“I thought we were partners. Besides, we need the Americans to help fight the Communists. The CIA promises to rain death from the sky on Che Guevara. They can do it. They’re going to the moon, you know.”
“We’re not crawling to the all-powerful Americans. I don’t need their military or DEA snooping around my island.”
“But Che Guevara...”
“Shut up with Che Guevara! What is Guevara, the boogeyman? Should I tremble at mere mention of his name?
“I just want to bring major league baseball to Cuba,” explained Lopez reasonably. “Did I mention we both get lifetime season box-seat tickets? The Americans will build a grand air-conditioned stadium, with a retractable roof.”
“What do I care of baseball and retractable roofs?”
“Chicks dig baseball, and I intend to score a lot.”
“Soccer is the future. It’s a worldly man’s game, so if you want to build stadiums, build soccer stadiums.”
“Soccer is for sissies.”
“You’re calling me a sissy?” exploded Montana, reaching in his pants for his pistol.
Lopez’s bodyguards were faster, spraying Montana with sub-machine gun fire. Montana fell back into the fountain, a bloody mess. Say hello to all my little friends.
“Tony, you should have listened,” cried Lopez, genuinely grieving. “I’ll miss you, man, but I’ll get over it by opening day of baseball season. For the record, I made this happen, too. It’s not just about you, bendaho! And the Americans? If they can land on the moon, they can land on Che Guevara, big-time. See if they don’t!”
Chapter 27
When the lunar module landed on the Sea of Tranquility, Commander Ted Williams took the first steps on the moon. Neil Armstrong watched from the hatchway. Posing for the camera, Williams tossed up a baseball, striking it squarely with his bat. It was a home run for America, one great swing for mankind. Moments later, the ball was returned to Commander Williams by a spider-like alien wearing a spacesuit. First Contact was made during prime time. Aliens were no longer science fiction.
“Holy shit!” blurted Commander Williams, signing the ball for the alien autograph seeker. “That’s going to be worth a lot of money someday.”
“Welcome to the moon, human pestilence,” replied the alien. “It’s about time you got here. I am the ambassador for the Arthropodan Empire, sent to make first contact with your governments.”
“What the fuck?”
“We come in peace, not to fornicate.”
“Ted, this is Houston,” interrupted NASA Director John Blyler. “Watch your language. You’re on national TV, and the American people are watching. This is a family channel. Just do it. You’re making history up there.”
“Sorry, Houston. We’ve got a problem. We’re not alone. It’s fucking unbelievable.”
“I can see that. Who are you talking to?”
“Aliens.”
“Mexicans?”
“No, Martians.”
“No way. It’s a Russian trick. We’re on the moon first! You got that? No smoke and mirrors this time.”
“I’ll be coming home in a flying saucer,” boasted Commander Williams. “This is fucking unbelievable!”
“Oh, hell no,” replied Director Blyler, zooming in for a close-up shot of the alien. “You’re not leaving the lunar module behind on the moon and returning with aliens. Do you have any idea how much that thing costs?”
“No, sir. How much?”
“It’s probably a lot.”
“I want to treaty with your President Patton,” demanded the alien ambassador. “Is that a problem?”
“You know of President Patton?” asked Commander Williams incredulously. “How is that?”
“We’re fellow Republicans,” the alien said, snickering at his inside joke. “Of course I want to meet the leader of the free human pestilence world. Make it happen.”
“President Patton will be on the radio shortly,” advised Director Blyler. “It will take a few minutes. I’m putting transmissions on scramble for security reasons.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve got a mission for you, Williams,” said Director Blyler in a hushed tone. “See that fancy patch on that alien’s shoulder? I want you to trade a NASA patch for the alien patch. It will look great in my collection.”
“Will do, sir.”
“I knew I could count on you, Ted. You’re a team player.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Gentlemen, the President of the United States.”
“It’s not Commie bastards up there after all?” asked General Patton enthusiastically. “Finally, some good news. I told you so. Those Russian Mongols couldn’t put a tin can atop the Kremlin, let alone land a spaceship on the moon. Let’s get right to it. You aliens want to make a deal?”
