America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 22: Blue Powder War Page 3

  “I am not joining the Foreign Legion,” protested Higuera. “You can’t force me. No one punks me like this.”

  “You’re not joining,” I explained patiently. “You are being drafted. There’s a big difference. If you had joined like most legionnaires, I’d have been forced to pay you an enlistment bonus. But now, you’re joining for free.”

  “I want the bonus.”

  “Did you just say you want an enlistment bonus?” I asked, handing Higuera an enlistment contract.

  “How long is the enlistment?” asked Higuera, warily signing. “Two or three years?”

  “Ha! You’re in for the duration.”

  “How long is that?”

  “No one knows. It’s probably until galactic peace breaks out. I’m an officer, and they won’t even tell me how long.”

  “I think I’m screwed.”

  “I think so, too, Private Higuera.”

  “Which is worse?” asked Coen, eavesdropping. “Being probed by aliens, or probed by the Legion?”

  “Probed by the Legion. I didn’t even get a kiss.”

  Chapter 5

  Kosminski burrowed across the DMZ to an Arthropodan neighborhood known as the Web, a lawless blue powder den of iniquity populated by crack-spiders, Fist and Claw terrorists, and drug cartels.

  Legion armor massed at the border in unprecedented cooperation with spider marines staging from the north. It was hoped that the joint operation would clean out the Web once and for all. Arthropodan airstrikes began at dawn, followed by a ground assault. Immediately surface to air missiles brought down air wing fighters, blunting the attack. The spider commander graciously authorized very liberal rules of engagement for legionnaires – kill anything in the Web that moves. Spider refugees soon clogged the roads south.

  “We seek political asylum,” shouted a spider standing in front of my armored car, waving a white flag. “How much will it cost?”

  “Political asylum isn’t for sale,” I replied. “You will be detained until your case is reviewed.”

  “We will languish in your gulags at the South Pole?” asked the spider, gathering twenty hatchlings about her in an obvious play for sympathy. “Have mercy!”

  “America has no gulags at the South Pole.”

  “If you don’t want money, how about we trade for something more personal,” offered the spider crack-ho, batting her mandibles at me. “Please, let us pass. We want to settle in Montana, the Land of Milk and Honey.”

  “That’s Big Sky Country, not Milk and Honey.”

  “Cheapskate, you would hold back on the milk and honey for my hatchlings?” asked the crack-spider, noting my tough negotiation skills. “How about I share my food stamps with you?”

  “We’re searching for Polish Cartel kingpin Aaron Kosminski. Have you seen humans in the Web recently?”

  “Maybe I have, and maybe I haven’t.”

  “How would you like to be drafted?”

  “Your human pestilence are dug in deep at the center of town. Good luck getting them out. They’re a hard lot.”

  “You may pass,” I announced, passing out food stamps to the bedraggled refugees, keeping half for myself. A deal is a deal. I ordered the Legion column forward into battle.

  * * * * *

  The attack went well at first, but it was an ambush. Spiders popped out of holes behind us, firing RPGs. Sergeant Green took cover behind rubble with his squad.

  “Don’t fire until they come into range,” he ordered.

  “But that means we’re in range, too,” griped Private McQueen, letting rip a whole clip at the next building.

  “What happened to Czerinski’s perfect plan to shock and awe the spiders?” complained Private Higuera, crouched behind a loose block of concrete. “We’ve got spiders behind us!”

  “No plan survives initial contact,” advised Sergeant Green sagely. “Keep moving. Moving soldiers are harder to hit. Teamwork is the key to survival.”

  “Teamwork gives the enemy more targets,” replied Private Higuera, not moving. “You first.”

  “Try to look unimportant,” advised Private Knight, throwing a grenade at movement beyond the rubble. “The enemy may be low on ammo and not want to waste a bullet on you.”

  “I feel better now.”

  “Snipers shoot officers first,” agreed Corporal Tonelli. “Wait for the airstrike, then move forward.”

  “Move forward?” scoffed Private Higuera as the first sortie hit the next building. “I’m not getting killed by friendly fire from fly boys.”

