America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits (9 page)

     Sergeant Williams deployed the Tremors 2000 Seismic Detection Unit, new and improved over the old Tremors 1000.  A drill mounted on the side of his armored car poked into the ground.  Seismic readings accurately detected and located underground movement of anything from a large groundhog to mechanical devices.  Numerous groundhogs and scorpions were tracked within the narrowing Legion perimeter.  I ordered all movement targeted by the Air Force with bunker-busting bombs.

     Bleeding from his hearing receptor holes, Crazy-Sting staggered to the surface.  His gang came up fighting.  Sergeant Williams cut the first wave of scorpions down with his machine gun.  I directed cannon fire as my armored car advanced at the enemy.

     A scorpion bandit scaled the side of my armored car, wrestling me off the turret.  It stung me on the shoulder as we rolled in the dirt.  A scorpion sting would be lethal to most legionnaires, but I have been stung so many times I've developed a resistance to the venom.  I drew my jagged combat knife, slicing off the scorpion's telson, and stabbing it in the heart.  The scorpion kept struggling.  I stabbed the scorpion in its other heart, finally dropping it like a sack of potatoes. 

     Crazy-Sting raised his claws in surrender.  “I give up!” he shouted.  “Spare my mates, and I will give you valuable information about the spiders bandits.”

     What a cheese-eater, I thought.  “No deals.  Surrender is unconditional.”

    “Does that mean no conditions?”

     “Yes.”

     “That sucks!”

     “Sucks to be you.”

     “Cactus-Claw survived your massacre.  You just missed him, but I know where he will strike next.”

     “Go on,” I said, slightly interested.

     “Do we have a deal?  You will let us return to Scorpion City?  I promise to be good.  I'm a personal friend of Major Desert-Sting of the Guard.”

     “Okay, fine.  I agree to all your conditions.”

     “Cactus-Claw plans to rob the First National Bank of New Phoenix.  He thinks the Legion thinks he is dead, so security at the bank will be light.  He has got a dozen traitor scorpions from my gang to join him.”

     “Thank you for the info,” I replied magnanimously.  “You may go.”

     “I need medical help,” said Crazy-Sting, still bleeding from his inner hearing receptor hole.  “I'm weak from loss of blood.  I need a medic.”

     “I tossed Crazy-Sting a roll of duct tape.  Ha!  Another use for duct tape.  Then the venom from the scorpion sting took affect, sending me into hallucinatory shock.  I talked to God, and God talked back.

                                                                         * * * * *

     “Colonel Czerinski, I thought you retired,” said God, amicably.  “You should have retired long ago.”

     “If this is the afterlife, I'm gravely disappointed,” I replied.  “Otherwise, I'm in for the duration.”

     “Just as well it's not.  You wouldn't get past the Pearly Gates.  Saint Peter hates your guts.  What did you do to piss him off so much?”

     “I did my praying at the casino.  Old Pete holds a grudge for eternity.”

     “Most legionnaires die from scorpion stings.  Why are you still alive?”

     “ Heard you're letting scorpions into Heaven these days,” I commented, not comfortable talking about my mortality with God.  “How's that working out for you?”

     “God does not discriminate,” answered God.  “It's written somewhere, but damned if I can find it.  I think my Son snuck that one into the fine print somewhere.  Little bastard.”

     “Am I going to survive this scorpion sting?” I asked, a bit nervous about talking to God.  “I still got stuff I want to do.”

     “Oh, hell yes.  It's like you mentioned earlier.  You're in for the duration, and that's a long time.”

     “It's been good chatting, God,” I said, fading into consciousness.

     “Ditto, bro.”

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                        Chapter 14

 

 

     I deployed legionnaires between New Phoenix and Cactus-Claw's last known location.  Panic struck from rumors of imminent attack from Cactus-Claw and his horde of ravenous scorpions.  Residents of New Phoenix closed fast food restaurants, groceries, and liquor stores.  The city imposed a blackout in case Cactus-Claw attacked from the air.  I met Sheriff Mike McCoy at the city limits to coordinate defenses.

