The Unexpected
Copyright© 2025 by Technocracy
Chapter 31
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 31 - "If you do not expect the unexpected, you will not find it; for it is hard to be sought out, and difficult." -- Heraclitus of Ephesus
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Military Science Fiction Violence
North Pearsall, Tx - April 2012
Mason hovered over the open-pit BBQ behind his trailer. Potatoes, wrapped in foil and embedded within glowing charcoal, were almost done as the bedraggled and fatigued man placed two large pork chops onto an ad-hoc grill of welded re-bar, supported by discarded cinder blocks and bricks.
Adding two large chunks of cedar next to the coals, Mason patiently waited for the wood to ignite. Reaching for another beer, he drew in almost half the bottle at once, then turned up the Amy Winehouse song playing from his ancient boom-box. By the end of ‘Back to Black’, the cedar was in flames. Mason extracted a pair of blood-spattered coveralls and gloves from the paper grocery bag then tossed them onto the flames. As the clothing burned, the paper bag was added to the fire.
This particular disk had been, as of late, frequently played by Mason. It was his ‘drinking CD’. He used it to free his mind from the messy world, but mostly to provide a respite from himself. Although there were times the music had the opposite affect.
As Lady Gaga’s ironic ‘Poker Face’ played, the cloth had fallen into the embers and, like Mason’s many victims, ceased to exist. Which made the next tune, Radiohead’s ‘Pyramid Song’ and ‘How to Disappear Completely’, all the more symbolic, which Mason did his best to ignore.
Mason extracted the two potatoes from the coals, cut open and covered with Sirachi and ketchup, then stabbed the two pork chops with his gerber, placing them onto his plate. Jason grabbed, yet another, beer out of the ice chest before eating.
The meal was complete, appropriately, when Brad Paisley’s ‘Alcohol’ played. As Mason reached for another beer to salute Paisley’s half-minded attempt at satirical poetry, the SIG-issued phone buzzed him through his pocket. Mason immediately recognized Stewart’s gravely and lightly-accented voice, thus sitting up straight, then standing, in a conditioned and trained reflex.
“Aye, sir. Johnson here.”
“Son, I’m sending Colonel Adams to Texas, again. I have already talked to Ms Southerly and the good doctors Harrison and Spoons. They will, shortly, be in receipt of a support contract issued by my office ... What do you know about the ARC-210?”
Mason thought the general’s question supercilious. Mason knew that Stewart knew everything there was to know about himself. Mason suspected that the general had a complete file on all of his behavior patterns, and that Stewart had fully evaluated Mason’s ability to jerk off with either hand, having equivalent results.
“Worked on them when I was an avionics tech. It’s a common radio for the Harrier. The 210 does a little bit of everything - VHF, UHF, SINCGARS, satellite, HQ-type ECM, about fifteen to twenty five watts output, depending on the band...”
“Good enough, captain. I’m sending two systems. Colonel Adams will deliver documents and instructions ... Stewart out.”
Mason stared at the disconnect symbol on the phone for about 10 seconds. His only thought was ‘What the fuck?, Over’. He also wondered why Doc Harrison had said nothing about an additional contractual assignment before his return to Massachusetts. Mason hoped that Benny was not following him down the dark Alice In Wonderland tunnel.
McKinley Airfield, Frio County, Tx - May 2012
Mason remained seated in the small Toyota forklift, borrowed from Marie’s factory site, as he watched two soldiers re-fuel the airplane then prepare a pallet to be extracted from the army C-12. LtCol Adams hovered anxiously over the transfer process.
When the army sergeant signaled towards Mason, he drove the forklift per their directions to remove the single pallet through the aft cargo hatch. Mason was unsure why two ARC-210 radio/CPU boxes would require a pallet with three size 17 boxes. He shrugged away the thought as he trundled the pallet into the bed of the waiting Chevy Silverado.
“Your instructions are in box two, captain. If the adapter accessories in box three are inadequate for this assignment, call the DSN number on the contact card previously provided.”
“You know what all of this is for, colonel?”
“I have only a general knowledge of the contents. As I said, your instructions are in box number two. I have another delivery to make. Long trip to the west, as it were. Good day.”
