America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 4: Demilitarized Zone (14 page)

“I still don’t believe in shrinks,” I said.
“I don’t see how you can solve anything with a one-day visit.”

“Maybe and maybe not,” said Lieutenant Percy.
“All we are going to do today is discuss some of the troubling
issues in your life. Sometimes merely talking about something can
help to identify the source of a problem. When is the last time you
had sex?”

“With a human?” I asked. “Why do you keep
asking that question?”

“Of course with a human,” said Lieutenant
Percy. “What else is there? You do not strike me as the type who
cavorts with farm animals.”

“What?” I asked, startled. “What are you
writing? I do not mess around with farm animals!”

“Oh my God!” said Lieutenant Percy, upset by
a revelation. “You have sex with spiders?”

“Not voluntarily,” I replied. “It’s
complicated.”

“That is disgusting!” said Lieutenant Percy.
“How many times have you engaged in this bestiality?”

“They are a sentient species,” I insisted.
“Not beasts.”

“How many times!” demanded Lieutenant
Percy.

“I can’t remember,” I replied. “We are on the
frontier. There is a shortage of human females. And, you’re not
helping to solve the problem.”

“That is not a viable excuse, you
degenerate,” said Lieutenant Percy. “You should be ashamed of
yourself and stripped of command. What kind of example does your
ill-advised conduct set for your men? Your legionnaires look to you
for guidance. You are a father figure to them.”

“I know,” I said, my shoulders slumping. “I
am bad. You should spank me.”

“You are more than bad,” said Lieutenant
Percy. “You are evil! This will go into your file!”

“Oh come on,” I argued. “You promised nothing
would go into my file. It’s just the stress of command on a
far-flung dusty planet. I’ll promise to find a hobby, even play
golf if you want me to.”

“You cannot blame your debauchery on the
stress of command,” said Lieutenant Percy. “Your deep-seated,
debased, twisted behavior is probably a reflection of how you were
raised. Were your parents perverts, too? You are so
disgusting!”

“My parents were both elected to public
office,” I replied.

“Politicians?” asked Lieutenant Percy. “No
wonder.”

Lieutenant Percy ended the session by walking
out and slamming the door. I called my chief engineer officer and
ordered him to immediately build a golf course. Then, I dragged
myself down to the Angry Onion Tavern and knocked the first Hell’s
Angel I saw off his bar stool. The bouncers beat me with clubs and
strung me up in a cocoon and hung me upside-down from the
ceiling.

* * * * *

The spider commander and his new military
intelligence officer looked out across the MDL at the latest Legion
construction project. Bulldozers were plowing the desert. Trucks
were hauling in fertilizer and sod.

“What is this madness?” asked the spider
commander. “Are the human pestilence building another park?”

“It is a golf course,” said the military
intelligence officer. “Golf is a recreational sport involving
hitting a small ball from one distant hole to another. It is a bit
similar to lawn croquet, only on a much grander scale.”

“They would do better to use indigenous
landscaping,” commented the spider commander. “Those extensive
greens waste precious water. Why would the Legion build a golf
course here? What trick are they up to?”

“Golf is a favorite game of the business
elite,” explained the military intelligence officer, checking the
database. “If you have a five-star hotel, you need a golf course to
go with it.”

“We have a five-star hotel,” said the spider
commander. “Why don’t we have a golf course? How many golf courses
have been built in the DMZ?”

“This will be the first,” said the military
intelligence officer. “But there are many golf courses in the human
pestilence southern area.”

“The first!” said the spider commander.
“That’s it! Czerinski wants to be the first to have a golf course
in the DMZ! Instruct my engineers to build a golf course
immediately. And, I want my golf course to be bigger and better
than the human pestilence golf course. Most important, I want my
golf course completed before Czerinski’s golf course!”

“The human pestilence have a head start on
construction,” said the military intelligence officer. “I am not
sure we can get our golf course built first.”

“I will take care of that,” promised the
spider commander. “You just get our engineers to work! I want no
excuses.”

