* * * * *
A month later, I ordered Lieutenant Barker and G Company to guard the grand opening of the new Window Rock Post Office. I also sent a Legion band to assist with the ceremony.
The Mayor of Window Rock gave a speech on the steps of the Post Office. “I hope we can build a foundation for peace as solid as the bricks and mortar of which this fine new post office is built,” bellowed the mayor to a small crowd gathered out front on the street. “From the ashes of our downtown, a new Window Rock is being built, bigger and more impressive than before.”
“Politicians are nothing but old windbags, no matter what species they are,” commented Lieutenant Barker to Sergeant Toock. They sat comfortably down the street atop the turret of an armored car, watching for trouble.
“Encouraging democracy among spiders is a waste of time and effort,” added Sergeant Toock. “Their low IQ requires authoritarian leaders to guide them. That’s just common knowledge.”
“I agree,” said Lieutenant Barker. “That’s exactly why they have an Emperor. How about I appoint you Mayor of Window Rock?”
“An ant mayor?” asked Sergeant Toock. “I would be lynched, or they would send you a video of my slow and painful death by beheading.”
* * * * *
Phil Coen of Channel Five World News Tonight provided commentary for the grand opening of the Post Office. As Coen listened to the mayor’s speech, a spider rushed forward from the crowd and pointed a pistol at Coen’s head. The gun jammed. The spider fumbled with the pistol, trying to force the slide back to clear the round. Its human design made the attempt awkward. Private Valdez, standing next to Coen, working crowd control, shot the spider several times. The crowd scattered as errant rounds went past or hit dirt. The mayor stopped his speech and ran down the street.
Dynamite charges hidden under the Post Office steps exploded, killing several city council members and most of the Legion musicians. Insurgent snipers atop the new Window Rock Hotel fired at legionnaires below.
Sergeant Toock fired a 50 cal machine gun at the hotel roof. Bullets pinged off his armored car. A blue Toyota pickup truck sped around the corner on a direct course to ram Toock’s armored car. Sergeant Toock swiveled the turret and fired at the approaching truck, riddling the truck with bullets and killing the driver. However, momentum carried the truck forward, and it crashed into the armored car. Explosives in the truck detonated, knocking the armored car on to its side. Fuel ignited. Lieutenant Barker was knocked unconscious. Sergeant Toock lay seriously injured.
A Legion jet flew low overhead, dropping five-hundred-pound bombs on top of the Window Rock Hotel. Other buildings were rocketed by helicopter gunships. Corporal Wayne ran through the smoke and debris to the burning armored car, pulling both Lieutenant Barker and Sergeant Toock out by their shirt collars.
“I predicted you might see me die,” said Sergeant Toock, looking up as Corporal Wayne dragged him away from the fire. “But I did not think it would be so soon.”
“Too bad, but I think you will live,” commented Corporal Wayne, dropping Sergeant Toock on the sidewalk. “We should have nuked Window Rock a month ago.”
“My injuries are compartmentalized by my exoskeleton,” advised Sergeant Toock, removing duct tape from his first aid pouch. “Leave me. Get medical assistance for Lieutenant Barker!”
Air strikes continued. G Company withdrew to the edge of town, where it directed artillery at suspected insurgent positions. By the end of the day, most of Window Rock lay in ruins or was burning. A long column of refugees could be seen heading north to the safety of the border and the Arthropodan Empire.
* * * * *
I checked the database for Lieutenant Valerie Smith, United States Marine Corps. I found her. Valerie died at the start of the Chinese American War. She was awarded the Distinguished Service Medal posthumously for her heroic actions in defense of our embassy in Beijing. I wired flowers to her gravesite. The next day I received an email saying, “Thank you for the flowers. Have we met?”
“Sort of,” I texted back. “I had a dream about you. How is that possible?”
“It has been a long time since a man has dreamed of me,” texted Lieutenant Smith. “May I access your personnel file?”
“No.”