     “Where are my prisoners?” asked Sheriff McCoy. 

     “I shot them trying to escape,” I answered.

     “All of them?  Did you at least save some orange jumpsuits?”

     “No and no.  Cactus-Claw got away.”

     “I want a written report documenting exactly what happened.  How am I going to justify federal funding if you keep messing with my numbers?”

     “The Foreign Legion doesn't care about numbers,” interrupted Major Lopez, my XO.  “Your red tape slows us down.”

    “Along the DMZ anyone who keeps resisting is an enemy combatant,” I explained patiently.  “Numbers get skewed.  Fog of war, you know.”

     “No, I don't know,” bristled Sheriff McCoy.  “Is there helmet camera video of your latest atrocity?”

     “No.  More fog.”

     “We're not cops,” argued Major Lopez, more animated.  “If you did your job better, spider and scorpion gangs wouldn't me marauding across the countryside slaughtering innocents.  Now they're even attacking New Phoenix.  What are you going to do about that?”

     “Have some donuts,” I offered, making peace with free cop-food.  “You don't want to shoot bandits on an empty stomach.”

     “Thanks,” replied Sheriff McCoy, picking out a Crispy Creme.  “Don't think this changes anything.”

     “We're an the same side, but have different approaches,” I said reasonably.  “You make arrests.  If it's from space, we kill it.”

     “It's a new day, Czerinski.  Many spiders and scorpions are now American citizens.  Some even vote.  Hell, there are aliens in your own Legion.  There are rules.  We are sworn to protect the constitutional rights of all citizens.”

     “Not when the enemy has automatic weapons and RPGs.”

     “Those escaped prisoners didn't have automatic weapons and RPGs.”

     “They do now.”

                                                                       * * * * *

     Corporal Tonelli and Privates Telk, Krueger, and Knight lay in ambush along an old game trail near New Phoenix.  It was a quiet moonless night, perfect for an ambush.  Their motion sensor alarm detected movement on the trail.  Rustling could be heard in the brush, getting closer.  Corporal Tonelli fired a flare into the air.  Private Krueger threw a grenade.  Knight and Telk fired their rifles.  After the initial mayhem, everyone stayed in place, letting their night vision return.  The flare slowly drifted away.

     “Did we kill it?” asked Telk, crawling to the left flank.  “I think we killed it.”

     “Killed what?” asked Private Krueger, pulling another grenade from his pants.  “We didn't kill anything.”

     Something thrashed in the brush.  Corporal Tonelli fired his pistol.  It screamed and fell. 

     “I killed it,” said Tonalli, advancing cautiously.  “It's a javelina.”

     “A wild pig?” asked Private Knight, joining Corporal Tonelli.  “Does anyone have a hunting license?”

     “We don't need no stinking hunting license,” replied Kruger, doing his best Major Lopez imitation.  “Finally we see combat.”

     “This isn't combat,” advised Corporal Tonelli.  “It's only combat if one of you accidentally got shot.”

     Soft sand by where Corporal Tonelli was standing gave way to a hiding scorpion.  More scorpions emerged from hiding, pointing their weapons menacingly at the legionnaires.  They were led by two spiders.

     “Surrender,” ordered Cactus-Claw.  “You are outnumbered.  Throw down your rifles.  Do it now.”

     “This is combat,” commented Corporal Tonelli.  “Happy now?”

     “It's not combat if we surrender,” argued Krueger.  “It's technical.”

     “Don't shoot, or I'll sound a radio alarm,” said Corporal Tonelli, thumb on the button.  “You might kill us, but you won't outrun Legion helicopter gunships.”

     “That's right,” added Private Knight.  “Make them a deal they can't refuse.  Don't mess with Tonelli.  He's connected.”

     “I've seen you on cable TV,” replied Cactus-Claw, eying Private Knight incredulously.  “You're world famous science fiction author Walter Knight.  I've read all of your books on Kindle.”

