“Badges?” asked Major Lopez. “We’re the Legion. We don’t need no stinking badges!”
“Are you going to order or not?”
“Fine,” replied Major Lopez, scanning the lighted menu. “I’ll have the Big N’ Tasty Buffalo Burger with cheese, and curly fries.”
“Change my order to three Buffalo Chipotle BBQ Bacon Snack Wraps!” shouted Private Knight, still listening from the driver’s compartment below. “And you had better not spit in my food like you did last time, because I’ll be checking!”
“You, sir?” asked the scorpion clerk, motioning to Lieutenant Columbus.
“I am not much hungry. I will have a Venti, three-pump raspberry, three-pump white chocolate mocha, iced soy, no whip, light ice, and an order of fries. I am lactose intolerant. Are you sure you have not seen any buffalo poachers? Who supplies your meat?”
“Sir, we do not serve Venti. You need to go to Starbucks. It is down the road.”
* * * * *
After dinner and the posting of perimeter guards for the night, Lieutenant Columbus slipped out of camp for privacy and to study his GPS. There was gold in the surrounding hills, and Columbus aimed to seek his fortune. The last guard posting was Private Shaky Jake, a spider legionnaire. Columbus had already checked his file. “Private, you used to be a prospector?”
“I still am,” replied Shaky Jake, suspicious of all officers, especially human. “What is it to you, sir?”
“Are you familiar with the Lost Woodard Mine?” asked Lieutenant Columbus conversationally. “It is supposed to be located in these hills.”
“Everyone knows the story of the Lost Woodard Mine. Shops sell treasure maps for the mine to tourists.”
“But you prospected in these parts,” insisted Lieutenant Columbus. “Ever find any trace of gold?”
“No one has ever found gold in these hills. Legend has it that Old Bob Woodard came to town, spouting off about striking the mother lode, but the locals ate him. Old Bob never filed a claim in Scorpion City, so his sad story ends there.”
“You have searched for Bob’s mine. I know you have. You believe it is out there, waiting to be discovered.”
“How do you know my business? You only just got here, and I don’t like being spied on. You know nothing of the New Gobi Desert or the Lost Woodard Mine.”
“I know its approximate location, near Clinton Summit, on the shores of Monica Lake,” advised Lieutenant Columbus, patting his GPS. “But I need a native guide to get me through the bush.”
“Those hills are haunted by the ghost of Old Bob,” whispered Shaky Jake. “Many a fortune hunter has not returned, feared eaten by a vengeful Old Bob. Late at night you can see Bob’s campfire and hear the screams of his victims.”
“You are afraid of ghosts?” asked Lieutenant Columbus. Columbus lit a Cuban cigar as he gazed speculatively at a distant campfire. “Marauding bandits is more likely.”
“No one has ever found gold in these parts. What makes you think you can?”
“Old Bob found gold.”
“Bob was drunk, and his brain addled by the sun.”
“I will split the gold with you.”
“What do you know? Nothing, that’s what.”
“I have a nose for discovering gold,” bragged Lieutenant Columbus. “You would be surprised. I have always proven my skeptics wrong.”
“If we are to be partners, you will share more than a phony tale about following your snout to Bob’s gold. Come clean, human pestilence. Or has the sun addled your brain too?”
“Will you guide me through the hills?”
“What’s with the sword?” asked Shaky Jake, still sizing up the odd human pestilence officer.
“I always carry my sword. It is a part of me.”
“Sergeant Green always carries a scythe. He hears voices too. Do you?”
“I am not guided by voices, only God.”
“You both are crazy human pestilence, crazy like a fox. Quit stalling. Tell me what you know of gold and Old Bob’s mine.”
Lieutenant Columbus handed Shaky Jake his GPS, displaying a map to the Lost Woodard Mine and an accompanying archive of its discovery in the future.
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Chapter 3
Lieutenant Columbus and Shaky Jake were up at the crackle of dawn, gear packed, and on the trail. “The early worm flips off the bird,” mused Columbus.
