America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 22: Blue Powder War (6 page)

“Too late. Run!”

Choking on the fritter, Private Higuera adroitly elbowed the spider aside and made a dash for freedom. The spiders did the same. Just as they reached Blue-Claw a Legion sniper’s shot rang out, killing one of the spider parolees. Narrowly missing death himself, an enraged Blue-Claw fired an RPG at Private Higuera. The rocket overshot, destroying much of the sportswear department. Nike shoes flew off the shelf faster than a Black Friday riot. Reliving past football glory, Private Higuera caught a pair of Nikes in mid-stride and sprinted for the end zone. I pulled Higuera to cover as a Legion armored car burst through the glass front doors, peppering the spider side with 50-cal machine gun fire. Its cannon blew out the far wall as the spiders fled.

* * * * *

It’s all about saving face
, surmised Blue-Claw later, wondering if that sniper’s bullet was really intended for him, not his dead minion. He shrugged. A one-for-one trade still saved face for both sides, so he would let the matter slide this time. Blue-Claw needed to keep a low profile. More human pestilence TV coverage was bad for business.

Time healed all, allowing for a new normal, as normal as the blue powder narco-terrorism-trafficking business allowed on the DMZ of a distant planet shared with crazy Polish human pestilence cowboys like Czerinski and Kosminski. He’d kill them both, later.

Chapter 9

Some criminals are only alive because the law won’t allow society to kill them. Fortunately, that is not a problem on New Colorado. I may kill as many drug dealers as is necessary to win the War on Blue Powder, starting with Aaron Kosminski.

All high profile prisoners like Kosminski are embedded with tracking chips in the buttocks. Kosminski’s signal was weak on the surface, but still strong in the tunnels. I decided to personally lead a platoon of legionnaires under the DMZ to go after him. If you want someone killed right, you just have to do it yourself.

“Knight, you’re taking point,” I ordered, assembling the platoon in the catacombs below New Gobi City. “Follow the arrow on the tracking device. It’s so easy, even a science fiction writer can do it.”

“This is retaliation,” groused Private Knight, peering through the endless darkness. “The temporary restraining order specifically prohibits this sort of harassment.”

“Someone’s got to do it,” I replied reasonably. “It’s in the scope of battlefield command decisions to send someone out on point to lead the platoon. My choice was between you and O’Neil, and your Teamsters rep voted for you.”

“Sir, you hold a grudge forever.”

“Yes I do, but I think you’re just being paranoid.”

“With good reason. Even the paranoid have enemies.”

“Be careful, Knight. Replacements are getting harder to draft.”

Private Knight donned his night-vision goggles, useless in a zero light tunnel. He activated a low intensity strobe to illuminate the tunnel every ten seconds as they advanced. Simultaneously he filed another electronic emergency labor grievance into his communication pad. It was denied. A few seconds later, his appeal was also denied.
Damn union, what do we pay dues for!

The tunnels under the DMZ canal dripped with water. Private Knight stealthily sloshed through the mud, oblivious to stepping on a concealed trip wire. Explosions rocked the tunnel. Rocks and mud poured down on the platoon. World famous science fiction author and Hero of the Legion Walter Knight was lost, presumed KIA. Sadly, there would be no more ‘America’s Galactic Foreign Legion’ sequels. The galaxy mourned. The platoon retreated back to the American side for their Teamsters-mandated lunch.

* * * * *

Aaron Kosminski dragged Private Knight from the tunnel debris up to a safe house on the surface. He tied Knight securely to a chair. Water in the face woke Private Knight with a start. Torture now began in earnest.

“I’ll talk!” shouted Private Knight, always preemptive when dealing with torture by terrorists. “Please, don’t tear out my testicles!”

“That’s a good idea,” replied Kosminski, nodding to a henchman to get pliers. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Shit.”

“Drop his pants!”

