America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 21: Breaking Very Bad Read online

  “Not my problem,” I reasoned, recalling Daly’s earlier comment. “It’s not your problem, either. Do you have money on the game.”

  “I bet on you human pestilence,” admitted the spider commander guiltily. “Through ATM intercepts, I found out you released New Gobi’s traitorous backfield from jail. This game should have been easy money, a sure thing. Somehow you tricked me!”

  “It’s not over yet. Let’s agree to not nuke each other until the final score, or if the Jackrabbits don’t score on this last drive.”

  “Deal, Czerinski. Then, you meet the Grim Reaper.”

  * * * * *

  The stadium and city lights went out, causing rumors about thermonuclear war to become more credible. Stupid rumors. The football field and players glowed in the dark due to mud-caked radiation, but play resumed. I addressed the crowd with another PA announcement for rumor control. “There is no truth to reports New Phoenix has been nuked. Remember War of the Worlds? It was just a radio show, but the naïve went crazy thinking Martians attacked. There’s no such thing as Martians, and if there was, they would have never got past Mars. Enjoy the game. As soon as it’s over, there will be another emergency drill. Proceed to the nearest air-raid shelter for free beer and crackers. I’m buying.”

  * * * * *

  At the start of the last drive, the Jackrabbits quarterback called a quick snap, running the ball up the middle for seventy-five yards to the goal line. With the clock running down, they lined up for the game-winning field goal. The ball was up, it was good. Jackrabbits win! General Daly immediately sent me an emergency flash text message. “A truce has been negotiated with the Empire. We taught those spiders a proper lesson about who is the dominant species in modern day America. Booyah! Stand down. Cease all hostilities.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I forwarded Daly’s message to all residents of New Gobi City. A collective sigh of relief could be heard from fans leaving the game, followed by a victory cheer. Even the spiders seemed happy, shooting their rifles and setting off fireworks. One of them even rocketed a green victory flare high into the sky.

  Damn.

  Chapter 21

  Lopez followed my orders regarding the green flare. After that unfortunately-timed nuclear exchange, things heated up really quick, pegging the rad meter. Bedlam ensued as New Gobi City was evacuated. In all the confusion, I found myself ‘out of pocket,’ probably assumed dead. It would be weeks before the rubble was cleared, and radiation levels would make it difficult to track my microchip. I dumped my helmet cam. Until the truth came out that I was still alive and kicking, I was sure Lopez would do some fancy back-pedaling to explain himself out of what had happened, and waste no time setting himself up to take my place as garrison commander. Fine. I was tired of it all and needed a little R&R anyway.

  The city was now abandoned, and no one would be watching the secret underground bunker. The time machine seemed like a good bet to escape until everyone – especially General Daly – had a chance to cool down. Meanwhile, I could be gone for months, returning within hours of departing, and no one would really miss me.

  With a fond adios to friends and enemies, I decided to take a little tour of the past. As I made my way to the bunker, Phil Coen stumbled out from a ruined building, looking disheveled and irritated. Damn! Vacation plans foiled.

  “You’re responsible for all this, Colonel Czerinski. I know it!”

  I noticed Phil was without a camera crew and microphone. “Slumming alone, Coen?”

  “You have sunk to a new low. Your Butcher of New Colorado reputation is well-deserved!”

  “Can we do this another time? I’m a little busy right now,” I said, turning back toward the bunker.

  “Have you no conscience, no shame?” screamed Coen.

  I sighed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for answers. The truth. Admit it. You did this!”

  I couldn’t shake Coen as he hammered me about what had prompted the nuclear exchange after the game. My window of opportunity to escape responsibility was closing fast. I threw out my hands. “Fine. What do you want me to say? What can I do to get you off my back?”

  Coen seemed inconsolable. To get away from him, I was going to have to kill him or...

  Instead of reaching for my pistol, I smiled. “Phil, you look like you could use a little vacation.” I grabbed his arm. “Come with me.”

