“Medic? I don’t know anything about being a medic,” she protested. “Why me?”
“Because you fight like a girl,” answered Private Lopez.
“Macho pig,” shouted Private Ceausescu, throwing an entrenching tool. The small shovel clattered off his helmet “I’ll mess you up!”
“Puta,” responded Private Lopez. “Bring it on!”
“I can shoot as good as anyone in this platoon.,” said Private Ceausescu.
“You can nurse me anytime,” said Private Green, suggestively.
“You’re a good shot?” I asked. “Later you can show me how my rifle works. This type is new to me.”
“Are you sexually harassing me?” asked Private Ceausescu. “I won’t put up with that.”
“What does he mean, show me how my rifle works?” asked Lopez. “The corporal don’t know how to operate his M26A? I thought he was the Hero of East L.A.”
“He’s just got the hots for Ceausescu,” answered Private Kool. “He was joking.”
“Quiet!” I yelled. A green light flashed on my notepad. “Load up! Move out to the beam transfer station for jump!”
CHAPTER 8
If one could get past all the nuclear devastation, radioactivity, and death, the beauty of the planet at dawn was breathtaking. #100, the lowest ranking private in a company of imperial spider shock troops, had drawn guard duty, again. #100 didn’t mind. He liked the fresh air and was admiring the bright orange sun-up. No one bothered #100 or ordered him around when he was all by himself, guarding the entrance to the company’s underground habitat bunker. Web was strung about to detect movement. Web seemed so low tech, but it had advantages. No officer was going to sneak up on him. #100 didn’t like officers much. They were so arrogant. Officers thought they knew what is best for everyone. Officers were probably responsible for helping to start this war with the human pestilence. He didn’t really think much about why the war started. #100 was born into the military caste, so when the Emperor ordered the military to rid New Colorado of the human pestilence, he was willing to do his duty. The Emperor said the presence of the human pestilence in spider space was like a dagger being held at the throat of the Empire. That was enough for #100. The decision to invade a human colony was made by the Emperor, his Cabinet, and the General Staff. Those powers were much smarter than he was.
But none of that mattered to #100. Military life bored him. He longed to be a musician. However, the caste laws were inflexible without money. The war had started out as an adventure, but now it just interfered with his other interests. The human pestilence hadn’t put up much resistance. This planet did not have any kind of organized military. A few individuals fought with small firearms, but they soon died. The rest were rounded up, and the towns nuked. The only industry on this planet called ‘New Colorado’ by the human pestilence was underground mining. The human pestilence was similar to spiders in that they worked underground. #100 noticed humans tended to sleep above ground. Prisoners housed underground insisted that guards leave a light on. Very peculiar. A spider soldier could stay motionless in total darkness for days and not be bothered. Another oddity, the humans seemed to never stay still. They were always fidgeting or scurrying about. #100 guessed that was how low-tech creatures behaved.
Now, just when the war appeared to be over, the human star ships arrived and swept the Empire fleet from the heavens. It was a sucker punch, groused #100. They just appeared out of nowhere and hit when no one was looking. And then the human pestilence bombarded the grunts on the ground with nukes. Thousands of miles of tunnels and habitats protected the Empire’s entrenchment, but it meant everyone would be here a while. All the human pestilence accomplished was to ruin the planet’s ecology and fry a lot of our high-tech equipment. We are here to stay, swore #100.
Which reminded #100 to pull out his communications device and check in. After calling in, he used the device to play a video game. There was nothing left to do, now that the humans finally got tired of bombing the planet. Or maybe the humans ran out of bombs. Either way, now all they could do was wait for the Empire fleet to return. Boring. How to pass the time? #100 brightened. The only good that had come from fighting the human pestilence was the stimulants taken off the human prisoners. Coffee was great, but #100 had quickly consumed all his captured coffee. #100 pulled out a bottle of vodka from his bag and took a swig. Then he lit a cigarette. Tobacco. It was much better than the fungus grown in the tunnels back home. But, best of all was the marijuana. The stuff was so relaxing. #100 took out a baggie, rolled a cigarette, and lit up. Then he pulled out a sandwich and took a bite. The sun was just coming up. Spectacular. The sun’s rays shone through all the dust kicked up by the nukes. Awesome. #100 took off his camouflage head cloth to cool off. His exoskeleton was already heating up. It was going to be hot today. Along the tree line in front of him the glint of something metallic reflected off the sunlight. Now, what could that be?