“You aliens?” the Arthropodan Ambassador echoed derisively.
“Martians ... little green men ... whatever. Out with it. Let’s rewrite history.”
“I propose an exchange of ambassadors, and assistance to you human pestilence in taking a responsible place among the galaxy of nations,” the alien ambassador read from a wrist teleprompter. “It’s an offer you can’t refuse, if you know what’s good for you. In exchange for an economic and military alliance, and Starbucks coffee, we will transfer technology beyond your wildest dreams.”
“Did you just call us human pestilence?” asked President Patton. “That won’t work. It’s a politically-incorrect slur. No more use of the ‘P-word.’ Don’t you know we’re on TV? Lord knows I don’t need any more bad press. God damn limp-dick Commie pinko liberals, they’ve been out to get me for years!”
“I speak for the Emperor. Personally, I think we should have nuked you Earth-scum in your infancy, back when you were dinosaur toe jam. Humanity’s germ needs to be quarantined, but does the Emperor listen? No! You only get to live because that decision is above my pay grade.”
“Don’t worry, we can edit that one out,” replied President Patton uneasily. “Hypothetically, not that I would ever do it, but could you nuke the Russians without them blaming America? You know, a surprise attack that wipes out those Commie bastards once and for all?”
“Not without an Environmental Impact Statement,” answered the alien ambassador. “Sorry, but the paperwork would be horrendous.”
“How about Red China?”
“The Empire is not involving itself in your petty internal human pestilence squabbles.”
“Damn.”
“In exchange for an alliance, the Empire will lift humanity out of the Stone Age. America will get the Internet first. What more can I do to make this deal happen?”
“We get the Internet first? High-speed satellite? You’ve got a deal, mister!”
* * * * *
History was made on the Day of First Contact. School children still recite ‘holy shit’ and ‘what the fuck’ as the first words uttered by humanity’s man on the moon. Nike got proprietary trademark rights to ‘just do it’ and ‘it’s fucking unbelievable’ on their tee-shirts and tennis shoes. Nike paid aliens to wear Swooshstickas on their spacesuits. As promised, Commander Ted Williams rode home in an alien starship, and NASA Director John Blyler got an alien shoulder patch for his collection. Neil Armstrong faded to a mere footnote of galactic exploration history.
* * * * *
Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev flew to Washington, D.C. to personally meet the aliens at the United Nations before the Americans could strike a deal or contaminate the aliens with capitalist bourgeois ways. President Patton snubbed Khrushchev, not greeting him at the airport. Khrushchev’s motorcade sped a direct route as anxious crowds waved and cheered. The public highly anticipated that the aliens would help breach icy East-West relations. Many felt the end of the Cold War was in sight.
A pretty twelve year old girl, her hair done up in bright gold old-style Eastern European peasant braids, wearing a blue and yellow dress and waving a bouquet of flowers, stepped in front of Khrushchev’s lim
ousine. The limousine screeched to an abrupt stop. The Premier rolled down his window, smiling, hoping for a photo opportunity in the American and world press. Khrushchev held out his hand for the gift of flowers as cameras zoomed in and security guards scrambled.
“This is for Ukraine!” shouted the peasant girl, tossing the flowers aside as she gave Khrushchev the one-fingered salute. “Burn in Hell, you Russian pig. Damn katsaps!”
“What did we do to the Ukraine this time?” asked Khrushchev to an aide seated beside him.
“Nothing lately,” answered Boris Yeltsin, pouring a vodka. “Americans! They take their free speech way too far. Are we there yet?”
“Schedule a purge in the Ukraine when we get back,” ordered Khrushchev, annoyed. “Have the KGB find out about that little street urchin, too. This was a CIA setup.”
“Yes, comrade. Those bastards. We’ll attack at midnight. It’s more evil that way.”
“Driver, drive!” Khrushchev ordered as he struggled to roll up the window.
