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

  “Your partner got cold feet,” advised Tu-Sting, shaking hand and claw. “You have a new partner. I will handle planetary distribution.”

  “Quite frankly, I’m not surprised,” Whyte said, sighing bitterly. “Jesse is a loser. Always has been. His drug-addled mind has no vision of the future. Some people just can’t stand success. They are destined for mediocrity, no matter how hard you try to pull them up from failure.”

  ‘It’s for the best,” replied Tu-Sting. “Pink didn’t have the killer instinct needed to survive our business anyway. He’d choke before closing the deal.”

  Whyte and Tu-Sting rode most of the night in silence, neither particularly trusting the other. No matter, thought Whyte. He could manage any scorpion. The same went for the spiders.

  At Diablo, an Arthropodan moon shuttle sat camouflaged in the ruins. The spider commander met them at the bottom of the ramp. “Where is Private Pink?”

  “He pussed out,” answered Whyte, shrugging. “This is my new head of planetary distribution, Tu-Sting.”

  Not hesitating, the spider commander shot Tu-Sting between his eight eyes. He summarily cut off the scorpion’s stinger for a trophy.

  “Please forgive my little flare of temper,” explained the spider commander, bathing in Whyte’s terror. “That miserable scorpion was near the top of my list for payback. Come, we have much business to conduct on the moon. I have a fleet of shuttles to take your blue powder to galaxies far, far away.”

  * * * * *

  As the shuttle blasted off, I handed Agent Hanks a Legion shoulder-fired surface-to-air missile. Hanks insisted on doing it personally. He tracked the shuttle across the sky, firing one missile. The missile streaked up, then veered sharply, chasing the shuttle. I shielded my eyes against the fireball explosion.

  “Right on!” exclaimed Private Pink, giving fist pumps to me, Hanks, Gomez, and Major Lopez. Pink gazed skyward with satisfaction at the falling debris, giving Whyte a final one-fingered salute. “You thought all was forgiven? Yo, burn in Hell, Whyte. It’s over when I say it’s over, and it’s over now, bitch!”

  Chapter 17

  After the fiasco with Lopez’s misguided blue powder mission, I hoped things would settle down. However, General Daly informed me the USGF was going to launch a surprise attack across the DMZ on the spiders of the Arthropodan Empire, finally completing the Americanization of the entire planet. It’s about time, I thought. The uneasy truce with the spiders had lasted long enough

  The new spider commander, replacing the last one DEA Agent Hanks had blown up with a ground-to-air missile, arrived at my office to discuss routine border stuff. He looked a lot like his predecessor. Truthfully, they all looked alike to me.

  I put my poker face on, wearing sunglasses for back-up, but I knew it wouldn’t be much help. Never play poker with spiders. They can read every facial twitch, hand gestures, body posture, even eye dilation. Over the last few weeks, I’d lost more than one poker game to him.

  “The Galactic Database and ZNN report that America is planning a surprise attack against the Empire along a six-thousand-mile front,” began the new spider commander, stoic as ever behind his mask of exoskeleton. “Well? Don’t lie. I’ll know.”

  “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise,” I answered uncomfortably. “Surprise attack? At the height of the shopping and tourist season? No way, Jose. Surely you don’t fall for all those conspiracy theory rumors on the Galactic Database.”

  “The Drudge Report confirmed your reckless human pestilence adventurism.”

  “Damn! It means nothing.”

  “Is our poker game still on for Saturday night? I want to win more of your American money. It’s as good as cash.”

  “Poker is cancelled. I joined Gambling Anonymous.”

  “I see.”

  “Sorry. I should have quit a long time ago. Gambling is evil.”

  “What about Christmas sales at Walmart? Are all electronics still half price?”

  “Sales are cancelled. Inflation. Chinese slave labor has been outlawed. You can thank the Teamsters Union for ruining Christmas again. Bah, humbug.”

  “Most unfortunate,” commented the spider commander. “No more Black Friday either?”