“No, wait!” There’s a tracking device in your butt,” warned Private Knight desperately. “The Legion will rescue me any minute. Surrender now, and I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“I know all about that tracking chip,” sneered Kosminski, patting his pants. “I’m wearing lead Proctor & Gamble diapers to thwart the signal. They’re even waterproof.”

“That’s diabolical, using American products against us. Can’t we negotiate the ripping out my testicles?”

“I intend to video you giving Colonel Czerinski a message from the Polish Cartel,” advised Kosminski, pointing to a teleprompter. “Read the text out loud.”

Relieved at still possessing testicles, Private Knight skimmed the teleprompter screen. “Oh, this is good stuff, but the Legion does not negotiate with terrorists. It’s been American policy since antiquity.”

“We’re drug dealers,” corrected Kosminski indignantly. “And, we’re Teamsters. According to the CBA, the Legion has to negotiate your release in good faith, or we throw up picket lines all across the DMZ. Commerce as you know it will come to a standstill.”

“Czerinski won’t negotiate,” cried Knight. “He hates me.”

“Then I tear out your testicles now!”

“Let’s roll,” began Private Knight, studying the teleprompter with more enthusiasm. “My name is Private Walter Knight, Hero of the Legion, world-famous science fiction author, and corrupt imperialist pig.” In an aside, he whispered, “That was harsh,” then continued reading aloud. “I have been captured by the Polish Cartel due to Colonel Czerinski’s reckless invasion of the DMZ. To atone for Czerinski’s repeated and well-documented civil rights and warmongering violations against galactic peace, the Cartel demands that Colonel Czerinski be publicly photographed having sex with a camel, and that such film video be disseminated on the Galactic Database. Failure to comply with this reasonable demand will resort in Private Knight’s testicles being ripped from his nut sack.”

“Very good,” gloated Kosminski. “For your sake, I hope you and Czerinski are able to reconcile your differences.”

“Not likely.”

“Too bad, so sad. It sucks to be you.”

* * * * *

General Daly called, alerting me to the Cartel’s demands posted on the Galactic Database. Feeling caught between a rock and a crazy place, I balked, but there was immense pressure from Penumbra Publishing and science fiction readers across the galaxy to save world-famous science fiction author Walter Knight. General Daly was not happy about the election year bad press, and wanted the matter resolved.

“You’re the one who lost another legionnaire,” fumed General Daly. “I can’t be micro-managing your slice of the DMZ. What’s the big problem? You’ve already had unprotected sex with every vile species on New Colorado. What’s one more?”

“Camels are nasty creatures, infested with sand mites, and they spit,” I explained.

“And your point is? Listen here, Czerinski. I expect a good faith rescue effort of Private Knight. There will be no more violations of the Teamsters CBA. Understand?”

“But Private Knight isn’t even that good a legionnaire. I’ve almost had him shot several times. Forget it. News flash, I’m not having sex with a camel!”

“Nonsense. Get Hargundu, the Legion camel you had as a pet. That’s an order.”

“Hargundu is friendly enough, but he’s a male,” I explained reasonably. “I can’t have sex with a male camel. He wouldn’t like it.”

“I see. Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir. His kick is lethal. Besides, ever get camel poop in your drawers?”

“So Hargundu is totally out of the question?”

“Totally.”

“Can’t you just do it? Take one for the team?”

“Sir, must I remind you, America does not negotiate with terrorists? This would set a bad precedent. Today it’s camels, tomorrow it’s goats and cows. It’s a slippery slope I don’t want to go down. Where will it all end? What if next time the Cartel wants a general to screw a camel to secure my release.”

“I wouldn’t do it, of course, but that’s because I’m the general, and you’re not.”

“But, sir...”

“You’d do anything to get my star, wouldn’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“I deal with the here and now, not hypotheticals. Do what it takes to get Walter Knight back safe, or else! He’s an American science fiction icon. If you don’t believe it, just ask him!”