* * * * *
Lee Harvey Oswald sighted Premier Khrushchev through his telescopic scope. It would be an easy shot. The fool even stopped by that grassy berm to talk to that stupid girl. Fortunately, she stepped away in time for a good shot. President Patton didn’t show, so that short fat Russian would have to do.
The first bullet struck Khrushchev in the head, splattering blood and vodka all over Yeltsin. Yeltsin gulped another vodka before ducking behind the seat. Two more bullets ripped through Khrushchev’s shoulder and side, but the Russian premier was already dead. A fourth shot ricocheted off the limousine roof.
Oswald dropped his rifle and ran down the stairs. Once outside, he was immediately confronted by Secret Service Special Agent J.D. Tippit. As Oswald reached for a hidden revolver, Tippit fired five rounds from his .45 into Oswald’s chest. A last bullet to the head made sure Oswald was dead.
Chapter 28
Aliens landed their shuttle on the White House lawn to meet the President Patton. Their ambassador brought more shoulder patches to exchange, knowing the human pestilence loved worthless trinkets. The President grudgingly gave up an old Third Army patch. Joint Chief of Staff General Elisha Smith produced a Ninth Infantry Division ‘cookie’ patch. As Chief of Staff, I produced a Green Bay Packers logo. Go cheese heads! NASA director John Blyler brought a commemorative NASA patch of a human hand and alien claw shaking hand and claw. ‘We come in peace’ was driveled across the top.
“Very touchy-feely,” said the alien ambassador, scanning the lettering with his translation device. “Where are your Russian brothers?”
“Late as usual,” answered President Patton dismissively. “Those Bolsheviks are a shifty unreliable lot, untrustworthy to the core. They’re always getting drunk, and attacking Eastern Europe.”
“Russians love their vodka,” I conceded jovially. “They’re like children, except different, with AK-47s.” I eyed the aliens, appalled that the Arthropodan Empire had reached Earth three hundred years before they even knew humanity existed in my timeline. I smelled a spider-rat. Something didn’t seem right.
“I could use a drink,” commented the alien ambassador. “Mind if I light up, if it’s going to be a while before the Russians arrive?”
“To hell with those Commie bastards!” exclaimed President Patton, already not liking the smell of the alien’s cigarette. “America runs this planet.”
“Is that tobacco you’re smoking?” asked FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover, ever suspicious, not liking the pungent smell wafting through the White House.
“What can we do for you?” interrupted President Patton, getting into the blue smoke that reminded him of some good shit he smoked in Morocco during the War. “You’ve come a long way to make a deal. Let’s make it happen.”
“Our scientists are prepared to bestow upon you human pestilence the latest beam transport technology. In return, we want your promise that humans and Arthropodans will leave peacefully together and share planetary resources in the future.”
“What planetary resources?” asked President Patton incredulously, seeing the aliens in a new light. “You trying to take us over?” Why had he not seen it before? The stoic critters wore harsh black military uniforms, looking just like God damn Nazis. “No way in hell. You bugs can go fuck yourselves.”
“Pervert,” bristled the alien ambassador, having to be restrained by aides. “You human pestilence live in the Stone Age on your quaint little third rock from the sun at the edge of the civilized galaxy. You need us to escape your watery cage!”
“No wonder they wouldn’t nuke the Russians for us,” whispered President Patton to General Smith. “They’re planning to round us up and–”
“We’re at the dawn of a new age of exploration and understanding,” interrupted NASA Director John Blyler, the voice of reason. “America has the chance to boldly kick ass and go where no man has kicked ass before.”
“What are you babbling about now?” asked President Patton, getting more irritated.
“Space, the final frontier. Seek out new life, new civilizations. Funding for a five-year mission!”
“If we don’t do the deal, the Russians will,” cautioned General Smith. “Do you want that?”
“Fine,” relented President Patton. “But we’re keeping this secret. No one can know we sold out to the aliens, especially with the mid-term elections coming up.”
“We come in peace,” insisted the alien ambassador contritely.
“You can blow ‘we come in peace’ out your ass,” replied President Patton. “Inspectors will travel to your home world to make sure you don’t screw us over. You will make no deals with the Russians or the Chinese. Are we clear on that?”
