“It” happened while approaching Morocco to give a demonstration to an agricultural demonstration. A U.S. Coast Guard cutter came up alongside Kuvair; the flags spelled out HOFFMAN, Thad’s old commanding officer. A Navy Shore Patrol team came for the executive suite. There was one attempt at fighting it out and one of them jumped overboard. Suddenly Thad remembered that it was Bligh who suggested the Letter of Marque plan and that Cletus would probably be able to pull it off.

“Bligh! Bligh!” Thad and the bigger sailors searched the ship until they found Lt. Bligh under what used to be the hot dog counter when Kuvair was still Comte D’estaign.

“I know what you’re thinking, Thad. But look. You have title to the boat, you can keep running your science project. And six bad people are in custody. A good season’s work, I’d say, wouldn’t you?”

“No, I wouldn’t. And when your grandchildren are starving or drowning, don’t come crying to me. You want a good season’s work? Here!” Thad punched the environmental imposter square in the face. It took a week for the skipper to figure out something to do, then he had it. He sold the Camel, 40 pounds of solid gold to fund a stratospheric wind generator project, and managed to get down about half a bottle of Jameson’s.

“Dear Clete,” Thad started writing. “Say goodbye to due process. Say goodbye my baby..”