* * * * *

I drove to Big Al’s New and Used Camels & Goats One Stop Shopping Center to negotiate buying a nice camel. “I want to buy a young female camel,” I said, offering a Legion credit card. “Money is no object.”

Big Al recognized me from recent TV coverage. The big sales spider was not happy. “Money may be no object, but even camel traders have morals,” he replied testily. “I know why you are here. No way, José, can I in good conscience sell you one of my nubile young female camels, knowing your planned abuse. It would not be right, even at premium prices, which I plan to sell at anyway.”

“Can I just rent a camel?”

“That’s even more disgusting! This is not some Camelot brothel.”

“Fine,” I said, annoyed at Big Al’s moralistic haggling tactics. “I’ll pay double.”

“Not at any price, but how about a comely goat?” asked Big Al, still hoping to salvage goodwill with the Legion. “Angie is sturdy and already broke in.”

“Does she kick or spit?” I asked, eying Angie speculatively.

“No, no, Angie is very docile,” assured Big Al. “And see? She has such pretty blue eyes.”

“I’ll get back with you on Angie. Maybe the terrorists will negotiate on species.”

“May I suggest we disguise Angie as a baby camel?”

“That’s just wrong in so many ways.”

“As a bonus, Angie is guaranteed to be almost sand mite free.”

“Really?” I asked, my resolve weakening. “Okay, we have a deal. I’ll buy Angie.”

* * * * *

I called Aaron Kosminski on the Terrorist Hotline at Teamsters Headquarters to negotiate the camel-goat issue. He seemed amenable. Goats were not a deal breaker.

“You are really going to do it?” laughed Kosminski. “I mean, yes, of course you are. Anything to save world-famous science fiction author and icon, Walter Knight. Right?”

“Stop jerking me around, or you will die slow and painful,” I threatened, losing patience. “What do you really want?”

“Safe passage off New Colorado,” answered Kosminski bluntly.

“The galaxy is too small a place for you to be allowed to live.”

“Exactly, but I have a solution to that. I know you and the spiders guard a time machine for the CIA. I want to travel to 1888 Old Earth London.”

“Why?”

“A fresh start,” explained Kosminski. “Haven’t you ever wanted to just get away? The Polish Cartel was just a front for Blue-Claw, anyway. I have it all planned out. With gold saved from blue powder sales, I’ll live like a king in my retirement.”

“But why Old London?”

“Family and friends. Show me your friends, and I’ll show you your future.”

“You’ll release Knight?”

“Yes, of course. As soon as I arrive safely, I’ll send a text message releasing your legionnaire.”

“No goats or camels?”

“No. I’ll tell you a secret. That camel thing was all Knight’s idea. I don’t think he likes you.”

* * * * *

I sent Aaron Kosminski back to his future, 1888 Whitechapel London. As soon as Kosminski arrived, Private Knight was released. Exhilarated, Kosminski, took a deep breath of the London air, pungent with soot and horse manure. “It’s great to be me!” he exclaimed. However, Kosminski was promptly greeted by Sir Charles Warren of the Metropolitan Police.

“You are under arrest for unspeakable crimes against the galaxy,” announced Detective Warren. “You will be hung and quartered, if I have anything to say about it.”

“To hell, you say,” replied Kosminski, reaching for his concealed razor. A constable bashed him on the head from behind with a bludgeon. Kosminski fell to the muddy street, severely concussed. “Damn. I was going to Hell anyway. I just needed vacation time.”

Kosminski was locked up in an insane asylum, where he died horribly, years later.

Chapter 10

I marched ten thousand crack-spider refugees south from the Battle of the Web. I contemplated marching them continuously to death across the planet, but it turns out spiders can go months without food or water, and never tire.
Who knew?
I turned the trail of crack-spiders east toward the Scorpion City Autonomous Region, enlisting the aid of Major Desert-Sting of the Scorpion City National Guard. Scorpions hate spiders, but I assured Major Desert-Sting the refugee camp was only temporary until a final solution could be found.