America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 5: Insurgency (10 page)

“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.

“It’s Torres,” I said, glancing at the
corpse. “What killed him?”

“Unknown data,” answered Captain Lopez.
“There is no sign of trauma. A security guard found him here alone.
Maybe he had a heart attack?”

I looked about the scene and the store. A
spider marine warily patrolled his half of Walmart. The MDL,
clearly painted on the floor dividing the store, kept the spiders
back. An ATM stood silently nearby. Valerie interrupted my thoughts
with a text message via my communications pad. I pushed the answer
button, and she appeared before me. No one else could see my lovely
Valerie.

“I do not mean to intrude,” said Valerie,
“but you have been avoiding me. How come you never call? Some
gratitude for saving your life!”

“I have been busy,” I replied, motioning to
Torres’s body. “This is one of the terrorists who kidnapped me. I’m
trying to figure out how he died.”

“Yes,” said Valerie. “I recognize that pig
from your alien abduction. David Torres was one of the humans that
helped. He was especially brutal. Good riddance. Why do you care
how he died? The important fact is that he is dead and can no
longer harm you, sweetie.”

“It might add up to something important,” I
explained. “Pieces to a puzzle must be put together before you can
have the whole picture. Most-Wanted terrorists don’t just drop dead
in Walmart. Not unless they eat at the restaurant first.”

“Ask
him
,” said Valerie, pointing to
the ATM. “That ATM saw what happened.”

“What did you see?” I asked the ATM. “Talk to
me.”

“Good morning, Colonel Czerinski. “It’s so
very good to see you again. Am I wrong, or did I just observe you
having a conversation with yourself? Are you hearing voices, again?
You must still be self-medicating.”

“Forget that!” I replied. “I was just
thinking out loud. How did David Torres die? I know you saw the
whole thing. I want to see your surveillance video.”

“I saw nothing,” said the ATM. “I think a
power surge blinded me temporarily. It is my understanding the same
happened to all the other surveillance cameras at Walmart.”

“That ATM is lying,” accused Valerie. “I can
see it in his body language. See how he won’t make eye
contact.”

“What about the time leading up to his
death?” I asked. “Was Torres with anyone else? Can you speculate
about what happened to Torres?”

“He died,” said the ATM. “It happens to you
humans. Too bad, so sad.”

Captain Lopez and Private Wayne loaded Torres
onto a gurney. Valerie studied Private Wane with great
interest.

“Aliens in the Foreign Legion?” asked
Valerie, distracted by the spider legionnaire. “Can they be
trusted? This one is very interesting. How exciting to see him up
close. Private Wayne looks so fierce, but he has sad intelligent
red eyes. Keep him close.”

I ignored Valerie’s female ramblings. “An
autopsy will determine how Torres died,” I commented. “Have
Torres’s body flown to New Phoenix for forensic examination.”

“You are much too meticulous,” said the ATM.
“It borders on being anal-compulsive. You should be satisfied that
an enemy is dead, and just let it be.”

“You’re hiding something,” I said. “Tell me
what.”

The ATM remained silent. Valerie continued to
scrutinize Private Wayne.

“Speaking of hiding something,” said Valerie.
“What do female spiders look like?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” I
asked. “The females are bigger and more aggressive.”

“I heard from a reliable source that you have
been cheating on me,” accused Valerie. “With female spider harlots!
What do you have to say for yourself?”

“First of all, I cannot cheat on you, because
you are nothing more than a computer-generated information impulse
tickling one of my embedded silicon chips. You are not real flesh
and blood, so do not pretend to cry, because that doesn’t work on
me anymore.”

“So you do not deny that you have been
cavorting with spider bimbos?” shouted Valerie, crying. “How could
you break my heart like that?”

“I deny having consensual sex with spiders,”
I said. “Where did you get your information? The mere thought of
such a thing terrifies me to the bone.”

“That is not what mental health professional
Lieutenant Priscilla Percy wrote in her psychological evaluation
report about your command capabilities and other stress-related
matters,” said Valerie. “Lieutenant Percy described you as a
drunken, debased, bestial, twisted, deviant debauchee who
frequently and publicly engages in kinky spider sex, thus setting
the poorest of examples for your troops.”

“She thought I was twisted?” I asked. “That’s
not fair. And here I thought she liked me. We almost hooked
up.”

“Lieutenant Percy forgot to add that you are
also a lying, cheating, two-timing bastard asshole,” accused
Valerie. “Have you no morality, decency, or sensitivity for
others?”

“I have not had sexual contact with any
female spiders since I met you,” I said. “I swear. Check the date
on that report. It’s old news! I love only you.”

A few minutes of silence passed. Legionnaires
were staring at me. My mumbling had become more animated. “Take the
body away,” I ordered, giving the idle legionnaires something to
do.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” said Valerie, following
me. “I believe you have been faithful since we met. You are right.
It was an old report. Forgive me? I love you so much!”

“Of course,” I said. “I can’t ever be angry
at you for long, dear.”