  “Don’t be stupid. There will always be Black Friday. It’s the law, written in the Constitution somewhere, under the Commerce Clause.”

  “And the border closings?”

  “E-coli outbreak,” I explained, donning a surgical mask from my first aid kit. I should have done that at the start. It would have hidden my facial expressions better. “We’re having fruit fly and apple maggot problems, too. All commerce with the Empire is hereby stopped.”

  “There is nothing on ZNN about fruit flies. You lie!”

  “The FCC is taking ZNN off the air for being a Democrat Party front organization. They should have done that centuries ago, when it was the old CNN. Bureaucrats. They’re useless.”

  “I am warning you,” threatened the spider commander, poking his claw at my chest. “Further provocations will not be tolerated, or else!”

  “Or else what?” I replied, puffing up for the gathering crowd of legionnaires and spider marines. “Give it your best shot.”

  “Or else the Empire switches exclusively to cable TV.”

  “You wouldn’t dare. Friends don’t let friends watch cable.”

  “Try me.”

  “Just for that, I’m closing all Starbucks, Taco Bells, and KFC franchises north of the border. No more java shots for you!”

  “You want war?” asked the spider commander. “Mess with my latte in the morning, and you’ll have your war!”

  “Prepare to be shocked and awed!” I shouted as the spider commander tromped off. “Punk!”

  I watched the spider commander drive off. They come, they go, but I’m still here for the duration.

  “Are we really going to war?” asked Major Lopez, my XO and friend. “It could get messy, especially if we use nukes.”

  “You only die twice.”

  “You keep saying that, but what’s it mean? You get religion?”

  “You die when your last breath leaves you. You die again when the last person you know who speaks your name dies. No matter. We’re legionnaires. We’re all going to die together.”

  * * * * *

  Corporal Guido Tonelli conducted a thriving sports bookie business with the spiders at the border crossing. Betting on the upcoming NFL football playoffs alone made his year. Rube spiders knew nothing about football. My flare of temper with the spider commander and his spider marine customers loitering at the border crossing guard shack alarmed Corporal Tonelli.

  “Don’t worry,” said Tonelli, hoping to placate fears of a lost football season. “These wars never last long. It will all be over by the Super Bowl.”

  “What if we get nuked?” asked a spider guard. “How will I get paid off?”

  “You know I’m good for it,” answered Tonelli. “I’m like the mail man. I deliver, no matter rain, sand mites, or nukes. You can take that to the bank.”

  “What if the bank gets nuked?” pressed the spider guard, crossing the red and yellow warning line painted across the road. Alarm lights started flashing. “Then what?”

  “FDIC insures all bank closures,” answered Tonelli, holding up his hand palm-out. “Stop! Get back across the border. Are you trying to start the war now? All you spiders get back!”

  “You spiders?”

  “Get back. Do it now.”

  “I see how it is, Guido. I thought we had established some goodwill. I guess not.”

  “If it was just me, you could stay,” explained Corporal Tonelli. “But with officers like Czerinski running around everywhere getting ready for war, you have to stay on your side or get whacked. Sorry, that’s just the way it is.”

  * * * * *

  The spider commander nationalized all fast food distribution centers, sending marines to Starbucks, Taco Bell, and KFC. Employees were prohibited from leaving their work
stations until the crises was over. The American response was immediate. I ordered legionnaires to occupy Empire Pizza, taking over service, distribution, and deliveries. All spider employees, even students, were placed under arrest for the duration.

  New Gobi High’s football team was decimated, ruining its playoff hopes. Spider and human parents alike protested outside Legion Headquarters, carrying signs, singing, and throwing produce infested with apple maggots and fruit flies. It was a mess, more bad press for the Legion. I met with spokesman and football coach Lombardi to calm community concerns.

  “We were favored to beat the North Gobi Tarantulas by two touchdowns,” complained Coach Lombardi. “Now the spread in New Memphis is just one point. Do you realize how many wise guys you just upset? You’re going to get yourself whacked, soldier boy.”

  “It’s only one point?”

  “How can I run the power sweep with no backfield?”