Their gear heavy, Shaky Jake suggested buying pack animals. He knew of a place on the edge of town. The sign boasted, ‘Big-Sting’s Finest New & Used Camels For Sale.’ A scorpion camel trader met the legionnaires with all smiles.
“I welcome America’s brave Foreign Legion!” greeted Big-Sting, shaking hands and claw. “Are you in the market for a traditional one-humped Dromedary, or a feisty supercharged two-humped Bactrian? We also have llamas, but you brave legionnaires are no sissy llama riders, you go for the gusto!”
“Do they all smell so bad?” asked Lieutenant Columbus with disdain, eying a two-humper roped off away from the others. The camel seemed to be grinning, or maybe just chewing a thick wad of cud.
“Our camel washer called in sick,” answered Big-Sting, mandibles still smiling. “Good help is so hard to find out here in the New Gobi Desert. Normally my camels smell of the fragrance of rose petals.”
“How do I tell a camel’s quality?” whispered Lieutenant Columbus, patting the two-humped camel on its flank. It seemed to enjoy the attention. “I do not trust Mr. Big-Sting.”
“You check the size of its dong,” replied Shaky Jake, knowingly. “Size is everything.”
“Nonsense,” scoffed Lieutenant Columbus. “It’s how you sail your ship that counts.”
As if on cue, the ginning camel proudly urinated. It was a magnificent display. The other camels joined in, but could not compete.
“I will take this one!” exclaimed Lieutenant Columbus. “How much? Do not try to cheat me. I will know if you overcharge.”
“Hargundu is not for sale,” advised Big-Sting, trying to steer the legionnaires toward the others. “Hargundu has deep-seated psychological problems, and I cannot in good conscience part with him for any price.”
“What problems?” demanded Lieutenant Columbus, sensing bait and switch tactics common among unscrupulous sales types. “I don’t want your castoffs. I want the noble Hargundu.”
“This camel is a certified whack-job,” explained Big-Sting. “You will not be happy with him.”
“Spirited, eh? We are traveling into the badlands, and I need spirit. A timid camel will not do.”
“But Hargundu is crazy.”
“They said I was crazy for insisting the world was round, but I proved my critics wrong. Others were timid, but my resilience always proved critics wrong.”
“All sales are final,” advised Big-Sting, swiping Columbus’s card. “I will not take camels back at full price, especially that one.”
“We will all be buying pack animals,” interrupted Major Lopez, appearing unexpectedly from behind. “I’m cutting myself in for a piece of the action.”
“What are you doing here?” asked Lieutenant Columbus. “You followed us to cheat me of my due?”
“Preventing you from going AWOL.”
“Sir, we are not going AWOL,” argued Shaky Jake innocently. “The Lieutenant and I got a tip, and are scouting for poachers.”
“Prospecting for Bob’s Lost Gold Mine is more like it,” scoffed Big-Sting.
Major Lopez eyed Columbus and Shaky Jake. “You think you can find gold in those hills, while so many others failed?” he asked doubtfully. “Why?”
“You gold bugs come through all the time,” complained Big-Sting. “You are the second party this week.”
“Who else is conspiring to steal my gold?” demanded Lieutenant Columbus. “Out with it!”
“An odd owlish human sporting an ‘Indiana Jones’ hat, and a military type in civilian clothes,” answered Big-Sting.
“We need to hurry,” advised
Major Lopez, selecting a camel. “What’s this camel’s name?”
“Kos-Omak.”
“Load the camels,” ordered Major Lopez. “Czerinski will meet us at the top. If there is gold, it belongs to the Legion. It belongs to us!”
* * * * *
I received a text message from Major Lopez informing me he was scouting a buffalo poaching report in the hills. Lieutenant Columbus got the poaching tip, and a report of a possible gold mine in the area. Good man, that Columbus. A real go-getter.
I deployed the battalion atop Clinton Summit by shuttle. Some matters just cannot wait. As legionnaires set up their new camp, Arthropodan marines arrived just across the border. The spiders had been observing our troop movements from satellite surveillance.