  “Take your hands off me! I’m not going anywhere–”

  I pulled my gun. “Phil, I’m offering you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. If you could meet any celebrity or icon from the past, who would it be?”

  “What?”

  “We’re going on a little trip. Top secret. You can’t tell anyone.”

  “So, the rumors are true? It’s not just the drones that can watch events from the past. You can actually send people back in time?”

  “And bring them from the past to our time – their future. Remember, you can’t say a word to anyone about this.” I rolled my eyes. I was telling this to a news reporter? What was I thinking?

  Coen’s eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas. “Kennedy,” he said. “J.F.K.”

  “What?”

  “That’s who I’d like to meet. Before he became President.”

  I nodded. At the same time, I could check in on Old Blood and Guts to see how he was doing. We’d sent General Patton back to Old Earth to his own era, more youthful and vibrant than ever, and I was curious to see what he was up to now.

  * * * * *

  After we’d arrived, Coen went his own way, agreeing to keep in contact so he wouldn’t get left behind if I decided we needed to leave in a hurry. Coen availed himself of the limited resources in this time period to make the most of his visit. Not that I cared. I had my own fish to fry at this retro clam bake. I learned Patton had decided to go for the gold and run for President – against J.F.K.

  Considering the possibilities, I agreed it might be good to give America a technological shot in the arm, as well as a morale boost. Who better to do that than a powerhouse like General George Patton? He loved America and had seen the future. He knew what America would be up against, and he believed in giving his country a head start.

  The issue of timeline came up. I remembered earlier failed efforts to curtail Major Lopez’s evil time twin, bent on changing the past to benefit America’s future. Was Lopez out there right now, lurking in the shadows somewhere, altering events? Who cares? ‘Patton for President’ has a special ring to it. Anyway, we’d already changed the timeline by plucking Patton from an early death in that German car wreck. To hell with the timeline. America deserves to win, and win big.

  As Patton’s campaign manager, I could help him win the presidency in a way no one else could. Having been his CO in the Galactic Foreign Legion, it didn’t take much for me to convince Old Blood and Guts I was the man for the job.

  “Why not?” Patton conceded, comfortable in his family’s California estate. “Already events are in progress that I have little control over. You and your crew seem to have it all well in hand.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant by ‘my crew,’ but I eagerly took on the job of campaign manager, confident that I had the real ace up my sleeve with the time machine.

  * * * * *

  General Patton waited impatiently for the first televised presidential debate to begin. He smiled amicably for the cameras as aides applied powder makeup to stop sweat glistening on his head. Senator John F. Kennedy sat calmly a few feet away, reviewing notes.

  “That Navy squid son-of-a-bitch rum-runner put his cock in a meat grinder this time,” grumbled General Patton. “And I’ve got hold of the handle.”

  “Kennedy will play favorably to the cameras,” I whispered, trying to gently guide the man without insulting him. “Do not underestimate the Kennedy charm. He’s got movie-star good looks, and a silver tongue.”

  “You think I’m afraid of that prissy bastard?”

  “No, sir. I think you can roll ov
er Kennedy same as you did the Nazis during the War. But, don’t underestimate the man.”

  “I will be the next President. You know why? Because I want it more than anyone else.”

  “You’re on in five minutes. Stick to the plan. Your maturity will prevail over his inexperience.”

  “Everyone has a plan until they get hit. Someone get me a drink.”

  “Sir, this is the most important day in your life,” I admonished prudently. “You need to focus so things don’t break bad.”

  “Exactly. Get me some of Kennedy’s whiskey. I want to be at my best!”

  * * * * *

  ABC news anchor Phil Coen stood at the podium, ready to moderate the debate. He fit right into this blast to the past, managing in a few short months to snag himself a sweet spot on the ABC network news team.

  His first question was to Senator Kennedy. “It’s no secret you two don’t like each other much, despite both being war heroes. Are your views for the future of America that different, or is it just a matter of style that would separate your presidencies?”

  “Our differences go to the core of our essence,” explained Senator Kennedy. “I have proof Patton is part of a vast treasonous conspiracy to seize world power.”

