America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 5: Insurgency (4 page)

“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,” said 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 would 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.”

“Anything that inconveniences the human
pestilence is good,” insisted the spider commander. “Our mischief
keeps the humans from plotting against us.”