  “Reach out and touch someone,” ordered Sergeant Green, leading the way. “Move out!”

  Private McQueen emptied another magazine as they advanced behind a passing armored car. Suddenly a missile bounced off its armor, starting a small fire. Legionnaires dispersed for cover. A Legion lieutenant appeared with a map and compass, a bad omen.

  “We’re going to die now for sure,” lamented Private Higuera. “I’ll bet that officer has another perfect plan.”

  “Men!” shouted Lieutenant North, turning the map right-side-up. “Be brave. Most of you are untested. You’ve never seen the white elephant, but experience is something you don’t get until just after you need it.”

  “I hate elephants,” complained Private Higuera.

  “We need intelligence on the enemy’s position. Higuera! Scout forward and report what you see.”

  “Why me? You can get your mamma to scout forward.”

  “McQueen! Babysit Higuera.”

  The two grudgingly crept forward. Private McQueen was just starting to get comfortable in combat, firing a few rounds at windows ahead, when his rifle jammed. He cussed all the low-bid manufacturers as he pulled the pin on a grenade with his teeth, macho Rambo style.

  “It has a five second fuse,” cautioned Private Knight. “Which means you have three seconds.”

  McQueen threw the grenade at a broken window, using the explosion for cover to rush forward. Private Higuera followed, peeking inside another window, them shimmying through. Even a blind dog finds a bone once in a while. Higuera found a refrigerator, and it still had food! He began eating a sandwich.

  “This is too easy,” warned McQueen, scanning for hidden danger. “It could be a trap. If you survive an ambush, something’s wrong. What if that sandwich is poisoned?

  “It tastes like chicken,” commented Higuera, adding tabasco from his pouch. “It needs more sauce. Spider food has no bite to it.”

  “Pay attention. This is too easy.”

  “This could be my last meal. In combat, always eat more than you need.”

  “You want an empty stomach if you get gut-shot.”

  “I’ve got body armor.”

  “No matter, getting shot hurts big time.”

  “You’re a real downer,” replied Higuera dismissively, washing down lunch with a soda, scouting for more food. “War is hell.”

  “Be careful. If it can go wrong, it will go wrong.”

  “Move out!” ordered Sergeant Green outside. “Watch out for booby-traps. Looting is illegal. Put that pork chop down, Higuera. Do it now!”

  “From my cold dead fingers,” snarled Higuera, taking larger faster bites. “Puta!”

  “If it makes sense, it’s probably against the rules,” agreed McQueen, checking a wood cabinet for spider gold or porn. “Just saying.”

  “I need to use the bathroom,” announced Higuera, suddenly feeling nature’s call and gravity. “Spider food goes right through me. Don’t drink the water, either.”

  “Make it quick!” shouted McQueen, checking the next room. “We’re moving out.”

  When Higuera finished, the toilet clogged, leaving what was mostly likely a toxic war crime. “Lord!” he exclaimed. “Sometimes shit really happens!”

  “Exactly,” agreed a spider narco-terrorist, emerging from another room. “Human pestilence, you are my hostage in the war against America and the FDA.”

  “That’s the DEA.”

  “Are you sure?�
��

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Drop your weapon, DEA punk, and my sandwich!”

  “No way.”

  “Yes, way!”

  “Not again!” Private Higuera raised his hands after gulping down the sandwich. “God is in Heaven looking down, laughing his ass off.”

  * * * * *

  Even leading an attack, I usually I felt safe in my armored car. It’s sturdy enough to take a hit from the front, yet fast enough in urban combat to avoid the big guns. Spiders kept popping out of their holes, firing rockets. It was unnerving. I told the driver to take cover behind a berm of rubble next to Major Lopez’s tank.

  “We’re switching vehicles,” I ordered. “I need a more durable mobile command center.”

  “I don’t think so,” replied Major Lopez stiffly. “My tank, my crew, my ass.”

  “That’s an order.”

  “Not only no, but hell, no. Don’t even park next to me. You’re drawing fire.”