* * * * *
Private Lopez spotted the spider almost immediately upon landing. The ‘spiders’ weren’t really spiders, but overall reminded people of spiders. Up close they had crablike features, especially on the face. The spiders walked on four legs, with four appendages for manipulation. Of these four arms, one had a large claw, deadly in appearance, but quite flexible with a sort of opposing thumb. Something akin to ‘hands’ fill out the other three arms. On the whole, they were ugly beyond belief.
Private Williams, the largest member of my platoon, trained his machine gun on the spider. I sent Lopez and Green to the flanks with instructions to get as close as possible. I watched the spider through my rifle scope. The sun was rising at our backs. I observed the spider sitting on a fallen log, rifle leaning to his side, eating and smoking. Suddenly he began talking on a radio. The spider took a drink from a large clear bottle, and coughed. Then the spider resumed eating and smoking.
I pulled the trigger once. Two bullets struck the spider’s chest. There was an explosion of body parts and red mist. The platoon advanced quickly from the flanks. Cautiously Private Lopez picked up the spider’s head, which had rolled away from the rest of the body parts. “Czerinski!” he called out, waving the head back and forth like a signal lantern. “I think you killed this one.”
I walked up to Lopez, studying the spider’s face. It was still twitching. Suddenly the spider’s eyes opened, and it hissed and screamed. Private Lopez flung the head away. “No, it’s still alive,” I said.
* * * * *
#100 felt disorientated being tossed about. He knew something was terribly wrong when he saw the human pestilence standing around him “I surrender!” #100 pleaded. “Please don’t kill me! Please! I have a family! Don’t kill me!”
* * * * *
None of us understood spider talk. Private Lopez picked the head up again, eyeballing it real close. He was still shaking from the shock. “Dios nos guarda todo. I think you’re right. It is still alive.”
Sergeant Wilson, who was remotely monitoring our helmet video cameras, asked, “Can you patch the spider up? Maybe military intelligence can interrogate it.”
Our pre-mission orders were to not take prisoners because of the atrocities committed by the spiders. It was rumored that the spiders took no prisoners, and that any human captives were eaten or implanted with spider eggs or larva, to act as a host.
I shrugged. “Medic! Over here!”
Private Ceausescu trotted over. “Someone hurt?” she asked.
“Sergeant Wilson wants to know if you can patch the prisoner up.”
“Got any duct tape?” asked Ceausescu, after looking at all the body parts and gore.
Lopez was still eyeballing the spider head, holding it at arms length. Suddenly the spider hissed, spitting out blood as large fangs protruded out of its mouth. “It’s a Chupacabra!” shouted Lopez, as he stuck his jagged combat knife into the spider’s eye socket.
“Sorry, Sergeant,” I said, on the radio. “We can’t save it. It was probably already dead. They’re a
little bit twitchy when they die. You know, like ants when you step on them.”
“Good shooting,” Ceausescu said to me. “I guess this means I won’t have to teach you how to use your gun.”
“Maybe later,” I said.
“There is a poem we all learned in basic training,” said Ceausescu, smiling. She used some crude hand gestures as she recited, “This is your rifle, this is your gun. This is for fighting, and this is for fun.” She winked, gave me a pat, and walked away. “Yeah, maybe later, big boy.”
“How hot is that!” snickered Private Kool.
“Hey private!” I called out to Ceausescu. “Don’t you know Sergeant Wilson can see everything we do on video camera?”
“Good! Screw you, Wilson!” Private Ceausescu yelled. She flipped the bird over her shoulder as she walked away.
“The captain says bag all body parts and equipment for military intelligence,” radioed Sergeant Wilson. “Bury it with a locator beacon, and a runner will pick it up later. Start searching the area for whatever that spider was guarding. Find his spider hole.”