I watched intently as spiders strung wire and off-loaded marines and equipment from their shuttles. The spider commander boldly rode his ‘war mule’ down a shuttle ramp, supervising his marines. My old nemesis had taken to riding that old donkey because he knew it irritated me. The spider commander thought riding a captured steed from Old Earth intimidated human pestilence. He intended to ride that ass like the wind, to victory. The fool thought he was Poncho Villa snubbing his nose at the heart of the United States Galactic Federation attacking Texas.
“Czerinski!” he called out from across a border post marker. “What provocations are you plotting now? No good, I am sure!”
“You are trespassing,” I replied. “Stop stringing wire!”
“These remote hills have not been properly surveyed, and are in dispute. Per treaty, I am in hot pursuit of buffalo poachers, and entitled to free reign to search them out.”
“I too chase poachers. You probably scared them away. We do not need your help. Keep yourself and your stinky ass on your side of the border, and we’ll get along just fine.”
“You don’t like the smell of my war mule? Good! That is because you know he smells of victory. Victory in the morning!”
Braying and snorting, the war mule twitched his big ears. The beast refused to move, despite several swift kicks to his flanks.
“Whatever. Your war mule needs a bath in Monica Lake, and so do you.”
“What, and risk being eaten by crocs? You will not trick me into the water again.”
“Only a harmless newt swims in the shallows to the right.”
“Another invasive pest from Old Earth, I am sure!”
“Whatever.”
* * * * *
Major Lopez and Lieutenant Columbus were in no hurry to join the battalion. They were still getting the hang of riding camels and decided to set up camp half way there. Columbus eyed with suspicion the shuttle activity. “Czerinski and those dirty aliens intend to steal my gold,” fumed Lieutenant Columbus, pointing with his sword.
“Our gold,” corrected Major Lopez.
“Who are you calling a dirty alien?” interrupted Shaky Jake. “Human pestilence, do not try my patience, and do not forget we are partners.”
“We will avoid the natives and camp by the lake tomorrow,” advised Lieutenant Columbus, checking his GPS and ignoring the spider. “Unpack your gear.”
A chilling desert wind blew as the sun set. Lieutenant Columbus retired early as was his habit, and was soon snoring soundly.
* * * * *
Hargundu, smarter than your average camel, used his tongue to untie his tether. Crawling on his knees, he sneaked to the center of camp. All were asleep. Hargundu unzipped this master’s tent flap, as was also his habit, and snuggled in next to Lieutenant Columbus to stay warm. Soon, both were snoring soundly.
* * * * *
In the morning Lieutenant Columbus was a new man, refreshed and ready to take on the world. A good night’s sleep does wonders. He stank of camel, and something else, but no matter, soon they would be at Monica Lake where all could bathe.
Luck smiled on them today. Hargundu had broken free of his tether, but not run off. The camel affectionately nuzzled Lieutenant Columbus, following him about the camp. Columbus rewarded Hargundu’s loyalty with a fruitcake from his MREs. Yum, yum.
* * * * *
Scorpion bandit leader and poacher, Buffalo-Sting, and a dozen other cutthroats peered over a small ridge at legionnaires and hated spider marines on the mesa below. He hissed a laugh. “Humans and spiders working together will never catch us,” boasted Buffalo-Sting. “We are one with the desert.”
“That is Czerinski down there,” observed one of the poachers. “See how the wimpy pervert limps from getting his foot bitten off during passion. We should kill him now.”
“The legionnaires and their pet spiders will soon tire of the desert and leave. They always do.”
The poacher was about to argue with his boss when a 50-cal bullet from a sniper’s rifle tore through his shoulder, sending body parts in all directions, splattering Buffalo-Sting in a bloody mist. Scorpions scattered as two more poachers were blown apart. One scorpion threw aside his rifle in surrender, but a bullet found its mark, blowing the poacher over the ridge. Some ran but were cut down. The rest instinctively burrowed deep into the sand.
Legionnaires, alerted by the gunfire, rushed atop the ridge to be greeted by a triumphant Major Lopez, Lieutenant Columbus, and Private Shaky Jake. They set up camp and secured a perimeter to trap and catch the remaining scorpions.
* * * * *
As the sun set we built a large bonfire. Roast scorpion was on the menu for dinner. Tastes like chicken. I’m not normally so cutthroat – I get a lot of bad press – but it was time to ratchet up the terror factor.