Mason said nothing as the Marine officer walked away and re-boarded the army airplane. Mason did wonder about the identical pallet that remained on board, apparently slated for another delivery, ‘to the west’.
South Spoons Ranch, Frio County Tx, SIG Engineering Annex Bldg 2.
The two technicians, having not been given any work directives to support the actions, ignored their boss’s activities. Mason fork-lifted the metal pallet of three large wood boxes to inside the building’s rear double doors. The techs maintained their focus away from Mason as their boss used a pallet jack to move the cargo from the service entrance, then through the double doors of Lab C.
Lab C was not entered by Mason’s troops unless specifically instructed. As far as the two techs knew, only Marie and Mason had the entry code. In reference to Lockheed’s former glory days, Mason’s engineering team referenced Lab C as ‘The Skunk-works’.
Mason pried open the wooden container labeled ‘Box 2’, with no other markings. A sealed file folder was sitting on twelve thick binders of FMs and TIs, and strangely enough, a NATOPS for the AV-8 aircraft. The file folder was marked ‘This medium is classified TOP SECRET//SCI//SCAR//SAP-Stewart Alpha Nine Protect it from unauthorized disclosure in compliance with applicable executive orders, statutes, and regulations’.
Mason laughed out loud at the Special Access Program designation for the file material and some of the document binders. He had no way of legally storing such material, so he chose the most direct route of security - he used misdirection, storing the classified manuals and other documents in plain sight, among the two large book shelves stacked with old-school component data books, and the multitude of three-ring binders and bound lab notebooks that served as Mason’s version-control system.
Mason sat at his bench to read General Stewart’s directives. He was surprised to see two notes clipped to the folder, one from Benny Harrison and one from Robert Northrup.
The lawyer’s note was a formal letter with a numbered listing per the contract’s statement of work. Benny’s note to Mason was read first:
Mason,
I cannot over-emphasize the importance of this project. Per Robert’s legal guidance and council, neither Lizzy or myself can provide technical support. We will be receptive to technical questions of a general nature that would not provide specific knowledge or define the objective of this project. Any discussion of the scope and intent of this project is limited to Jason, Billy Joe, and the contacts provided by Stewart.
Doris has opened a sole-named account at Mission Title & Trust to fund materials and equipment that may be required for this project. Invoices for account withdrawals and remittances shall not be entered into the SIG accounting system and shall be kept separate from SIG logistics systems, and shall not be made generally available. Pete de la Cruz has the account information at Mission Title.
Andrea and Lizzy send their love.
Benny
Mason, again and uncharacteristically, laughed out loud after reading Benny’s hand-written message. He was amused that Doc Harrison, the supposedly nonpartisan and dispassionate intellectual, had chosen a tribe and had apparently climbed into bed with Stewart, yet was doing his best to preserve a feigned ignorance of the innocent. Mason knew that everybody had their price, but he had not expected to ever see someone meet Benny’s ‘price’.
Mason deeply pondered, for about two seconds, the nature and magnitude of Benny’s ‘cost’ for his visit to the Dark Side. Mason was past caring. He was well past any quaint sense of flag-waving nationalism. The Marine Corps had seen to that when they kicked him to the curb for the second time. Knowing that, whatever this job entailed, could add a six-digit sum to his savings account, Mason comfortably chose a mercenary path.
North Pearsall, Tx - June 2012
Mason pulled his motorcycle up to the Toyota Tundra. Punching in the number on the For Sale sign, Mason waited.
“Yes, sir. I’m looking at this Tundra you’re selling. When can you be available to show me your machine? ... Okay, sounds good, sir. I’ll wait.”
A short Hispanic man, probably past mid-aged, walked directly towards Mason.
“Howdy. I’m Jimmy Reyes.”
Mason extended his hand to accept the handshake.
“I’m Mason Johnson, sir. Can we pop the hood?”
“Sure. It’s under seventy thousand miles, and had regular servicing. It’s a solid machine.”
Mason dove into the engine bay, crawled under the truck, looked under the driver’s dash, and inspected and touched everything, except kicking the tires.
“Why are you selling, sir?”