Private Lopez and I picked through the spider’s remains. Vodka and cigarettes? Odd. Lopez picked out the baggie of marijuana and put it into his pocket. The spider wore a gold chain with a large clear crystal attached to it. “Think this is worth anything?” I asked Lopez.
“A fortune,” he replied, “if it’s a diamond.”
“Maybe we are fighting Mamelukes,” I suggested.
“Huh?”
“Mamelukes,” I repeated. “They fought Napoleon at the Battle of the Pyramids.”
“Pyramids! Man, what century you from?”
“Anyway, they carried their life’s savings on them, in gold and jewels. Like this spider. The Mamelukes fought with long curved swords. Napoleon’s troops got rich looting their bodies.”
“They deserved to die if they brought knives to a gun fight,” sniffed Private Lopez. “I carry my life’s savings with me, too. Which is nothing. So screw Napoleon. He’s just one more Euro-trash.”
I put the diamond and chain in my pouch. “Alright! The break is over. Everyone spread out. Find that spider hole,” I ordered. “Private Kool! Bury this mess!”
Private Green found the spider hole, hidden by a tree. It was huge. Big enough to fly equipment into. It went straight down and had ladders that disappeared into the darkness. Captain McGee came on the radio, “We need to find out what the spiders have down there, and if it’s inhabited. Scout it out.”
I nodded to Private Green. “Go down there and check it out. But be careful.”
Private Green looked down the dark spider hole, looked at me, looked down the hole again, looked at me again, and said, “Be careful? You can get your mamma to go down that hole and be careful. I ain’t going down there. No way, José. Screw you! Send Lopez. He wants to be a hero.”
“That’s an order from the captain,” I said.
“Screw the captain, too,” said Green. “Let the captain go down there.”
I walked over to the hole and looked down. Even with my enhanced vision, it was very dark. After shining my flashlight down the hole, it still seemed bottomless. I thought I could hear something moving down there, but maybe it was just my imagination. “Nesbit!” I hollered. “Get over here.”
Private Nesbit emerged from his camouflaged position on the perimeter. “I’m not going down there, either,” said Nesbit defiantly.
“You don’t have to,” I replied. “I’m moving the platoon to the other side of that hill.” I pointed. “When we get there, I want you to set the timer for five minutes and throw one of your nukes down the hole. Got it?”
“It has a timer?” asked Nesbit, pulling out one of the grenades and examining it.
“I think so,” I said. I had just assumed it had a timer. “Didn’t you read the directions before you took them out of the box?”
“There was no box,” argued Nesbit, who was starting to panic.
“Oh my God, the blind is leading the blind,” blurted out Private Lopez. “You’re the Hero of East L.A.? My ass.”
“Calm down and give me that thing,” I said, snatching the nuke from Nesbit. I turned it over looking for directions on the bottom. Nothing. “Didn’t the armor say anything to you when he issued it?”
“Yeah. Sergeant Mendoza said run like hell when I set it off,” answered Private Nesbit.
The nuke had timer buttons on it similar to the grenade I used to blow up the ATM. I pressed the ‘start’ button. The digital display started counting ... 29, 28, 27, 26. I pressed the ‘stop’ button. “Wrong button,” I mumbled, chuckling. Privates Lopez and Kool moved away., motioning the others to do the same. I then pressed ‘reset’ and then ‘set.’ I programmed in six minutes. “When I get to the top of the hill, I’ll wave. Then you press the ‘start’ button and throw the nuke down the hole. Then join us. Simple enough? Good.” I gave the nuke back to Nesbit, slapped him on the back, and ran like hell up the hill, following the rest of the platoon.
I glanced back over my shoulder and could see Nesbit trembling, with tears pouring down his face. Nesbit looked down the hole, like something was moving down there in the darkness. Nesbit looked at the rest of us running up the hill. “Czerinski, don’t leave me here,” he called out. He pushed the ‘start’ button, threw the nuke down the spider hole, and ran after the platoon. As we crested the hill, there was a rumble deep in the ground, like a California earthquake, followed by a huge explosion. The little valley below collapsed into a large sink hole. The blast knocked me off my feet. Dust covered us. Private Kool showed me the rad meter. The needle was jumping. “Not good,” he added.