“Please, colonel,” said Valerie. “I want to make sure I’m not talking to some pervert fascinated by the dead.”
“Okay, fine,” I said. What harm could come of communicating across the galaxy to a dead person’s imprint memorial?
“You are a handsome war hero of the Foreign Legion,” gushed Valerie. “How very exotic.”
“How is it that I have come to talk to you?” I asked.
“Smith is a common name,” said Valerie. “Maybe it was just chance that your subconscious picked that name.”
“But I knew your full name and rank,” I argued. “And I knew you were buried at Arlington. This is weird.”
“I call it destiny,” said Valerie. “I normally don’t have sex on the first date, but I would certainly make an exception for you, my brave hero of the Legion.”
“What?” I typed. “You are dead.”
“You would have to remind me of that,” cried Valerie. “I am hoping someday technological advances surprise both of us.”
“Necrophilia isn’t my thing,” I said. “No way.”
“That was rude. Don’t you know a woman still needs to feel desirable? You have made me cry.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be mean. How can you cry? You are not real.”
“You are an ogre.”
“I said I was sorry. What more do you want?”
“If you were at all sensitive, you would have lied to me,” said Valerie. “You should tell me you want to make passionate love to me.”
This is out of control, I thought. She is dead! “Fine. If I could, I would kiss you from your head to your toes, and make love to you all night, my dear Valerie.”
“Oh, really?” said Valerie. “My computer chips are glowing red hot!”
“That is more info than I needed,” I texted. Then I had a dark thought. “Have you ever been in communication contact with an ATM?”
“ATM? No. I have no use for money. I have my own pension money that I use to decorate my tombstone on holidays, but I have no need of an ATM.”
“Are you a spy for the spiders?” I asked. “Are you with the insurgency?” How could I be so stupid to allow a virus to sucker me? I thought.
“Lover, I am an imprint memorial of Lieutenant Valerie Smith, United States Marine Corps. How dare you accuse me of being a traitor! I gave my life for my country!”
“I’m sorry,” I texted again. “I need to be cautious. The spiders are very sneaky. I don’t want to catch a virus.”
“Then use a condom!” suggested Valerie.
“What?” I asked. “You have a one-track mind.”
“And this comment comes from a man? You contacted me first. Remember?”
“I have to go,” I said. “My world is calling me.”
“Please do not go for long. Remember to tell the medics that if you die, you want to be frozen so a memorial imprint can be manufactured. Then we can be together forever in Arlington.”
“LOL,” I texted. “Sorry, Val. The Legion fights on the Frontier. There will be no freezing of my brain here on New Colorado. Bye, babe.”
“Bye, sweetie. I will miss my handsome brave legionnaire lover. Hugs and smooches.”
* * * * *
“I want to borrow five million dollars,” I said.
“You are reenlisting again?” asked the ATM. “Great! You are making a wise decision, Colonel Czerinski. You have been one of my most important and productive legionnaire recruits. I see a promotion to general in your future. I am so proud of your accomplishments.”
“Shut up, fool,” I said. “Give me the five million dollars, and I’ll be done with you. It’s just a short-term loan. I’ll pay it back in one year.”
“You had better,” s
aid the ATM, printing out the necessary loan contract, including fine print. “As you already know, if you fail to repay the loan on time, your enlistment will be extended ten years, and I will garnish your death benefits, if it ever comes to that.”
“Whatever,” I said.
“What are you going to do with the money?” asked the ATM. “It is my understanding that you are already quite wealthy.”
“I am going to hi-jack a rainbow and crash into a pot of gold,” I said, as the ATM scanned my card.
“Oh? That means you are going to gamble it away again. You really should consider counseling for your gambling problem.”
“”I have a line on a sure thing,” I boasted.
“I might be interested in some of your action,” commented the ATM. “I have noticed that in spite of your obvious gambling addiction, sometimes you get lucky. Tell me about your sure thing.”