“My kid is going to school at UTSA, and my wife can no longer drive, so don’t need two vehicles. She got banged up in an accident last year.”
“That sucks about your wife. Sorry to hear that ... You make that tool box?”
“Yep, it’s a bed-frame box. That ain’t plating, it’s stainless steel.”
“You welded stainless? Looks good. Where did you learn to weld?”
“Was a pipe fitter and welder at Bludworth Shipyard, down in Corpus Christi, for over twenty years.”
“Live around here?”
“Nope. Live in Cotulla. I’m the maintenance guy for Shady Cove.”
“How’s this sound, Mister Reyes? You include all the tools in that truck-bed box, come to work for me, and I give you twenty thousand cash. If you can weld aluminum and other alloys, and can fix HVAC systems, I’ll start you at sixty thousand plus benefits. Let’s head down to Mission title to do the paperwork and get a bank draft.”
Jim Reyes was stunned. He did not know if the man was for real, but cash talked, and 20k for his truck was six more than what he was asking.
“We’ll talk later, ‘bout that, but the job offer does sound interesting. Let’s head down to Mission Title.”
“Then it’s a deal. Follow me to Mission Title and we’ll do the paperwork.”
McKinley Airfield, Tx - June 2012
“You might want to pick up a phone and let me know that you’ve hired someone next time ... I’m not unhappy ‘bout it, Mason. Jim Reyes is a keeper. All ACs now work, the Chevy squeak is fixed, the forklift hydraulics are fixed, the jammed windows are fixed, he replaced the cracked toilet, but most importantly, he fixed my cheap desk chair. How do you find them, Mason? That’s two in a row.”
“I’m an opportunistic predator.”
Marie was uncertain if that was an extension of Mason’s humor, or a coldly-stated fact. There were times when she found Mason’s intensity and his stark child-like honesty to be more disconcerting than endearing. She avoiding delving into his comment. She wanted to be with him outside of work.
“In case ya haven’t noticed, it’s Friday. We’re about done here. We’re back on schedule, so not working this weekend. Some of us are meeting at Full Moon. You should join us.”
“Can’t. I’m behind.”
“Your skunks-work projects? We all know about your next-gen design. Your techs have a working proto. What could be behind schedule?”
“I have a special project. It was assigned by Doc Harrison.”
“One night away from the grind ain’t gonna matter, Mason.
Full Moon Saloon, Pearsall, Tx - June 2012
Mason was nursing his second non-alcoholic drink of the night, surveying the ebb and flow of Marie’s production-line workers, as they dragged men, and sometimes women, out onto the dance floor. Marie had long since forgotten about Mason, being caught up in the over-stimulation from the crowd and alcohol. Mason was not missed, as he had secreted himself away, behind a corner table, almost behind the far end of the bar.
His only ally was a waiter, who served him rum and coke, without the rum. While Mason found segments of the various mating rituals of interest, what did brook his interest was watching the two unexpected couples across large room. Billy Joe and Lucy Spoons were seated with Raul and Marne del Salvo. It was noted that the couples only danced to the slow slushy sounds of country-western, crying-in-your-beer songs. The waiter appeared when Mason was ready for his third ‘drink’. He handed the waiter a twenty.
“See them two couples across the room?”
“Billy Joe Spoons?”
“Correct. What are they drinking?”
“Bud.”
“You have a decent ale?”
“We do.”
“Send four to that table. Tell Billy Joe that his favorite war-monger said hello.”
Mason opened his wallet again and handed the waiter another ten, other than several Benjamins, that was all that remained.
“And this should cover any rude comments you get from Billy Joe.”
The waiter raised an appraising eyebrow, but said nothing as he returned to the bar to fill Mason’s order. Mason pulled his helmet from under the table and made a direct route to the side exit.
As Mason approached his bike, two young men stood over his machine. They were obviously drunk.
“Excuse me, gents. Have to go.”
The shorter one pushed into Mason. Mason could smell the alcohol long before the kid was close.
“Ya know what? Fuck you. Just fuck you and your fancy bike.”
“Relax, guy. Let me get out of here. It’s getting late.”