     “Wow!  All of them?”

     “Friends don't let friends watch cable,” said Private Telk, trying to be helpful, but not.

     “Sorry about this,” apologized Cactus-Claw, showing genuine concern.  “The good news is maybe sales will increase after I shoot you.  All press is good press.”

     “Maybe you could give me an Amazon book review before we die,” replied Knight somberly.

     “When is Book 23 coming out?”

     “As soon as my editor gets back from vacation on Mars.  She's working on her tan.”

     “It's Christmas,” announced Corporal Tonelli.  “No one wants to get whacked on Christmas.  How about a Christmas truce?”

     “Spiders don't celebrate Christmas,” scoffed Cactus-Claw.  “We do our New Year's shopping on Black Friday.”

     “Scorpions celebrate Christmas,” said one of the scorpions, twitching nervously.  “Hanukkah, too.  There's so much to steal during the holiday season.”

     “You're not helping,” admonished Cactus-Claw.  “Good help is so hard to find.”

     “I say we eat the pig for Christmas dinner,” suggested the scorpion, a slave to his gullet.  “I have bar-b-cue sauce in my backpack.”

     “I have beer in mine,” added Private Krueger, being more helpful that stupid Telk ever could be.

     “I've got weed,” exclaimed Private Telk, closing the deal.  “It will be like Snoopy and the Red Baron, except  we'll get stoned.”

    “A truce it is, then,” said Corporal Tonelli loudly for all to hear.  “We'll roast the pig on a spit, but one false move and I radio Headquarters for an air strike.”

     “Whatever,” said Cactus-Claw, lowering his rifle.  “Merry Christmas to all you silly human pestilence.”

     “Merry Christmas to all scorpions and spiders,” countered Corporal Tonelli, producing a tall bottle of wine from his pouch for a toast.  “World peace.”

     “Not likely,” said Cactus-Claw.  “I'll kill you tomorrow.”

     “Back at you, bug.”

     “Earth scum!”

     “What about New Year's?” asked Private Knight, frantically scribbling notes for his next book.  “The truce should last until New Year's.  It's a brave new world.”

     “Shut up!” chorused everyone, toasting Knight's stupid brave new world.

     “Peace and goodwill only go so far,” said Corporal Tonelli.  “You can't expect miracles on New Colorado.  It's too far from home for miracles.”

     “I'm not so sure,” said Private Knight in a hushed voice.  “It's not really Christmas.  Christmas is Next month.”

     “It's Christmas on some beach, somewhere,” argued Corporal Tonelli.

     “No, it is not,” insisted Private Knight.

     “Does that mean no world peace?” asked Private Krueger, still gripping his grenade.

     “Let's just survive the day,” said Corporal Tonelli.  “If the scorpions think it's Christmas, it's Christmas.  Merry Christmas and goodwill to all.  That's an order.”

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                     Chapter 15

 

 

     Little-Claw's E-mail read, 'My dearest human pestilence best friend sir:  I need your help transferring money from the Arthropodan Empire to America to avoid paying exorbitant Imperial taxes.  If you will give me your bank account number and ATM password, I will transfer millions of credits gained from illicit Arthropodan bank robberies to your bank account.  You get to keep half.  Do not worry, this is perfectly legal.  Please help.  Sincerely, Little-Claw, a spider you can trust.  Spiders never lie, except when they do, but you can trust me.  I'm a good spider.'

                                                                             * * * * *

     “That won't work,” scoffed Cactus-Claw.  “Any fool will easily see through your scam.”

     “That's your problem,” lectured Little-Claw.  “I'm through taking orders from you.  You have no finesse.”

     “I have all the finesse I need.  I have finesse coming out my poop-chute.”

     “I've already drained several bank accounts,” bragged Little-Claw, checking his communications pad.  “I call it phishing for humans.  Finally, I've hit upon our white collar crime lottery.  The Galactic Database connects me with billions of stupid human pestilence.  I only need to fool a clawful of human pestilence suckers to make easy money.”

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