“Most certainly,” agreed the alien ambassador. “I promise no deals with the Commie bastards.”
“Good alien. Are you sure you can’t drop an asteroid on Moscow?”
“We could, but it might cause a planet-wide extinction.”
“That would be bad,” added Director Blyler. “Very bad.”
“Whatever. Find out what’s in those alien cigarettes.”
“Stop!” shouted Boris Yeltsin, brushing past Secret Service agents to interrupt the Oval Office capitalist conspirators. “Sorry I’m late. I got caught up in one of your bourgeois Washington, D.C., traffic jams. We don’t have such nonsense in the Soviet Union. I have my own lane painted down the center of Stalin Boulevard so I can do the workers’ business without delays.”
“Care for a drink?” I offered, handing Yeltsin a margarita. “Where’s Khrushchev?”
“He got shot. I’m outraged at your messy American security procedures.”
“Sorry.”
“Khrushchev is old news,” added Yeltsin, gulping another drink. “I’m running Russia now.”
“You’re not going to attack Eastern Europe again, are you?” asked the alien ambassador, alarmed at the red-faced human pestilence leader of the unfree world. “We come in peace.”
“Sure you do.”
“My condolences for your loss.”
Yeltsin took a good look at the spider alien. “Holy shit, it’s true!” he exclaimed. “Giant little green men. Usually I don’t see monsters this early in the day, but there you are. You male or female?”
“I am a male of our species,” replied the alien ambassador indignantly.
“Don’t throw a hissy-fit. I don’t see nothing dangling down there. It’s not my fault you aliens got no balls.”
“The Emperor wishes to sign a non-aggression trade pact with humanity. The United States has been quite cooperative.”
“I’ll bet they have,” said Yeltsin, eying the Americans suspiciously. “Don’t trust capitalists. They’ll sell their own mother to make a profit.”
“Is that true?” asked the alien ambassador, turning to President Patton. “Human pestilence are for sale?”
“We got rid of slavery long ago,” explained President Patton. “It’s he law, somewhere in the Constitution.�
��
“I’ve got gulags full of canceled Czechs and political malcontents you can buy,” offered Yeltsin. “They’re hard workers, smart, and weather resistant. Let’s make a deal. I’ll trade you for lasers and ray-guns.”
“I have no weaponry to offer, only intergalactic beam-transport technology.”
“What, you think I want to take a vacation to the moon? I’ve got almost a billion Chinese just across the border, chomping at the bit to invade Mother Russia. Can’t you at least sell me some poison gas or nasty bio-weapons? You’re holding out on me!”
“We intend to help humanity out of the Stone Age, not bomb you back into it,” explained the spider ambassador. “You human pestilence will be free to explore the universe, and all its secrets.”
“I see,” pondered Yeltsin, slumping in a nearby chair. “My people need to be kept busy. Otherwise, they become counter-revolutionary. Are you sure you can’t help me with my Chinese problem? You must have something lethal lying about, like giant Chinese-eating caterpillars, or space monsters.”
“No.”
“What kind of pussy-bugs are you?”
“We come in peace.”
Chapter 29
Boris Yeltsin, acting Premier of the Soviet Union, got wasted, more than usual. He woke from his three-day drunk in the Lincoln Bedroom. Negotiations had been brutal, and he deserved the break. He cautiously surveyed the damage. Vodka bottles lay strewn everywhere. New York hookers decorated the bed. An aide handed Yeltsin a copy of the Washington Post. Yeltsin put on his reading glasses, happily seeing he was featured on the front page, something about the Nobel Peace Prize.
“What the hell? I freed who?”
“East Germany, Poland, Hungary, Romania, Czechoslovakia, and Bulgaria,” answered the aide. “You really screwed the Siberian husky this time.”
“No more Iron Curtain?”
“Nope. I just watched the Berlin Wall torn down on American TV. Capitalist pigs are selling pieces of the Wall on the Jewelry Channel. Ratings are through the roof.”
America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 21: Breaking Very Bad Page 14