The short guy made a grab for Mason. Mason simply stepped aside, using the kid’s momentum to propel him stumbling away. But the other kid, also with an alcohol-clouded judgment, decided to get into the mix-up.
The taller man wound up, telegraphing a ridiculous attempt at a face-punch. Mason grabbed the guy’s forearm as the fist went past, then used the assailant’s forwardly-bent posture to fling him onto the asphalt. Mason was surprised how easy the man went down.
“Shit. Sorry about that. You okay, man?”
The kid sat up, but remained sitting, stunned and confused. Whirling around to face Mason, the shorter kid bull-rushed Mason. Again, Mason simply stepped aside, letting the kid bounce himself off the asphalt.
Mason shook his head as he retrieved his helmet. Not knowing why he should, but Mason was surprised that he felt bad for the two young idiots.
“Guys, I’m really sorry. But let’s get real here, people. Both of you are drunk. Go home before someone calls the...”
Mason’s advice was interrupted by Billy Joe and Raul standing under the awning, both clapping and laughing, followed by Billy Joe’s commentary.
“The mighty Marine fights off the evil hoards, once again saving America. Well done, asshole. Gonna go look for others to save and beat up? So ya gonna have to kill them two boys so that nobody else has to?”
Mason shrugged, thinking that Billy Joe’s knowledge and abilities, along with his obvious lack of self-control, should never be mixed with alcohol.
“Maybe I should not have bought you people beer. Think you’ve already had too much. Go back inside, Billy Joe. And please be careful what you say in public.”
“Fuck you. And fuck Benny too...”
Mason noted that the two men’s wives were standing just outside the door, waiting with the bouncer, looking worried. Mason ignored the drunken outburst as he donned the helmet and started his bike. He made a parting comment to the two women.
“Ladies, please take your men home. They are in no condition to be out in town.”
Billy Joe’s wailing and yelling were drowned out when Mason intentionally revved up and drove away.
SIG Engineering Annex, South Spoons Ranch Frio County, Tx - July 2012
Mason leaned back into his office chair, listening to the phone speaker, looking out the window, watching a cat stalk something.
“ ... and there’s no two ways about it, colonel. You and doc fucked up sending him to Quantico. Billy Joe does not handle stress and responsibility well. I consider him to be unstable and not up to the job. We gave the man an inordinate skill set, but did not have the time to impart the discipline and long-term training that should precede such skills.”
Benny deflected the criticism, mindful that he did not have the breadth and intensity of Mason’s training, nor did he understand the intelligence community, nor could he comprehend a military mind that had seen combat. Although, Benny did not understand that he had, in fact, seen combat.
“We will deal with that later, Mason. And we do appreciate that you attempted to handle the situation with discretion and without escalation ... What is the status of the special project?”
“What’s with the concern, doc? The contract gives me a year...”
“How long, Mason?”
“About a month. Maybe two ... Is the general pressing you people?”
“He has said nothing. But there are other interests and contingencies that are dependent on a successful outcome.”
“Yeah? Like what? Is this going to be...”
Henry interrupted with firmness.
“Captain, you will be informed when the project has been accepted and finalized.”
“Okay, good enough, colonel. It’s your people’s dime and my time.”
“On that subject, do you need more funding? I can have Doris transfer into...”
Mason laughed outright. Benny wondered if that had been the first time he heard the man laugh since returning.
“Really, doc? What the fuck am I supposed to do with three freaking mil? To date, I’ve used about a fourth of it.”
South Spoons Ranch Frio County, Tx - August 2012
Mason stood in the blazing heat, made worse by the re-radiation of the large chunk of steel that was the conex box housing the ranch security station. He was not impressed with Billy Joe’s stamina.
“We’ve been goin’ at it six hours. Let’s break for lunch.”
“No. Keep reading off the numbers while I complete the set-up.”
Billy Joe considered the man almost inhuman, more robot than flesh. Billy Joe had never seen a Yankee that was able to tolerate the south Texas summer; but here he was, Mason Johnson, Mister Perfection. Billy Joe did not like Mason, but had grudgingly extended his respect unto the man. Mason had not reciprocated.
“Just read the fucking meter...”
“Sixty eight ... sixty eight ... sixty seven ... fifty two ... whoa, whatever you’re doin’ is workin...”
