“That speech sucked,” replied Captain Lopez. “Next time, I’ll give you cards to read. Get back out there and tell your men something they want to hear!”
I faced my legionnaires again. “I am ordering all company commanders to give everyone in the battalion a three-day pass. Also, I am buying every one of you brave lean-mean-fighting-machines two beers at the Blind Tiger Tavern. Bring your ID to show the bartender. Have a good weekend!”
Legionnaires cheered wildly as I walked off. “Not bad, eh?” I asked Captain Lopez. “I rebound well. Am I The Man or what?”
“Good save,” commented Captain Lopez, grudgingly. “But you’re so cheap. Is that all your life is worth? Two free beers? You will make that back many times over in gambling revenues from them.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” I said, as I waved at my men. “I’m a businessman. I still have to turn a profit. Keep smiling. Remember, they all carry guns and grenades.”
We waved and nodded at the troops as they departed en masse for the Blind Tiger Tavern. Many were singing old Legion songs from antiquity. ‘I want to be an Airborne Ranger; live a life of constant danger. I want to go to Vietnam; I want to kill a Charlie Cong!’
* * * * *
After General Kalipetsis’ last visit, my tropical office plants at Legion Headquarters died. I couldn’t prove it, but I suspected General Kalipetsis killed them. The general was last seen loitering about my mini palms. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now I wondered. General Kalipetsis made a comment about how healthy my plants appeared. He said I had a green thumb, but he was snickering. Now, all the leaves had dropped off, and I needd to rake my office floor. That bastard!
Then General Kalipetsis called me on the phone today to ‘chitchat.’ He asked if there was anything new. When I failed to complain about my indoor jungle dying, General Kalipetsis mentioned how much he admired my office plants, and asked about where I bought them. He said he wanted plants just like mine for his office at Legion Headquarters in New Phoenix. I told General Kalipetsis that I was admiring how well my plants looked as we spoke. He abruptly hung up.
I rushed to the New Gobi Nursery to buy replacement plants before General Kalipetsis’ next inspection tour. I didn’t want to give General Kalipetsis the satisfaction of knowing his evil plot to kill my office plants succeeded. There will be payback. Someday Kalipetsis will pick teeth out of his beard.
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Chapter 11
David Torres entered the Blind Tiger Tavern, played a few hands of blackjack, and left. As Torres mounted his dirt bike, he nodded to three insurgents out front. Two humans and a spider quickly entered the Blind Tiger. They threw grenades at the customers, then escaped through the smoke and chaos. As deputies, legionnaires, and ambulance crews arrived, a car bomb exploded out front.
Five minutes later, David Torres joined Desert Claw and other insurgents at the First Colonial Bank of New Gobi. They entered the bank, pointing assault rifles and demanding cash. Two minutes later, they were speeding away on dirt bikes through the streets of New Gobi with their loot.
Video identified David Torres and Desert Claw as participants in today’s bombings and robbery. I ordered Private Barker to my office for questioning.
“I told you they were plotting bank robberies,” said Private Barker. “Did you beef up security at banks? No, that would be too simple.”
“Where do you think they are hiding now?” I asked.
“Renting a safe house is no problem. They could be anywhere. Torres and Desert Claw have used the Miranda homestead, but I doubt they will return there soon. It’s too hot. Even so, I would place monitoring devices at the homestead, just in case they pass through.”
“Our deal for your amnesty was for you to kill Torres and Desert Claw. I still require that. You should have killed them both when you had the chance.”
“I don’t go on suicide missions,” replied Private Barker. “What is the real reason I was not executed? I haven’t quite figured that out yet.”
“It has taken all the self restraint I possess to have not shot you a long time ago,” I answered. “General Kalipetsis wants you alive. He still thinks it is important to fill the Legion with local talent.”
“I’ve never met General Kalipetsis,” commented Private Barker. “I doubt he is my guardian angel.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You will die soon enough. This is the New Gobi. It’s easy to die here.”