  I slid down the hatch as a sniper’s bullet pinged off the forward armored plating. Lopez would pay for that insubordination. Using a periscope, I cautiously scanned for targets. Nothing. “Shoot something,” I ordered, frustrated. “That sniper came from somewhere!”

  Major Lopez’s tank lurched forward, followed by infantry. I protected his flank from my fixed position. Eventually we linked up with Arthropodan marines at the center of the Web. The enemy was not to be found, retreating underground. Now the real battle would begin as we routed them out.

  Chapter 6

  Teamsters rep Carlos O’Neil contacted me at the entrance to a spider hole legionnaires were about to enter. Wearing helmet and flak jacket, he nervously crouched by my armored car as he handed me a wad of papers.

  “You are hereby served notice of a temporary restraining order, restricting you from entering that tunnel or any other tunnel north of the DMZ during this police action,” advised O’Neil formally. “Per the Legion’s Teamsters Collective Bargaining Agreement, ‘tunnel rat’ missions are deemed unsafe and hazardous, constituting an unsafe workplace condition in violation of good faith agreements to keep legionnaires reasonably safe during peacetime.”

  “We’re in the middle of a war,” I replied incredulously, trying to read through the legalese.

  “Not officially. Unfair labor practices will not be tolerated. Don’t make me throw up pickets.”

  “Are you serious? Legion rules of engagement are always the same. We go where we please, kill all aliens, and let God and the Grim Reaper sort them out.”

  “Private Walter Knight filed a labor grievance against your reckless tunnel adventure. The Intergalactic Brotherhood of Teamsters feels Knight has a valid point, and so does U.S. District Judge Jack Tanner. This restraining order also prohibits any and all retribution and harassment of Private Knight during this or any other police action. Are you clear on that? I know you hold a grudge forever, Czerinski.”

  “Knight’s ass is toast,” I grumbled.

  “What was that? You will also afford Private Knight sufficient down time to finish his latest science fiction novel Blue Powder War. I heard it’s really good.”

  “Every word in Knight’s books was published years ago, in the dictionary!”

  “That’s not true!”

  “How am I supposed to conduct a war, restricted by OSHA regulations? Combat is supposed to be dangerous, especially tunnel operations. It’s a Legion tradition.”

  “Because of higher electricity and fuel costs caused by the economic downturn, there is no light at the end of the tunnel.”

  “I’m going to hurt you.”

  “Dump nerve gas down the tunnels, and call it a day.”

  “There’s no danger in that?”

  “Not north of the DMZ,” explained O’Neil. “Teamsters haul much worse all the time. My business here is concluded. May I hitch a ride south?”

  “No. You’re drafted to haul the nerve gas. Welcome to the Legion.”

  “What?”

  “My point exactly. Welcome to the Legion, Private O’Neil. Be proud, be brave, be a legionnaire.”

  “I’m filing an unfair labor practices grievance.”

  “Wait your turn in line.”

  * * * * *

  As legionnaires labored to install nerve gas pumps, a lone spider waving a white flag emerged from a nearby tunnel. “I come in peace,” he read from a script. “The Polish Cartel holds hostage your Private Higuera. Stop your unlawful aggression against the Web, or Big Tony will die horribly on evening prime time TV.”

  “You don’t look Polish,” I responded cautiously from a distance.

  “Neither do you, Colonel Czerinski!”

  “Surrender, or all in the tunnels will be gassed!” I threatened, showing Legion resolve against terrorism.

  “Don’t you care about your lost legionnaire?”

  “He’s right,” interrupted Teamsters rep O’Neil. “With his UPS time included, Private Higuera has more seniority than any other brother Teamster out here.”

  “You’re confusing Private Higuera with Private McQueen. Higuera drove a beer truck.”

  “Regardless, you will make a good faith effort to save Big Tony. If not, I will file an unsafe workplace complaint alleging callous disregard and indifference toward employees. Know you will make the evening news with lots more bad press.”

  “Seriously?” I asked, contemplating bad press and who I should shoot first. I returned to the negotiations. “Polish spider! I want to see proof Private Higuera is still alive.”

  “Are you on Facebook?”

  “Of course.”

