America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits (5 page)

     “Poop-chute emissions can be ignited?” asked Cactus-Claw doubtfully, turning to Little-Claw.  “Who knew?”

     “I don't think so,” replied Little-Claw, shrugging doubtfully.  “Want to try it?”

     Cactus-Claw bent over a let loose with a deadly burst of methane madness, filling the sail of their small boat.  Little-Claw dutifully lit his lighter.  The resulting explosion killed two spider bandits outright, maiming others.  The clutch dove in all directions from the fireball into the water.  Making it personal, Cactus-Claw sent me a photo of myself in the cross hairs of his sniper scope.

     “Is that photo-shopped?” I asked, concerned.

     “I don't think so,” answered Major Lopez.  “It looks like yesterday up in the hills.”

     “I will kill Cactus-Claw with my bare hands.”

     “He's not so easy to kill.  Like a roach, cut off his head, and that bandit still lives three more weeks before he finally starves to death.”

     “Fine by me,” I said, sending a one-fingered salute back at Cactus-Claw.  “I'll put your head on a spike and parade it up and down the DMZ for all to see as an example of frontier justice.”

     “Next time I'll take the shot!” threatened Cactus-Claw.

                                                                         * * * * *

     Motion detectors along the canal showed movement just north of New Phoenix.  A Legion patrol braced concealed as the small turtle boat came into view, its sail silhouetted against the star-lit night.  Sergeant Williams let out a rebel yell as he fired a flare high overhead.  Floating slowly back down, the flare illuminated two spiders propped against the mast.

     Private Krueger tossed the first grenade, followed by a volley of automatic rifle fire.  Mortar rounds walked the canal bank to their target in the water, rocking the boat.  A Legion helicopter gunship appeared over the horizon to finish the spiders off with a shock-and-awesome strafing of Gatling and missile ordinance.  Legionnaires cautiously peered over the bank at the carnage.  Turtle shell fragments and spider exoskeleton parts floated with the current.

     “Another one bites the dust!” sang Private Kruger, tossing a final grenade for good measure.

     “I think we got them!” shouted Sergeant Williams, signaling a ceasefire as he sent me video of another Legion victory.  “Noting left but spiders and bits.”

     “Collect samples for the spider DNA database,” I ordered.  “I want Cactus-Claw's death confirmed before my press release on World News Tonight with Brad Jacobs.”

     As Sergeant Williams videoed, the earthen berm paralleling the canal gave way from its pounding.  What started as a trickle turned into a flood reaching all the way to New Phoenix.  I sent a pre-press release explaining how Legion efforts to fight spider bandit terrorism had been hampered by ground hogs burrowing into the New Phoenix Canal like Swiss cheese, threatening the integrity of the entire canal system, finally causing a breech and a massive flood.  I had previously warned of the growing ground hog menace hastened by unreasonable Environmental Protection Agency regulations placing ground hogs on the Endangered Species List, but does anyone ever listen to soldiers in the field?  No!  I promised to remedy with prejudice the harm caused by bureaucratic greener zealot lobbyists from Old Earth.

     One the plus side, the flood brought new life to the otherwise dry desert.  A sea of yellow flowers known as the Yellow Rose of Texas soon sprouted in waves across the plains of New Phoenix.  Also known as the Tansy-Ragwort bloom, its sweet perfumed pollen spread and enriched the lives of all, even the spiders of the Arthropodan Empire just across the border to the north.

                                                                     * * * * *

      Medics Walter Knight and Elena Ceausescu were detailed to tag and bag spider parts at the canal.  As Ceausescu scooped exoskeleton parts from the canal with a pool net, the sun shown through her golden blond hair.  Private Knight was unexpectedly stunned by her angelic beauty.

     “Elena, you are cute as a bug's ear,” gushed Knight deftly.  “It's a mystery why I had not noticed before.”

     Ceausescu pressed against Knight, sensuously staring into his eyes. 

     “A bug's ear?” she asked.  “That's the best you got?  What's a bug's ear?”

     “Almost finer than a frog's hair,” answered Private Knight, turning on the country suave.