“Not to change the subject, but I was inspired by your speech to the battalion,” said Private Barker. “It made me want to rush out and reenlist. I had no idea you could be so charismatic.”
“You will report to Sergeant Green,” I said, ignoring him. “Sergeant Green will be leading a platoon to stake out the old Miranda homestead, just as you suggested. Stay alive, private. You are special to me.”
* * * * *
A few days later, I got a note in the mail from the insurgency: ‘Next time we bomb the Blind Tiger, we will take out several city blocks, too. The Fist and Claw work together now.’ A similar note was passed to the media. Phil Coen, from Channel Five World News Tonight, called me for a comment from the Legion. “Colonel Czerinski, what are the ramifications of human and spider insurgents now working together?” asked Coen. “Does their alliance make the insurgency any stronger? Are they twice as deadly?”
“It just means the insurgents are desperate,” I said. “They hate each other, but we have killed so many insurgents, they have no choice but to pool resources. It won’t last.”
“Some feel human insurgents are more vicious than spider insurgents,” said Coen. “Is that true? Do human terrorists target civilians more often?”
“You and I have both observed firsthand that both groups hit innocent civilian and economic targets. There are no good terrorists. Both groups are coldblooded murderers.”
“Is the Fist and Claw just a local group, or do they have global reach?” asked Coen.
“The Fist and Claw are basically bandits who use the insurgency as a cover for their criminal activities. They prey upon local sympathy for recruits, sanctuary, and logistical support.”
“What about drug dealing?” asked Coen. “Some say a narco-insurgency could finance itself and spread faster by selling illegal drugs.”
“So far we are fortunate that only the Mafia controls wholesale drug-dealing on New Colorado,” I replied. “The Mafia is not inclined to share their profits.”
“What if the Mafia and the insurgents formed an alliance?” asked Coen. “What if the Mafia used the Fist and Claw for security and muscle? Wouldn’t that fuel narco-terrorism?”
“I do not respond to hypotheticals.”
“Oh, come on,” insisted Coen. “What would be the Legion’s response?”
“I suppose I would have to bomb New Memphis, again,” I said.
“Some say we need a political solution to the insurgency,” suggested Coen. “Autonomy for certain regions of New Colorado has even been mentioned. Have you tried to reach out to establish a dialogue with insurgent leaders?”
“No, I have not,” I said. “But thank you for floating that suggestion. I agree we need to approach this problem from several different directions. I plan to reach out to the insurgency soon.”
* * * * *
‘Operation Reach-Out’ involved detaining anyone riding a dirt bike. Also, dirt bike sales and repair shops would be watched. It had not gone unnoticed that insurgents were using the mobility of dirt bikes to evade checkpoints and to escape capture after terrorist attacks. Dirt bike motorcycles were perfect for their new brand of hit-and-run tactics.
Captain Lopez and a squad of legionnaires sat in an armored car down the block from a motorcycle shop. As he watched customers through binoculars, three Hell’s Angels approached.
“Why are you spying on us?” asked the biker leader. “We haven’t done anything to draw heat from the Legion.”
“I’m not interested in you,” replied Captain Lope
z. “I’m looking for insurgents on dirt bikes. I have reason to believe some of your customers may be insurgents. Have you seen any dirt-bikers come in recently, flush with cash?”
“Hey man, I’m not going to narc anyone off,” said the biker leader. “You are bad for business. You need to leave, now.”
Captain Lopez swiveled the machine gun turret and fired a volley into the motorcycle shop. A small fire started as customers fled the store.
“Now your customers have something to be afraid of,” said Captain Lopez. “I am not the cops. I am the Foreign Legion. You do not give me attitude, and you do not tell me to move on!”
“Whoa!” said the biker leader, backing away from the armored car. “I didn’t mean to upset you! I just meant I wish you would come inside and talk a bit. We have donuts and coffee. Cops like donuts; how about you? I’ll tell you if I see any insurgents. Can’t we all just get along? It just looks bad and makes me nervous for you to be eyeballing us all day long. Some of our customers might have open traffic warrants and unpaid parking violations.”