Captain Lopez directed Private Wayne to
escort the corpse of David Torres to a waiting ambulance outside.
Private Wayne rode in the ambulance so there would be no
contamination or break in the chain of evidence. As the ambulance
headed for the Legion helicopter pad, Private Wayne received a text
message. “John, did you know that Arthropodan authorities have
posted a fifty-thousand-dollar dead-or-alive reward for Most-Wanted
terrorist David Torres?” asked the ATM. “I think you should hand
the Torres corpse over to the spiders at the border.”

“Disobey orders?” texted Private Wayne. “I
cannot afford to be busted again. Next time I will be shot.”

“I will match that fifty thousand dollars
with another fifty thousand,” promised the ATM. “I am being very
generous. You owe me. Remember your enlistment contract.”

Private Wayne ordered the driver to stop at
the MDL checkpoint. He dragged Torres’s body by the hair and
deposited it in front of the spider guard shack.

“This is Arthropoda’s Most-Wanted terrorist
David Torres of the terrorist organization Fist and Claw,”
announced Private Wayne. “I want to collect the reward money for
his arrest and capture.”

“How did he die?” asked a spider team leader.
“Did Torres resist arrest?”

“Yes,” said Private Wayne, drawing his pistol
and shooting Torres. “He was shot trying to escape. Give me my
money. I want it now!”

The team leader frantically communicated with
Headquarters, sending downloaded photos and describing the tense
situation at the crossing gate. Reinforcements were sent to deal
with the spider renegade. Obviously this spider legionnaire was
very unstable. No one knew what he might do next. Soon confirmation
was received, and the reward money was wired to Private Wayne’s
card.

I was soon informed of the incident by the
spider commander himself. Since Private Wayne had already been
recently busted down to private for going AWOL with Barker, I
created a new rank to bust Wayne down to. I docked Wayne’s pay and
busted him down to Base Toilet Cleaner. He seemed to take it well.
Base Toilet Cleaner John Iwo Jima Wayne stoically went about his
duties from dusk to dawn, not once complaining, showing anger, or
fatigue.
I’ll be watching you, Wayne.

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Chapter 13

Sergeant Green and a platoon of legionnaires
deployed by armored car to the old Miranda homestead north of the
DMZ to set an ambush, should Desert Claw try to find haven in its
ruins or tunnels.

“I don’t like you,” Sergeant Green growled at
Private Barker. “You’re a traitor and a conniver that should have
been shot a long time ago. I still can’t figure out why Colonel
Czerinski wants you kept alive and safe.”

“It’s the price of being popular,” replied
Private Barker. “I have lots of important friends. I can tell you
don’t have that problem. You should network more. That’s why you’re
still just a sergeant.”

“Smart-ass punk,” said Sergeant Green. “This
isn’t a popularity contest. This is the Legion. Forget you.”
Sergeant Green looked about the barren landscape. “I’m hungry. I
was told there would be food and supplies hidden inside the tunnel
bunkers. Where is the entrance?”

“Under the ruins, there is a trap door,”
replied Private Barker. “But don’t go inside yet. It’s
booby-trapped with explosives.”

“Are there any more nasty surprises?” asked
Sergeant Green.

“That hill with the graves has landmines on
its northern perimeter. Stick to the path, and you should be
safe.”

“Thanks,” said Sergeant Green, warily
assessing the trail. “You could have let me get killed. I always
say there is some good even in the lowliest of the low.”

“Don’t count on it,” said Private Barker,
walking the steep path to visit his parents’ gravesite.

Private Barker sat by the graves, watching
the sunset. It seemed to relax him. Sergeant Green let Barker be
alone as others worked to set up camp. Dinner was the good old MRE
– Meal Ready to Eat.

* * * * *

Desert Claw planned on stashing the latest
delivery of blue powder from New Memphis at the old Miranda
homestead. Before approaching, he sent in a lone scout on a dirt
bike to check for Arthropodan marines. There had not been any
recent spider marine activity in this sector, but caution was
prudent. Desert Claw did not worry about the Legion, because the
homestead was well north of the DMZ.

The scout parked his bike next to the
farmhouse ruins. As the scout stepped inside the dilapidated
building, Private Camacho silently slit the insurgent’s throat.
Desert Claw called his scout on the radio for a status report.
Corporal George Rambo Washington, the first spider to enlist in the
Legion, picked up the radio. “All clear,” he hissed.

Soon, a column of dirt bikes, followed by a
battered Toyota pickup truck, appeared over the next hill. Desert
Claw hung back as about twenty spider insurgents entered the
homestead. Desert Claw caught a metallic reflection in the corner
of several of his eyeballs from up on the hill. He fired warning
shots with his assault rifle, but it was too late. A Legion armored
car burst out of the ruins, firing a machine gun. Other
legionnaires lying in ambush in the outbuildings threw grenades.
Most of the insurgents were soon down or fleeing. A sniper up on
the hill picked them off, too. Desert Claw retreated as a sniper’s
bullet raised dirt next to him. He left his freedom fighters and
valuable blue power behind.