“Come out and surrender!” I called out on a PA. “You will be treated honorably. This is your last chance!”
No response.
“If you don’t come out, Smokey the Bear will sniff you out, and eat you alive!”
“Ha!” called Buffalo-Sting from somewhere under the sagebrush. “There is no such thing as Smokey the Bear! The Fury One is but a figment of your puny human imagination, used to scare hatchlings. I am not scared! I suppose you would have me believe in Santa Clause and the Tooth Fairy, too!”
“Nobody snacks on Smokey’s pet buffalo and gets away with it. I wash my hands of you fools!”
I signaled to Sergeant Green, who turned back the flap of a large tent. Out walked on hind feet a large Kodiak grisly bear. The grisly wore a ‘Smokey’ hat emblazoned with the feared US Forest Service badge. Smokey also wore several Legion Kevlar vests, fastened together with duct tap. Another use for duct tape!
The beast looked exactly like the grisly in my hotel room back on Mars and struck terror on all who dared make eye contact. Smokey appeared to be particularly irritated as he limped, probably from arthritis and being cooped up in a tent all day long. Smokey was getting old. I could see tufts of gray under his chin.
“Who wears a stinking badge now!” boomed Smokey the Bear, letting out a rebel yell. I jabbed Smokey in the ribs with my elbow.
Terrified by the piercing Southern scream, Buffalo-Sting and four scorpions immediately surrendered. They faced Smokey for judgment, dropping to their knees.
“You are not real,” accused Buffalo-Sting, lunging. “Smokey is a fake!” Buffalo-Sting stung Smokey the Bear through the heart. Smokey staggered, but quickly recovered and raked Buffalo-Sting with nine-inch claws. It was a horrible sight. We quickly barbecued the pieces.
“I magnanimously show mercy to my wayward scorpion children!” advised Smokey the Bear, pulling the stinger from his Kevlar vest. “But let this be a lesson. No more poaching of my pets. Let the Buffalo roam free, unmolested! Be gone, and tell your conspirators!”
“But poachers should be executed on the spot,” I argued. “It’s the American way. What about tradition? What about the Wild, Wild West?”
“Good point,” replied Smokey the Bear, hesitating. “Maybe you are right.”
“No!” pleaded one of the poachers. “Do not let the Butcher of New Colorado and El Cannibal barbecue us. We promise to protect your pets forever, and never poach again!”
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“You are on probation,” warned Smokey the Bear. “Be gone!”
The scorpion poachers fled to the valley crossroads. Others gathered, joining in chemical bond, soon breathing in unison. Their terrifying story spread. Immediately all buffalo poaching ended, and McDonald’s featured it’s Triple Chicken Patty Half Pounder Burger with American cheese, never to serve buffalo products again. And, Christmas lights and decorations adorned roadways and buildings, even though it was only July.
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Chapter 4
Lieutenant Columbus stood on the shore of Monica Lake, a man-made reservoir with a dam at the far end. Frustrated, he rechecked the GPS and lamented, “My gold is under the water!”
“Our gold,” corrected Major Lopez.
“How do we get to it?” asked Shaky Jake, peering into to water at fish swimming by.
“Blow the dam,” advised Lieutenant Columbus. “It is the only way.”
“The flood would reach all the way to Scorpion City,” commented Major Lopez. “We can’t do that.”
“It’s just scorpions,” argued Shaky Jake. “Who cares? Their underground holes are waterproof, anyway.”
“Probably,” conceded Major Lopez. “I don’t think Colonel Czerinski will go for it.”
“Ask him,” insisted Shaky Jake. “We could blame it on terrorists.”
“It would be mass murder,” insisted Major Lopez, crossing himself. “There might be repercussions, even an investigation.”
“Sure there might be injuries and death, but none of them serious,” argued Lieutenant Columbus.
“Damn those terrorists!” exclaimed Shaky Jake. “Have they no conscience? I’m tired of being poor. Blow it!”
* * * * *
Major Lopez called me on his phone to get approval to blow the dam.
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