  “Are you calling me a Commie?” bristled General Patton. “You son-of-a-bitch!”

  “What really happened at Roswell?” Kennedy shot back. “A cover-up, that’s what. Don’t try telling America those UFO sightings over Northern Michigan are just marsh gas, either.”

  “The kook factor just got elevated,” quipped Coen. “Gentlemen, we’re getting off track.”

  “You’re part of the conspiracy,” accused Kennedy, pointing at Coen. “I can prove it. Patton, his staff, and you all have tiny alien computer chips embedded in your buttocks. I’ve contacted the FBI. J. Edgar Hoover himself promised me to get to the bottom of your traitorous conspiracy!”

  “You think that just because I propose to take America to the moon before those godless Mongol horde Russians, that I’m in cahoots with Martians?” asked Patton incredulously, playing to the audience. “Did you hit your head when you fell off your little boat?”

  “My PT boat was cut in half by a Japanese destroyer!” replied Senator Kennedy indignantly. “Explain all the recent advances in technology – computers, microchips, and thorium energy.”

  “American excellence and ingenuity, plain and simple. Deal with it.”

  “You still haven’t explained that alien chip in your arse.”

  “Want to see my ass?” asked Patton, rising from his chair, dropping his pants, and mooning Kennedy. “Satisfied, you womanizing Camelot pervert!”

  Cameras zoomed for a close-up of General Patton’s rosy red ass. FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover ordered hard copies of Patton’s derriere enlarged for further study. Indeed, there was a suspicious mole on the left cheek.

  “Critics accuse me of being an asshole,” continued Patton, theatrically pulling his pants back up. “I’ll admit being an insufferable prick, but God damn it, I swear to be America’s advocate, unashamed of our superiority in everything we do, to uphold the Constitution, to defend America from enemies foreign and domestic, and to protect American interests. We will be the first to the moon!”

  “You have hidden agendas!” raged Kennedy, also rising from his seat. “Do not trust this man, no matter his war record. General Patton has changed. He was abducted by aliens and probed!”

  Senator Kennedy poked General Patton’s chest to emphasize the accusations. Not a good move, given Patton’s temper. Patton punched Kennedy in the face, knocking him off the stage into the press corps seats.

  “I tried being reasonable with the fool,” fumed Patton. “I didn’t like it.”

  America’s first televised presidential debate ended on this high note, and America approved. Ratings soared. However, plans for future presidential debates were canceled due to Senator Kennedy’s wired-shut broken jaw, giving General Patton a distinct advantage on the campaign trail. Democratic hopes were pinned on Vice-Presidential candidate Lyndon B. Johnson’s upcoming TV debate against political novice and war hero Audie Murphy.

  * * * * *

  Driving home, Phil Coen was stopped by the Washington, D.C., police and the FBI. They roughly took Coen into custody. He struggled, but resistance was futile.

  “What’s the meaning of this outrage?” Coen demanded defiantly. “I have Constitutional rights!”

  “Drop your pants,” ordered Director J. Edgar Hoover, personally taking charge. “We’ll settle this matter of computer chips once and for all.”

  “You need a search warrant! Call me a lawyer!”

  “You’re a lawyer.”

  “When Patton is elected, he will dismiss you for your cavalier attitude toward Constitutional rights,” threatened Coen. “I’m a personal friend of the general. I’m about to become an American icon!”

  “Dismiss me?” scoffed Director Hoover. “Ha! I’m America’s sheriff. Everyone wants results, but no one wants to get dirty. I’m not afraid to do the dirty work. I can’t be dismissed.”

  Hoover backhanded Coen across the face to emphasize he meant business. A policeman pulled off Coen’s pants. Sure enough, there was a small square lump just under the skin of Coen’s fat hairy butt. Hoover whipped out a large buck-knife for extraction of the chip.

  “You’ve got a heap of explaining to do, boy,” threatened Director Hoover. “If it turns out you’re a Commie spy, I swear you’ll fry in the electric chair.”