* * * * *

The point spider scout gripped his assault
rifle as he cautiously pushed through the sagebrush, leading his
commando team. Sage-colored camouflage netting made the commando
almost invisible when motionless. Cautious of booby-traps and
landmines, the point spider stopped to listen. Night vision
technology allowed him to see legionnaire guards patrolling the MDL
fence. A legionnaire in the distance walked a monitor dragon.
Fortunately the commandos were downwind from the dragon. A
traitorous spider legionnaire walked with the dragon handler. The
traitor suddenly stopped, looking directly at the commando team. A
flare went off in the sky, lighting the desert below.

The spider scout closed his eyes so as not to
lose his night vision. He stayed perfectly still, and could remain
so for hours, even days. Spider scouts were specially recruited for
their patience and stealth capabilities. They made excellent
snipers and sappers. The commando team remained motionless until
the flare died out. The legionnaires continued their patrol. The
point spider cut a hole in the MDL fence and led the team through
to their target.

At the golf course, they expertly placed
explosive charges on heavy equipment and on outbuildings. The
clubhouse was wired with a nasty delayed fuse that would kill first
responders. Even the sand traps and greens were targeted.

The point spider quickly retraced their route
back to the MDL fence. A branch snapped somewhere in the darkness.
As the point spider held up a claw to signal the team to stop, a
shot rang out, hitting the commando in his chest. Grenades
exploded, sending blinding flashes and shrapnel into the night sky
in all directions. A Legion monitor dragon shrieked as an aerial
flare went off.

A team leader grabbed the wounded point
spider and carried him through the opening in the fence. They
sprinted for cover. At an outcropping of rocks, waiting medics met
the wounded. A machine-gun team fired back at the legionnaires. The
‘thunk’ of a grenade launcher was followed by an explosion that
knocked the team leader down. Shrapnel cut into his shoulders. He
turned, facing the legionnaire positions, using his body to shield
the retreating medics and wounded. The muzzle flash from this
assault rifle drew more fire. A bullet grazed his face. Another
took his leg. The team leader staggered back as explosions at the
golf course lit up the horizon. Even the clubhouse exploded and
caught fire. The shooting stopped.
Mission accomplished.

Attacking a golf course made no sense. The
team leader swore that whoever planned this mission would pay.
Cannon fodder is what some officer thought of his commandos. There
would be a day of reckoning for that officer.

* * * * *

I entered the floatation center, hoping for
much needed relief from my stress. After the spiders blew up the
golf course, I lost interest in putting on the greens. Golf wasn’t
going to help, anyway. Pastor Jim told me about the floatation
center. He said there is no better method of letting the stress of
the week dissolve into a distant memory than to float for an hour
in saline serenity. Floatation tanks filled with ten inches of
water and seven-hundred-fifty pounds of Epsom salts made it
impossible to sink. I floated blissfully.

The attendant left me alone to float my cares
away. Hawaiian music eased me into a ‘theta’ state, the point
between sleep and waking, I was told. The effect was almost
instantaneous. I was advised such relaxation lowered blood
pressure, eased joint pain, sped muscle recovery, and relieved
stress and anxiety. Floatation did all the functions my implanted
chips were supposed to be doing.

I felt so relaxed after an hour, I was not
the least bit upset later when I entered my office and found
Captain Lopez waiting for me. He had that look. I thought then that
Lopez could use some serious floating too.

“How will we respond to this latest spider
provocation?” asked Captain Lopez, pacing.

“If you mean blowing up my golf course, I
don’t even care,” I replied.

“Whether you care or not, we cannot let the
spiders get away with it,” responded Captain Lopez. “We must
maintain a credible deterrence.”

“Blow up that fruit tree by the checkpoint
again,” I suggested. “The spider commander gets all pissed off when
we do that. I like to get him angry. He’s wound so tight, he’s
going to bust a gasket one of these days. Let Guido handle bombing
the tree.”