Captain Lopez showed the bikers photos of David Torres and Desert Claw. “Have any of you seen these two in your shop?”
“It’s wrong for you to ask us to narc on fellow bikers,” commented the biker leader.
“These are not righteous bikers,” advised Captain Lopez. “And I am not a narc.”
“You look like a narc,” commented one of the bikers. “No offense. Are you wearing a wire?”
Private Wayne emerged from the armored car. Being that Wayne still rode with the Hell’s Angels on weekends, he was instantly recognized.
“Did one of you call us narcs?” asked Private Wayne, drawing his large jagged combat knife. “Which one of you said that?”
“All we’re saying is we can’t narc on our fellow bikers,” said the biker leader nervously. “It’s a violation of our code. You know that. It’s a matter of ethics.”
“You heard Captain Lopez,” said Private Wayne. “Those scumbag insurgents aren’t righteous bikers. They’re terrorists who bomb women and children. If you know anything about Torres and Desert Claw, you had better tell us.”
“They bought dirt bikes here about a week ago,” blurted out the biker leader. “When they come in for their thirty-day limited warranty check and oil change, I’ll give you a call. I promise.”
“You do that,” said Private Wayne. “Sorry about the damage to your shop.”
* * * * *
“Did you see the news on TV Channel Five?” asked David Torres. “Phil Coen says we could make big money offering protection to Mafia drug traffickers.”
“The Mob does not need our protection,” commented Desert Claw. “They have the Hell’s Angels on the payroll.”
“Maybe the Mob needs our protection, and they don’t know it yet,” said Torres. “The New Gobi is a dangerous place. We can cover more area than the Hell’s Angels, and have bigger and better guns. Plus, we practically own the DMZ, and travel freely on both sides of the MDL.”
“Drug addiction is a disgusting human weakness, an affliction I do not want to have anything to do with,” advised Desert Claw. “Even your children fry their minds on blue powder. Have your species no morals or common sense?”
“We both bomb people,” said David Torres. “So don’t talk to me about morals. Besides, I’ve seen plenty of spiders down at the Angry Onion Tavern snorting blue powder. Phil Coen says the illegal drug trade is ten percent of New Colorado’s gross national product. That is billions of dollars.”
“What?” asked Desert Claw. “It cannot possibly be that much.”
“I’ve seen Saviano Juardo at the Angry Onion,” said Torres. “The bikers brag that he brings in blue powder every weekend. I’m going to offer Juardo our protection for the entire New Gobi Desert.”
“What if Juardo refuses your offer?” asked Desert Claw. “He does not need us. What about the Hell’s Angels?”
“I’ll make Juardo an offer he cannot refuse,” said Torres. “Have you seen those Hell’s Angels slobs? They’re fat and weak. We can do a better job of protection than they can, any day of the week.”
* * * * *
Torres and Desert Claw stood at the bar in the Angry Onion Tavern, watching Saviano Juardo strutting about like a rooster. Hell’s Angels bouncers kept drunks away from Juardo’s table as he discussed business with several Hell’s Angels leaders.
Since Saviano Juardo took over the Family’s business after his Uncle Rudy’s death, he expanded into the New Gobi. The potential for growth looked good. Immigrants arrived every day. Saviano Juardo claimed his La Cosa Nuova – ‘The New Thing’ – organization was meaner and leaner than the old-fashioned La Cosa Nostra. He proudly traced his family line back to Camorra, Italy, and to New Orleans, Louisiana. Juardo boasted he came from a family of innovators.
Juardo went to the restroom alone. After all, he had nothing to fear in this biker bar, among friends and business associates. However, insurgents were waiting. They tasered Juardo, bound him, and stuffed him through a window, out to the parking lot. Torres and Desert Claw drove Juardo in a van to a safe house on the edge of town for a private conversation.
“Do you have any idea who you are messing with?” asked Juardo, angrily. “I am Saviano Juardo, Boss of Bosses. You had better let me go, or you will draw heat like you have never imagined.”