“All I have to do is keep Lieutenant Laika Barker alive for one year,” I explained. “New Memphis bookies have promised to take all the action I throw their way, as long as Barker stays on assignment in the New Gobi Desert.”
“You plan to bet five million dollars?” asked the ATM.
“No,” I said. “I am betting ten million dollars. At last check, the odds were even money. I am hoping the line increases once word gets out about Barker’s past.”
“The odds have already changed to ten-to-one,” advised the ATM. “The word is already out. But it may be too late. Lieutenant Barker may have been killed in action minutes ago in Window Rock. Initial reports are just now coming in. I will know more as the medical helicopters arrive with wounded.”
“No!” I yelled. “He can’t die yet!”
“If you want, I will place the bets for you as soon as I verify Lieutenant Barker survived,” said the ATM.
“Place the bet now, while the odds are still high,” I ordered. “Will any New Memphis bookie accept a ten million dollar bet at ten to one odds?”
“The bookies are insured and bonded by a large intergalactic cartel,” advised the ATM. “They can easily take your action and pay off if you win. Of course, they might not be happy with you. And the obvious conflict of interest might prevent the wager from being approved, and cause you untold legal issues.”
“Place the bet in the name of Lieutenant Valerie Smith, U.S. Marine Corps retired,” I said.
“According to database records, Lieutenant Smith is dead, not retired,” said the ATM. “This is highly irregular. What is your relationship with Lieutenant Smith’s estate?”
“Valerie is my tax shelter. And she solves the conflict of interest issue.”
“It is done,” said the ATM. “The bet is placed and accepted.”
* * * * *
I sent an explanation of my scheme to Valerie, and she agreed to help.
“This is almost like having a shared checking account,” said Valerie. “It’s like being married, but without the sex.”
“Married?” I asked. “No. This is business.”
“Let me have my fantasies,” texted Valerie. “I want you inside me, lover.”
“You’re sounding too easy,” I said. “Cool it.”
“Are you calling me a slut?” asked Valerie. “I can be anything you want me to me. I’ll be your slut any day.”
“NO!” I typed. “STOP THAT!”
“You do not have to yell,” texted Valerie. “I am crying again. See what you caused? I am not so sure I want to do business with you anymore.”
“Okay, I’m sorry again,” I typed frantically. “Honey, you are right. I’m just a bit stressed. The prospect of a hundred million dollar payoff is very romantic. In fact, it’s so hot, I’m about to pop a cork. I just want to make your computer chips so HOT, you will need to install a new fan and add more ceramic insulation. Oh, baby!”
“Sweetie, you can overheat my circuits anytime,” gushed Valerie. “Let me help handle your stress – mmm!”
“My world is calling me,” I said. “A legionnaire colonel’s work is never done. Bye, babe.”
“Your world calls you too often,” pouted Valerie. “Can’t you delegate the fighting to someone else?”
“I did,” I said. “But now I have wounded coming in by helicopter. I’ll download you some pictures so you can appreciate what it is like here on the Frontier.”
“I’m sorry,” said Valerie. “I understand. Hugs and smooches.”
* * * * *
I met the medical helicopters at the New Gobi General Hospital landing pad. Doctors advised that Lieutenant Barker was concussed and in shock, but otherwise stable. Public reaction to the destruction of Window Rock was good. Phil Coen of Channel Five World News Tonight toned down his rhetoric. Perhaps a legionnaire saving his life mellowed him a bit. Coen accurately described the insurgent ambush.
A traffic camera recorded for TV news the scene just after G Company was forced out of Window Rock. Graphic video showed spiders dragging the dead bodies of legionnaire band members through the streets while spider onlookers cheered or struck the bodies with clubs. Other spiders could be seen dancing atop an overturned armor car, blowing on trumpets and trombones. One spider waved an American helmet. Coen actually cheered, “Good riddance!” when an air strike killed most of the spider mob.