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Chapter 13

Tit-for-tat was becoming part of military
procedure in the DMZ. Guido successfully bombed the spiders’ fruit
tree. The next day I arrived at my office to find the front door
ajar. The office had been ransacked. Missing was a pistol and a
pair of sunglasses I had left on my desk. However, the office safe
containing documents and petty cash was not touched. It was
probably just kids, I thought. When I pulled open the top drawer of
my desk, a live Arthropodan grenade rolled out. I dove for cover as
the grenade exploded. My injuries were minor, but medics would be
digging out small pieces of shrapnel from my backside for months.
Some days are just not worth getting up for.

* * * * *

Captain Lopez informed me that blowing up the
spiders’ fruit tree was not enough of a response. He felt that this
weak symbolic Legion response to the golf course attack was not
proportionate to the spiders’ intent to cause great harm and loss
of life. Captain Lopez said the spider commandos rigged explosives
at the golf course clubhouse to detonate after first responders
arrived at the scene. It was only luck that the clubhouse exploded
early and no one was killed. The motive seemed to be mindless
terrorism. Captain Lopez insisted terrorism could not be tolerated.
That was one problem with having an intelligence officer. He always
found bad news for me. And Captain Lopez seemed intent on finding
as much bad news as he could. At this rate, I was going to need the
services of the floatation center more than once a week.

I noticed the spiders were building a golf
course too. Maybe I would call in an air strike on the
17
^th
hole. It would be more tit-for-tat and might keep
bloodthirsty Lopez happy.

After a few days, I asked Captain Lopez if
there were any updates or further information about my office
burglary. Lopez said he was still reviewing video surveillance
records in the area. The investigation continued. He thought anyone
wanting to kill me should have used a bigger bomb – that was what
he said he would do. I felt so much better hearing him say
that.

* * * * *

I lost interest in golf. It was a boring
sport, anyway. In fact, I was not so sure golf should even have
been considered a sport. A sport required a team. I had the golf
course converted into a baseball field. First Division’s recreation
league fielded teams to play ball. I noticed this often attracted
the interest of spider marines across the border. They gathered in
large numbers at the MDL fence to watch games. Finally the spider
guard at the border crossing approached Guido about their mutual
interest in baseball.

“Did you know we play baseball, too?” asked
the spider guard. “We are rabid fans of the game. I play every
chance I get.”

“I didn’t know you even had a ball field,”
replied Guido. “Do you have a local team?”

“This military sector has a marine team,”
advised the spider guard. “But they do not play much because the
Legion keeps shooting at us.”

“Ditto,” said Guido. “Is your team any
good?”

“No,” said the spider guard. “They suck. How
about your Legion teams? I see you have a league. That is
awesome.”

“They’re just amateurs,” said Guido. “Most of
the hitters couldn’t bat themselves out of a wet paper bag.”

“That is too bad,” said the spider guard. “I
was going to suggest a game between us. Maybe even some small
friendly wagers. But if you think a Legion team would not be
competitive, it probably would not be worth the effort to set up a
game.”

“Your players are so out of practice, I would
not want to take advantage of the situation by placing bets,” said
Guido. “But, to further interspecies understanding and goodwill, I
will present the idea to Colonel Czerinski.”

“I normally do not approve of gambling,” said
the spider guard. “But a baseball game might generate more interest
if a few small friendly bets were allowed to be placed. Our players
are so out of shape, you will probably win by ten runs.”

“I’m catholic,” said Guido. “Usually I don’t
gamble much, either. But I’ll take your money.”

“How much money are we talking about?” asked
the spider guard. “Just a little chump change? Or are you feeling
bold?”

“How much can you afford to lose?” asked
Guido. “Baseball is America’s game. You can’t beat us. Our local
talent is strictly amateur, but it’s better than anything you can
field.”

“Put your money where your mouth is,
legionnaire,” hissed the spider guard. “New Memphis bookies can
handle all your action. Who knows? You might get lucky.”