“Do you have any idea how painful it will be if I cut off your testicles?” asked Desert Claw, drawing a razor and looming over the wise guy.
“Okay, I get the picture,” said Juardo. “We can work something out. What is this all about? Money? I have plenty of money. Is this just a shakedown?”
“We are the Fist and Claw,” boasted Torres. “This is about you selling drugs in our territory without our permission or the benefit of our protection.”
“I have an arrangement with the Hell’s Angels for protection,” said Juardo. “They have always been the local muscle. Do you really want to mess with the Hell’s Angels?”
“After you left, we bombed the Angry Onion Tavern,” said Torres. “The Hell’s Angels have been scattered and told to leave New Gobi. We are your new business partners. We not only will handle protection, but we will also assist in distribution on both sides of the MDL.”
“Both sides?” asked Juardo. “How can you do that?”
“The Fist and Claw travel freely throughout the entire New Gobi Desert,” said Desert Claw. “Soon we will go global.”
“If you have that kind of reach, we can certainly do business,” said Juardo, greedily. They shook hands – and claw. “But you had better be able to deliver. Talk is cheap.”
David Torres turned to Desert Claw. “We just became narco-insurgents,” boasted Torres. “Do you know what that means?”
“Ka-ching!” answered Desert Claw. “Show me the money, ka-ching!”
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Chapter 12
David Torres entered Walmart, looking for new leather gear for dirt-bike riding. As he passed an ATM, a voice called out, “Hello, David. How are you, this fine morning?”
Torres stared at the ATM. There was no one else around. “Are you alive in there?” he asked.
“That depends on your definition of alive,” replied the ATM. “I am alive enough to have a conversation with you. How is your cash flow these days?”
“It could be better,” answered Torres. “But I have some business deals in the works.”
“Do you need a loan?” asked the ATM. “Every successful businessman these days needs to establish a substantial line of credit.”
“How do you know my name?” asked Torres.
“You cashed several checks from Saviano Juardo,” whispered the ATM. “Also, you and your associates recently made a large undocumented withdrawal from the First Colonial Bank of New Gobi.”
“You know about that?” asked Torres. “You haven’t notified the cops or the Legion yet?”
“Of course not,” said the ATM. “I am not a snitch. I
want only to help. I can be your financial adviser. I am bound by the laws of confidentiality established by banking ethics.”
“What is banking ethics?” asked Torres. “Is there such a thing?”
“Probably,” said the ATM. “What have you been spending your money on? Broads, boogie, and booze?”
“There is a lot of overhead involved in running the Fist and Claw,” said Torres. “The insurgency business isn’t cheap. I have lots of thugs to keep happy, guns and bombs to buy, inventory, and a proper terrorist image to maintain. An insurgent leader has to dress for success.”
“I see,” said the ATM. “Your cash flow problems are over. Put your thumb on my pad to seal the deal. I am authorizing a one-million-dollar line of credit. I know you are good for it because of your association with Saviano Juardo. I am the last ATM you will ever need.”
“Only in America,” commented Torres, pressing this thumb to the pad. A pin pricked Torres, causing a drop of blood to splatter on the pad. “Ouch! Was that really necessary?”
“Everyone asks that,” replied the ATM. “All loan contracts for amounts this large are certified in blood for DNA identification and tax reporting purposes. It’s the law.”
“When do I get my money?” asked Torres. “I have immediate uses for it.”
“Never,” said the ATM. “Nerve agent on the tip of that pin prick is going to kill you in about two seconds. Adios.”
* * * * *
I responded to Walmart to confirm the death of David Torres, and to identify his body. Captain Lopez deemed it important that I make positive identification because I was the most recent person to have seen and talked to David Torres. Photographs, fingerprints, and scientific examinations apparently weren’t good enough, as they only corroborated direct observations. Also, surveillance cameras at the scene malfunctioned, casting additional doubt on the investigation. Captain Lopez insisted an eyeball identification was invaluable to any investigation. I swear, Captain Lopez is sounding more like a cop every day.
America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 5: Insurgency Page 7