“Read the fucking numbers. Nothing else.”
Billy Joe continued to read the reflected power per the in-line meter until Mason told him to stop. Mason said nothing as he jumped down and re-entered the conex-housed station. Billy Joe was happy to follow Mason inside, into the air-conditioned control station.
“Park your ass there. Press the trigger button on that second DSO when I say to...”
“Mason, I need to say something...”
“Shut up ... trigger...”
Mason moved aside Billy Joe, adjusting the scope cursors to measure the rise time of the captured RF sync pulse. Mason could feel his design coming together. After connecting the comb generator to the ARC-210 input attenuator, Mason watched the numbers and strings scroll down the computer screen as he flicked the control switch for each input band-pass filter. Mason internally declared the victory.
“Go. I’m finished.”
“Need me tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Wanna have lunch with us at the north ranch?”
“No. Please go.”
“Mason, we need to talk...”
Mason put down the scope probe, waiting for Billy Joe to continue.
“Lucy says I was a jerk, ya know, last month at Full Moon. She said that you did a good thing. Something that only strongly moral people would do and...”
“I don’t care, and there is nothing about the incident that matters to me. End of subject. Anything else that would be relevant?”
“Uh ... not really. Will you need me tomorrow?”
“At this time, it seems to be functional, so I do not require your assistance.”
“Thanks for asking for me, Mason.”
“I did not ask for you. I am only allowed to reveal this system to yourself or Jason. Otherwise, I would have preferred one of my techs.”
“Oh ... Okay. See ya later.”
Billy Joe left the steel structure, not knowing if his hot face was from the sun or from embarrassment.
Mason had no idea what sensibilities would require Billy Joe to ‘make nice’ with someone that had previously been considered despicable. Mason had no concerns with Billy Joe’s declaration of his sociopathy, as it was not incorrect. What concerned Mason was that the top SIG management had placed one too many bets on Billy Joe’s adaptability and stability. Of further concern was his lack of a reliable back-up. Mason had concluded that reliable support in a bad situation could only be had from Jerri or Jason; and they were several thousand kilometers to the northeast.
SIG, Needham, Ma - September 2012
General Stewart and LtCol Adams sat across from Doris and Harry and Robert.
“Contractual terms have been met. Captain Johnson beat the other team to the finish line, and with a better solution. I hope that yourself and Doctor Harrison realize that Mason Johnson is unusually resourceful and productive.”
Harry made like a male peacock spreading his feathers.
“Yep, we do. He’s done a bang-on job for us down there. We’ve already given him two raises, and with this, we’re gonna give him a lump-sum bonus. That’s gonna keep him a happy camper.”
“Then it is obvious that you do not understand the nature of this man. He is motivated by being challenged with seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Monetary rewards are important, but you cannot limit the reward to only money. Mason needs real problems to solve. Challenge the man, or lose him, Doctor Spoons.”
Harry was not certain, but he was thinking that he had just had his hands slapped by a grammar-school teacher. But he was mostly interested in enforcing the end-terms of the contract.
“So how does this work, Robert?”
“The general signs off the SOW, then we tender the closed-stock offering to the Google execs. Then, concurrent with Google wiring the money, we file a statement with the SEC.”
McKinley Airport, Frio County, Tx - September 2012
Jerri taxi’d the Cessna 172 to the marked tie-down spot in front of the company hangar. Mason waited by the open hangar, not looking happy.
“You ready for the written?”
“Yes. I still think this is a stupid idea, Jerri. Waste of my time. Has Doc Harrison gone crazy on us?”
“Maybe. But never underestimate Benny or Harry, or their reasons for doing something. You’re driving, Mason. If you’ve completed your flight plan to Stinson, I’ll endorse your logbook and you’re good to go.”
McKinley Airport, Frio County, Tx - October 2012
Neither Jerri, nor did Jason, detected even a minimal element of pride in Mason’s countenance. He simply secured the Cessna, then presented the FAA paperwork designating him as a licensed private pilot to Jerri.
Jerri and Jason, both being avid aviators, lifted their shoulders in a mutually dismissive gesture at Mason.