  “I’ll have your job!” repeated Coen, still struggling. “When Patton is elected, he won’t nominate you for FBI Director again. Not now, not then, not ever!”

  “Slow learners like you need an attitude adjustment, boy,” commented Hoover, grabbing a roll of duct tape.

  “Help!”

  Hoover slapped duct tape over Coen’s mouth. “Ha! Another use for duct tape. Make my day, punk. It won’t fix stupid, but it sure muffles the sound. Now, talk, or I’ll dig that microchip out of your ass right now with my knife! Are you listening, or do I need to write it in Braille on my shoe, and shove it up your ass?”

  Coen shook his head.

  “Are you ready to talk?”

  Coen nodded. Hoover ripped off the duct tape.

  “Ouch!”

  “Talk!”

  “Okay, it’s true!” confessed Coen, saying what he thought Hoover wanted to hear. “They all have microchips on their butts. Even Willie!”

  “Patton’s dog? No way.”

  “It’s a vast worldwide conspiracy to seize power! Please, they’ll kill me. Don’t torture me. I have a low threshold of pain. I’ll talk if you put me in witness protection!”

  “Are you saying Patton’s dog is a Communist?” asked Hoover, slapping Coen across the face again. “Liar! Willie is as American as I am!”

  “Let me go, and I’ll work with you,” pleaded Coen. “I’ll be your mole.”

  Director Hoover let go of Coen, pondering the evidence. Information is the key to survival when you’re the top dog. Hoover intended to survive, no matter who won the election. He favored Patton over that upstart Kennedy, but this business of conspiracies, microchips, and accusations of world domination muddied the waters. If America’s new public enemy number one was a Communist spy, or even a Martian, the matter needed to be investigated in more detail. Hoover would get proof before sticking his neck out. Shine a light on rats, they always run for cover.

  “I’m taking that chip from your ass for evidence,” announced Director Hoover, making his decision. “You’ll be okay when the pain stops.”

  * * * * *

  J. Edgar Hoover arranged a meeting late that night with President Eisenhower about a matter of utmost national security. He tossed Coen’s microchip on the President’s desk for dramatic effect.

  “All of Kennedy’s accusations are true. Patton is in league with alien terrorists to take over the world. That one silicon-based chip is my proof, containing more computing power than an
entire building of our best IBM computers.”

  “Aliens, you say?” asked President Eisenhower, pressing a Secret Service alarm button under his desk. “Do you mean aliens, like from Puerto Rico?”

  “Mars.”

  “I see,” commented President Eisenhower sadly, nodding to several Secret Service agents who entered the room. “He needs to be medicated again.”

  “No, wait! NASA Director Blyler can back me up on this. Aliens are watching our every move. Coen confessed when I dug that chip out of his ass! Patton has a chip in his ass, too!”

  “George would not betray his country,” insisted President Eisenhower, but still having trust issues. “In light of your honorable and distinctive service to America, I promise to look into the matter. Good grief, aliens? In the meantime, you need to take some time off. How about a vacation?”

  “You’re in on it!” accused Hoover. “This conspiracy goes all the way to the top!”

  “It’s a sad day for America,” lamented President Eisenhower. “Don’t worry. Your fall from grace will be kept as discrete possible. Perhaps a cozy country club nuthouse in upstate New York would be a good fit.”

  “No!”

  * * * * *

  Republican vice-presidential candidate Audie Murphy refused to agree to a place and time to debate Senator Lyndon Johnson, but they met anyway by chance on the campaign trail at a city park barbecue in Austin, Texas.

  Hoping to make up for Kennedy’s disastrous debate debacle, Johnson immediately went on the offensive with down-home wit and charm. “You’re a duck paddling in deep water,” accused Johnson, playing to the local press as he tossed Murphy a quarter. “Do you know what happens to ducks when I feed them quarters? They sink!”

  “You are the one that will need swimming lessons, hanging around Kennedys,” shot back Murphy. “My papa always says, ‘Don’t pet a burning dog.’ Your pretty-boy Massachusetts show dog don’t hunt.”