“Listen up,” I called out, brushing dust off my uniform. “We are moving out! On the double! And everyone take another anti-rad pill! Move it, move it, move it!”
CHAPTER 9
In three days we nuked three more spider holes. The platoon was taking a break, sitting by a fourth spider hole and enjoying a cool radioactive breeze, when Sergeant Wilson’s voice came over the radio. “You and your platoon have been awarded a Presidential Citation for being the first ground forces to jump, the first to engage the enemy, and the first to nuke the spiders in their own holes. I’ve got the news media here wanting to talk to you about it.”
“This is Phil Coen of Channel Five World News Tonight, broadcasting almost live from New Colorado, talking with Corporal Joey Czerinski of the United States Galactic Foreign Legion’s First Division. Corporal Czerinski, how does it make you feel to have received a Presidential Citation?”
“Phil Coen?” I asked. “I thought you got thrown out an air lock.”
“I thought you were dead, too,” countered Coen. “We have all your helmet camera video of the action down there on New Colorado. Now we need some sound bites. How about it, Czerinski? Say a few words about the liberation of New Colorado.”
“I’d trade that Presidential Citation for the President paying off my ATM enlistment loan,” I said. “Otherwise, he can kiss my butt.”
“We can edit that out,” said Coen. “The public wants to see what the Hero of East L.A. is doing at the front. Give us something good. And don’t screw this sound bite up or it will be your ass, Czerinski.”
“Okay, fine,” I said, shrugging. “We swept in at dawn. The spiders, blinded by the sun in their many eyes, didn’t have a chance. We cut them down unmercifully. Private Nesbit, with total disregard for his own safety, nuked an entire company of spider commandos. Private Lopez engaged the enemy in hand to claw combat, stabbing a spider commando through the eye. Medic Ceausescu tried to patch up a wounded spider, but the bug just kind of fell apart. Also, we found looted personal effects from missing colonists. We are still investigating what happened to them. I expect the worst.”
“Great! Good work,” said Coen. “Can you put Ceausescu on the video camera? It will make a good human interest story to get a female legionnaire’s perspective from the front.”
As I turned to look at Private Ceausesc
u, the camera panned to the right and zoomed in on her. “Screw you, Sergeant Wilson!” said Ceausescu, still upset as she flipped the bird at the camera. “Come join us, and I’ll shoot your other foot off – and more!”
“And that was medic Ceausescu gesturing about what she thinks of the spiders,” said Coen. “Cut! We will do some editing on that, too. No problem. We have enough. By the way, Sergeant Wilson won’t be joining you. He is staying back at base camp in his new capacity as liaison for the press and all things video-related.”
“Good place for him,” I responded.
* * * * *
We searched in a grid pattern. Rooting out the spiders began in earnest as the rest of the First Division landed. Captain McGee was so happy about all the good press his company got that he promoted me to staff sergeant and made Lopez a corporal. Even Sergeant Wilson got another stripe. We had no more contact with the enemy. When the platoon made camp at the fourth spider hole, we enjoyed the downtime.
This spider hole had iron doors on it. Nesbit was about to nuke it when Captain McGee ordered us to wait for the engineers to blow it. The locals were complaining about all the nukes being set off. Something about the damage to the environment. Okay, so ... a tree is a tree. How many more do we need to look at? Don’t they know there’s a war going on?
Another problem was that every time we set off a nuke, the spiders would pop out of a hole and shoot a nuke back at us. I guess that made the headquarters geeks nervous.
It was pleasant just lying there in the evening shade doing nothing but watching the starships in orbit go by. My feet hurt. We couldn’t go anywhere anyway because supply hadn’t caught up with us. We still had plenty of ammo, but we were short on food. I got bored, so when the engineers didn’t show up on time, I blew a small hole in the iron doors with my rifle mini-grenades.
America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 1: Feeling Lucky Page 5