     Ceausescu shoved Knight into the canal.  Private Krueger laughed at Knight flailing in the current.  Science fiction paperbacks floated in the water from Knight's stuffed backpack.

     “Do you think I'm as cute as a bug's ear, too?” asked Ceausescu, glaring at Krueger.

     “Much cuter,” answered Krueger, backing away.  “Hell, you're as cute as two bug ears.”

     “Help!” shouted Knight gasping for air.  “What did you do that for?  I'm putting you in my next book, and it won't be pretty.  You'll be abducted and probed by aliens!”

     “Better than abducted and probed by you!” countered Ceausescu.

     “So there's still a chance?” asked Knight, ever the optimist.

     “No.  Not ever.  Never!”

     “Let it drop,” cautioned Krueger, pulling Knight from the canal.  “You know better than to mess with Psych-Medic.  She self medicates.”

     “So do I,” argued Knight.  “That makes us even, and a match made in Heaven.”

     “Stalking Ceausescu could be hazardous to your health.  She carries a rifle and grenades.”

     “A man can dream.”

     “Listen to Krueger!” shouted Ceausescu.  “Your life depends on it.”

     “Whatever.”

     “Oh no you don't.  Nobody 'whatevers' me!”

     “Whatever.”

     Ceausescu gazed at her reflection in the canal water.  A bug's ear?  Finer than a frog's hair?  How lovely.  No one ever said that to her before.  Why did it have to be Knight to recite such lovely poetry?  He probably plagiarized 'bug's ear' from geeky Star Trek reruns.  Knight does that all the time.  I hope he and Penumbra Publishing gets sued.  Put that bug in your ear!

                                                                       Chapter 8

     The ghost of Harold Crack reported to Master Sergeant Green at Legion Headquarters in New Gobi City.  He politely knocked on my outer office door, but was proceeded by a cold chill.  Sergeant Green reached for his sidearm.

     “What the Hell?” asked Sergeant Green, not that surprised by ghosts.

     “Not in Hell yet,” answered Harold Crack amicably.  “I'll meet you there soon enough.  Private Crack, reporting for duty, sir!”

     “Don't call me sir, I work for a living,” replied Sergeant Green reflexively.  “You're a legionnaire?”

     “With papers to prove it.  I want my paycheck direct deposit in the First National Back of New Colorado.”

     “Does the CIA know about you,” asked Sergeant Green, immediately realizing the implications.  “Your strategic value in war could be invaluable.”

     “Special Agent John Casey sent me an E-mail ordering me to stay put right here until he arrives.”

     “And so you shall,” commented Sergeant Green.  “Come with me.  I have a special mission for you before the CIA arrives.”

     Harold Crack followed Sergeant Green downstairs, below Legion Headquarters to the dungeon.  Rats scurried away in all directions at their approach.  Sergeant Green fought cobwebs as the trudged deeper into the subterranean labyrinth that is the Legion Corrections Facility.

     “What did you do before you became a ghost?” asked Sergeant Green.

     “I was mayor of Gila Bend.  Before that I grew bamboo in Horse Cave, Kentucky.  Horse Cave has the largest bamboo farm in America.  Did you know that?”

     “Didn't know, don't care.  That was you in Gila Bend?”

     “The Legion recruiter offered me a new start.  I've moved on.”

     “To do what?” asked Sergeant Green suspiciously.  “You're a ghost.  That means you have a crazy ax to grind.”

      “You're no expert on ghosts or crazy.  I passed my psychological exam, on appeal.  You don't know me.  You don't know ghosts.  No one knows ghosts!”

     “Just spill it,” ordered Sergeant Green.  “Who do you want to kill?  Cactus-Claw and his gang?  That's fine by me.  Kill them all.  Let the Devil sort them out in Hell.”

     “Yes.  I want to kill Cactus Claw, and I want my gold teeth back.”

     “All of them?”

     “Of course.”

     “That might be a problem.  Most gold gets pawned quickly.”

     “Your dungeon smells like Horse Cave, except different,” observed Crack, distracted by a large iron hook embedded in a cell ceiling.  “What's that for?”