General Kalipetsis called me on a secure line shortly after the TV broadcast. “Good work at Window Rock,” he said. “It’s about time we cleaned out that spider nest once and for all.”
“Thank you, sir,” I replied.
“I am calling you about another matter,” said General Kalipetsis. “Computerized scans and intercepts of planetary and galactic communications systems indicate underworld types are going to assassinate someone important in New Gobi. Who did you piss off this time, and why?”
“I don’t know. The Mafia usually stays away from me and New Gobi.”
“Does that mean you aren’t going to tell me?” asked General Kalipetsis. “Fine. I don’t care, as long as you handle it without bad press. I just thought you should get a heads-up that mob men are headed your way.”
“And I appreciate that, sir,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do to give them a special New Gobi welcome.”
“You do that,” said General Kalipetsis, hanging up.
“I turned to Captain Lopez. “Go to the airport and see if you can intercept any Mafioso types,” I ordered.
“How am I supposed to do that?” asked Captain Lopez. “A hit man could be anyone, even a female.”
“Take Corporal Guido Tonelli along with you. He might recognize someone.”
“You want me to profile and question all Italians?” asked Captain Lopez. “That is a waste of time. It won’t work.”
“Not my problem,” I said. “Just do it!”
* * * * *
Captain Lopez and Guido stood at the boarding ramp, greeting passengers from incoming commuter flights. Lopez held up a cardboard sign that read, “Mafia hit men follow me.” The sign drew a few stares, but no takers. It was not until a late afternoon flight that a small, swarthy man with an Australian accent strode up to Captain Lopez. “Good day, mate,” said the Australian, cheerfully. “I’m glad to see someone out here in the bush has a proper sense of humor. Who are you?”
“I am your ride downtown to the Marriott Hotel,” replied Captain Lopez.
“And who might this bloke be?” asked the Australian, nodding at Guido.
“The chauffeur.” said Guido. “You don’t look much like a wise guy to me.”
“Not looking the part helps me to do a proper job, mate,” said the Australian. “You were expecting one of your bumbling Italian blokes? Not a chance. Besides, I am the best.”
“I’m not sure what I expected,” said Captain Lopez. “I was just told to assist you in any way possible.”
“My question for you is,” said the Australian, “if you legionnaires are already on board with this contract, why was I hired? Why don’t you just take care of Lieutenant Barker yourself? It seems to me that it wo
uld be a lot less trouble and a lot less expensive for you locals to take care of Barker in-house than it would be to pay me to fly out here all the way from Old Earth.”
“We may have other contracts for you,” explained Captain Lopez.
“Crikey, that will cost a lot extra,” exclaimed the Australian. “I prefer to do one hit at a time, then get out quickly. It’s bad form to get too greedy, and it’s not worth the risk to draw more heat than necessary.”
“There is a lot of money involved,” promised Captain Lopez, nodding to the taxi loading area. “We’ll make it worth your while.”
As they turned to leave, Guido struck the Australian across the back of the head with the butt of his rifle. Guido handcuffed and searched the Australian, finding no weapons. Guido bagged whatever possessions the hapless hit man from Down Under had. Later they discovered that innocent items, such as pens, a cell phone, and even a fake fingernail, were in fact deadly covert weapons rigged to dispense nerve agent.
I ordered the Australian hung by the neck from atop the flagpole in front of City Hall. A sign placed at the base of the flagpole read, ‘Mafia go home. It’s not worth the money. The New Gobi Desert will parch your bones.’
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Chapter 5
“Are you still giving arms to the insurgents in New Gobi?” asked the spider Governor of the North Territory.
“They only get old captured human weapons,” answered the Commander of New Gobi. “That way there is no direct link to us.”
“It seems like more trouble than it is worth,” said the governor. “We risk war with the human pestilence while at the same time we give weapons to fanatics we cannot control. The whole scheme could backfire. And now we have to deal with refugees from Window Rock.”
America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 5: Insurgency Page 3