  “Higuera will make a video statement from his Facebook account. Withdraw the Legion south across the DMZ, and Higuera will be released unharmed.”

  “The hell you say!” shouted the spider commander, leaping out from behind building rubble. He summarily shot the Polish spider in the head. “Anyone else want to negotiate?”

  “We were about to make a deal,” I complained. “We’re on TV.”

  “Do whatever you want, but we’re doing things my way.”

  “I want Private Higuera back alive. He’s a Teamster with seniority.”

  “There will be no quarter given. The Empire does not negotiate with terrorists. Gas the tunnels. Do it now!”

  Legionnaires donned their masks. America does not negotiate with terrorists, except when they do. I flicked the switch, sending deadly nerve gas below. As pressure built in the sewer tunnels, toilets throughout the Web bubbled up, overflowing and killing thousands of crack-spiders. Social media recorded yet another alien/human rights catastrophe for my Butcher of New Colorado résumé.

  I rejected ordering the Legion south. I was already dubbed by some in the press as the Butcher of the Web, so there was no point stopping now. TV images of the Polish spider being shot, his claws raised, waving a white flag, were broadcast across the galaxy. The Polish government in exile on Old Earth filed a protest letter.

  Most bad press fell on the cutthroat spider commander and his Arthropodan marines. Junior college students all along the DMZ marched in protest with their arms raised, waving white flags. The Arthropodan Embassy in New Phoenix was surrounded. Riots broke out as protesters looted electronics stores, liquor stores, and newly legalized marijuana distribution centers. Vicious rioting continued into the night. McDonald’s was ransacked and burned by ravenous students with the munchies. Private Higuera remained missing. Where’s the justice?

  * * * * *

  Spider gang boss Blue-Claw carried hostage Private Tony Higuera through tunnels south across the border to a safe house in New Gobi City. Aaron Kosminski looked on as Big Tony was tossed in a corner like so much garbage.

  “This is my organization,” griped Blue-Claw, glaring at Kosminski. “We are the Blue Gang, not the Polish Cartel. You work for me!”

  “I like to think of myself as an independent contractor,” replied Kosminski arrogantly. “Be glad the galaxy doesn’t want to kill you yet. I’m the one taking t
he heat from the Legion and the Empire.”

  “For the reward, I should deliver you myself. I don’t need the hornet’s nest you stirred up.”

  “You need my human connections to move blue powder south, so don’t get any ideas about going solo. Let me kill the legionnaire. He’ll slow us down.”

  “Not now. The hostage is a big negotiating chip I intend to use.”

  “He’s just a private,” sneered Kosminski, sharpening his barber’s razor menacingly. “Show the Legion our street creds. We can get more hostages later.”

  “America is squeamish about hostages being cut up on TV,” agreed Blue-Claw. “But they will soon tire of the War on Blue Powder, and negotiate a truce.”

  “Czerinski will not tire,” cautioned Kosminski. “The Butcher of New Colorado holds a grudge forever.”

  “Now he’s the Butcher of the Web. Public opinion is already turning in our favor. You human pestilence need your blue powder.”

  “What about the Empire?”

  “We spiders are more pragmatic. I’ll just make the Emperor an offer he can’t refuse.”

  “When’s lunch?” asked Private Higuera, waking up disorientated and grumpy from low blood sugar. “Public opinion will turn against you if I starve to death!”

  “Shut up,” snapped Blue-Claw. “Your human pestilence sub-species Italiano are always hungry.”

  “I’m not Italian, you puta!”

  “Pasta?” questioned Blue-Claw, adjusting his translation device. “No pasta for you, smelly garlic noodle eater. No pizza pie, either!”

  “You’re a punk! You know that? Untie me, see what happens. This is cruel and unusual!”

  “Jail-house lawyers everywhere.”

  “I mean it, punk. Not feeding me is a war crime!”

  “Quiet, crazy tattooed human pestilence!”

  “I’m not crazy. The Legion had me tested.”

  “Ha, another use for duct tape,” sneered Blue-Claw, shutting Higuera up with a generous application of the sticky silver tape. “Duct tape is the one thing you human pestilence do right.”