     “Hanging laundry,” answered Sergeant Green.  “The reason I brought you down here is to scare the damn rats out.  Drive them all completely across the border, like the Pied Piper.  Otherwise, the human Rights Commission and the Health Department have conspired to condemn the whole dungeon.”

     “Is that a bad thing?”

     “Real bad,” explained Sergeant Green patiently.  “Without dungeons, civilization crumbles.  Dungeons are the foundation that sustain the free world.  Now get those cheese-eaters out!”

                                                                   * * * * *

     Cactus-Claw rode the flood to the parking lot of Casa del Sol Hotel Resort Casino, where refuges gathered on the outskirts of New Phoenix.  It was a perfect storm for a heist.  The cops were busy rescuing flood victims, and the Legion was trying to repair the canal from rabid ground hogs.

     Cactus-Claw sent a spider bandit to the roof to cut the power lines, disabling the alarm system.  Faces covered by bandannas, he led his gang to the cashier's cage, firing rounds into the ceiling for affect.  Slot players ignored the noise, but craps and blackjack players grabbed chips as they fled.

     “Put all the money in the bag!” shouted Cactus-Claw, setting the tone.  This wasn't his first rodeo.  “Hurry it up.”

     “Sir, we have no cash,” cried a human cashier.  “All money is transferred by ATM card.”

     “No money in your casino?  That's UN-American.”

     “Sorry.”

     “Put a million dollars on my card,” demanded Cactus-Claw, slamming his ATM card on the counter.  “No tricks!”

     “You're the ruthless alien bandit Cactus-Claw?”  asked the cashier, examining the ATM card.  “May I see a valid driver's license or other picture ID?”

     Cactus-Claw removed his scarf mask.  “You've heard of me?”

     “Of course, you're famous.  May I have your autograph in case you're killed or seriously mangled in a firefight?”

     “Make the transfer, or else!”

     “Sorry again, Mr. Cactus-Claw, but we cannot make transfers because of the power failure.”

     Cactus-Claw weighed his ever-decreasing options.  Everyone in the casino was lit up like lightning bugs, calling the cops on their communication pads.  A Legion armored car arrived outside the front doors.  A human pestilence soldier shouted on a PA for their surrender.  Not going to happen,  resolved Cactus-Claw.

     The gang rounded up five spider gamblers, shoving them out the front doors in a show of good faith.  They were immediately mowed down by Legion machine gun fire.  High caliber bullets ricocheted off slot machines.  Several jackpots sounded.  Ka-ching!  Gamblers cheered the Legion aim, and their good luck.

     “What do we do?” asked Little-Claw desperately.  “The Legion is not taking prisoners.”

     “Continue negotiations,” answered Cactus-Claw, staying calm.  “Demand pizza, access to the media, and fifty rolls of duct tape.”

     “You have a plan, or you're just stalling?”

     “I always have a plan.  That's why I'm a famous bandit leader, and you're not.”

                                                                          * * * * *

     A spider bandit on the roof reported that a Legion negotiations robot was slowly treading towards the front door.  He could smell pizza, so that was a good thing, right?  Cactus-Claw ordered the bandit to restore power immediately.  Better said than done.

     The bandit was bitten by a rattlesnake escaping from high water.  He fell back against a power line, electrocuting himself.  The combination of venom and electrical surge gave the spider bandit super-hero powers, probably of the super-ninja warrior type.  He was alive as never before, feeling the power course through his exoskeleton as he went into super ninja spider type warm-up exercises.  We'll never know the bandit's exact super-hero ninja powers because at that very moment he was shot dead by a Legion sniper.  Too bad, so sad.  Penumbra Publishing lost a potentially lucrative contract with Marvel because of that damn sniper.

     The Legion negotiations robot bumped repeatedly against the front door until Little-Claw finally let it in.  An older model, the robot used treads to navigate between the table games, tearing up the expensive carpet when it changed directions.  As it passed, a long skinny arm reached out and grabbed a fistfuls of hundred dollar chips, depositing them in a drop box located atop the robot's small motor.