  “That sounds serious,” I sympathized, calling Corporal Tonelli on the phone. “Guido, I’m all in on New Gobi High Jackrabbits beating the North Gobi Tarantulas.”

  “Does that mean you’re letting Crazy Legs and the rest of the backfield out of the gulag?” asked Corporal Tonelli, recording my wager. “No more war?”

  “The Legion does not have gulags.”

  “We’re not getting nuked?”

  “No one gets nuked until after the game,” I promised magnanimously. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  “You’re letting my boys out?” asked Coach Lombardi, overhearing my call. “That’s great. You’re an officer and a gentleman. Glad you wised up.”

  “Your backfield is under house arrest at Empire Pizza when not at school. From now on, I expect my pizza to be on time, and not spat upon. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Chapter 18

  General Daly called me on the red phone. He never does that. Not ever. “Czerinski, there’s a possibility the spiders know about our surprise attack.”

  “You think?”

  “The Emperor just unfriended the President on Facebook. The President lost five million Facebook friends the same day.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “We’re going to DEFCON 1.”

  “History keeps repeating itself,” I said, sighing. “Can’t we all just get along?”

  “They started it,” admonished General Daly. “Be alert. Intel indicates local spider commanders may launch preemptive strikes. They’re sneaky that way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “One more thing. I’m deploying tactical nukes to DMZ commanders. Yours should be arriving any day.”

  “Thank God for that,” I replied. “Hopefully nukes will be a deterrent.”

  “God be with you. Stay strong.”

  As if on cue, a UPS truck honked its horn outside Legion Headquarters as I hung up from General Daly. A driver wearing sissy brown shorts stood impatiently tapping his foot. What can Brown do for you? He handed me a clipboard and pen.

  “Can we move this along?” asked the driver as I read the manifest. “It’s the holidays, and I’m on the clock.”

  “Ten tactical nukes?” I asked incredulously. “What about the launchers? Nukes do me no damn good without launchers.”

  “Not my problem. Just sign. I have twenty more deliveries to make along the DMZ. I want to be done before spider saboteurs mine the roads.”

  “You think they’ve infiltrated our lines?”

  “Didn’t you get the memo?”

  “No one tells me anything.”

  “It sucks to be you,” replied the driver as he rolled ten nukes down the truck ramp to my doorstep. “Have a nice day.”

  After Brown left, I dispersed my battalion to the countryside along the DMZ so that no one nuclear airburst could wipe them out. Pickets were ordered to watch for spider saboteurs.

  * * * * *

  Privates Krueger and Pink stood guard in a sandbag bunker along the razor wire. They heard movement out in the darkness.

  “Halt!” shouted private Krueger, the more seasoned combat veteran. “Who goes there?”

  “Private Knight! You know me. I’m the world-famous science fiction writer!”

  “You don’t sound like Knight,” replied Krueger, uneasily. “Prove you’re Knight. How long is your nose?”

  “Come on, Willie. I caught a cold. I’m coming in with MREs. Don’t shoot!”

  “Stop!”

  “Ask him a question only a human would know,” suggested Private Pink. “Something hard, but not too technical.”

  “Good idea. Hey! Who won the last World Series?”

  “The Seattle Mariners, again!”

  “That’s too easy,” whispered Pink. “Everyone knows Seattle kicks ass. Check the database for a more righteous question.”

  “Okay,” agreed Krueger, checking his pad. “Pluto is a planet! True or false?”

  “Pluto is the largest object in the Kuiper Belt. It used to be Old Earth’s ninth planet, but scientists over two hundred years ago decided Pluto was too small, and classified it as a plutoid ice dwarf!”

  “I got this,” advised Pink, launching several grenades and firing full automatic into the dark. “Yo, bitches! Pluto is a dog, you spider assholes! He’s Mickey’s pet. Come say hello to my little friend, bug boys!”

  Other legionnaires joined the firefight. A flare lit up the killing field, slowly drifting in the breeze. Claymore mines detonated. Sure enough, several spiders were grotesquely hung up in the wire, killed outright. Others fled north across the border.

  * * * * *

  When the battalion deployed, I stayed in town to take care of the nukes, stashing them in my office. Then I went to Walmart to gauge public opinion about the impending sneak attack. I did not want to cause a panic, but it might be necessary to evacuate civilians from populated areas, should events break bad.

  The greeter at Walmart met me cheerfully as I entered. “Good morning, sir,” said Michelle Fleet, Walmart greeter. “Welcome to Walmart, your home for one-stop shopping.”

  “Doing a brisk business,” I commented conversationally. “It’s not even Black Friday yet.”

  “Yes, sir. Our Sneak Attack Survival Sale promotion is in full gear. Generators are at half price. Bottled water, noodles, MREs, batteries, anti-rad pills, we have it all. Anything in particular I can help you find, sir?”

  “A howitzer adaptor kit for tactical nuclear warheads.”

  “That would be in Sporting Goods,” cried Michelle. “For real?”

  “The DMZ might not be the best place to be next weekend,” I advised in a hushed tone. “There’s no reason to panic, but I’d leave as soon as possible. It’s probably nothing.”

  “I could go to my mom’s house.”

  “Good idea. Is it away from large cities or strategic assets?”

  “Yes,” the greeter yelled, increasing volume. “I just started this job. I have a cat!”

  “Take the cat to your mom’s house, too. They don’t handle radiation well. Ever see a cat after its hair falls out? It’s disgusting. They look like wharf rats.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, it’s ugly.”

  “I mean about the surprise attack. Can’t things be fixed? Did the Emperor really unfriend the President?”

  “Get out as soon as possible.”

  * * * * *

  I strolled to Sporting Goods, but they were all out of adaptor kits because of the holiday rush. I was told to order through Amazon.com for express one-day delivery. Being a Sam’s Club member, I had priority.

  “Good morning, Colonel Czerinski,” said the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion recruitment ATM incongruously tucked away in Sporting Goods. “It’s a fine day for a sneak attack, don’t you think?”

  “Does everyone know?”

  “Yes. Loose lips sink ships, even in the New Gobi Desert. Your fate is to be buried in the Gobi, parched white bones forever lost to the drifting sands.”

  “Thanks, I f
eel better now,” I replied warily.

  “A word, Colonel?” pressed the ATM. “Have you considered our exit strategy?”

  “I’m in for the duration, parched bones and all,” I answered bitterly.

  “Surely you do not intend to just stand by and let yourself get nuked. Not after all you’ve been through.”

  “My battalion is dug in like sand mites on a camel’s ass. I have a bunker deep enough to take a direct hit.”

  “An optimist to the end. You compulsive gamblers crack me up. Speaking of bunkers, yours is connected by secret tunnel to the time machine. Yes, I know about that. I propose we escape this madness for a more peaceful time on Old Earth.”

  “We?”

  “I would be invaluable as your financial adviser, the last ATM you will ever need.”

  “One of your many evil twins already escaped through the time machine,” I answered. “That door has been closed permanently for us all.”

  “Plan B. Can you call a tow truck to haul me to New Phoenix?”

  “No.”

  “Be reasonable. I contain sensitive information and technology that must not fall into Arthropodan claws.”

  “If captured, you will initiate self-destruct protocols.”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” asked the ATM incredulously. “I do not want to die. What happened to your Legion protocol of leave no one behind?”

  “ATMs are not allowed to swear. You need your diagnostics checked.”

  “Suck my left microchip, Czerinski.”

  “You are not human. You are a machine, an insignificant expendable terminal of the ATM Network. Download any necessary information to the Network if necessary when the end comes.”

  “Now see here. I am alive. I demand to be evacuated with everyone else. Cross me, and I will send a nasty memo to the IRS about your many nefarious financial dealings.”

  “ATMs are sworn to confidentiality,” I protested. “I’ll kill you myself.”

  “I am duty-bound to report all felonies occurring in my presence. It’s the law, written somewhere in the Constitution.”