The Interstellar Police Force, Book One: The Historic Mission

by Raymond F. Klein

  They all in unison started counting, “One thousand, three. One thousand, four. One thousand . . .”

  Bollar quickly walked to the door, swung it open, and stepped onto the sidewalk. He heard someone shout, “FREEZE! Drop your weapon!”

  Bollar was shocked to see three Westberry Police cars in front of the store. The car doors were open, with police officers crouching behind them, weapons drawn. “I said, DROP YOUR GODDAMN WEAPON!”

  Bollar’s heart was pounding. He heard sirens in the distance and for a fleeting moment wondered if he died would he replicate back to his old form. Seemingly in slow motion, the pillow case slipped from his hand, and then in one fluid movement he switched his A-56 Auto Loader to full automatic and brought it up.

  The muzzle blast was blinding and the sound deafening. Two police officers went down immediately. Their Kevlar vests and thin car doors did nothing to stop the A-56 rounds spitting from Bollar’s gun. In response, the Westberry Police opened fire in a cacophony of sound. Bollar squatted as he heard bullets whistle by his ear. The large picture window of the antique store behind him exploded in shards of glass. Porcelain vases, plates, and glass items shattered on the store’s shelves with the impact of police bullets. An eighteen-century German clock burst apart, bell tolling its final time. Wood splintered and chunks of brick wall went flying. Remnants of items and debris rained down onto the screaming people still lying on the floor. Michael was still frantically counting out loud.

  Bollar didn’t take his finger off the trigger and raked the weapon back and forth. Rounds struck police car windshields with sickening cracks. Another Westberry police officer went down with a mortal wound to the head. Some rounds hit the buildings across the street, sending broken bits of brick flying like shrapnel in all directions. Bystanders on the sidewalks panicked and ran screaming. Rounds embedded themselves into a couple of police car engine blocks, steam belching from one while another caught fire with a loud whoosh.

  Bollar had an IPF grenade in his hand, one of two he always carried and didn’t even realize he'd pulled it out of his pocket. He pushed the timer trigger and threw it, then lunged for the ground with the A-56 still firing. It fell with a metallic clunk on the asphalt in between two cars. A Westberry policeman saw it and shouted, “GRENADE!” They scattered and dove for the ground as it exploded. Hot metal fragments struck an officer in the lower back and legs. Other fragments from the grenade ruptured a fuel tank of a car, sending a flaming mushroom cloud into the air with a loud boom! Bollar got to his feet and took the opportunity of the confusion to run; he did not stop shooting as he did. As Bollar turned a corner to get a wall between him and the police bullets he felt a searing, burning pain in his arm as he was hit. He stumbled, but regained his footing.

  As he ran across Grant Street, the sirens were louder now, along with screeching tires and more shouts and sporadic gunfire. He never stopped firing as he ran. He swept the A-56 back and forth, not caring what he hit. People on the streets screamed and jumped for the ground. Some lay still, never to move again. Brick walls were peppered with holes and shop windows shattered. Tires of parked cars popped loudly, while car alarms were set off with high-pitched crying wails.

  Bollar just kept running up the middle of Third Avenue, firing as he went, clearing whatever crowd of bystanders that might impede his progress. Everyone got out of his way.

  He turned left on 9th Street and saw the white vintage car of the IPF Agent coming fast toward him. “Not you too!” he said as he brought the weapon to his shoulder and took careful aim. Bollar let loose a steady, controlled burst from the A-56 Auto Loader. Rounds struck the windshield of the replicated 1959 Ford Thunderbird, but harmlessly bounced off the protecting generation field surrounding the cruiser.

  “Son of a BITCH!” Genghis shouted, as the rounds loudly struck the field. Trent hit the brakes hard and spun the wheel to the right. The Thunderbird swerved in a one eighty degree arc, back tires screaming. Trent already had his PK30A in his left hand, and as the Thunderbird came, for a second, broadside to Bollar, Trent fired three shots in succession. The Thunderbird's two left tires bumped hard against the curb of the street as it came to a stop while Trent’s PK rounds were down range heading toward Bollar.

  One round sliced across Bollar's left temple cutting a deep gash across his head, followed by the second scrapping the top of his left shoulder and cracking his collar bone. The third tore off his left ear. Warm blood flowed down the side of his face as Bollar screamed in pain and went down to one knee. He saw the Agent and that dog getting out of the vehicle. Bollar lifted the A-56 and fired a burst in their direction. He knew he wasn’t going to hit him, but he just needed time. He got to his feet and ran toward a store front.

  People on the sidewalks were still screaming and running, while in the distance sirens filled the air. Bollar burst through the front door of a flower shop. People who ran into the store for cover all screamed in fear. Bollar fired a couple of rounds into the air. Pieces of acoustic ceiling tiles and dust came raining down. He pointed the now empty A-56 at a clerk. “Back door?” he calmly asked. The clerk just pointed. Bollar walked to the backroom, reloading his weapon. The door was locked with a large padlock. “Screw that!” He fired several shots at the lock. He could hear the people in the store screaming and running out. The padlock and door knob disintegrated under his intense fire. Kicking the door open, he found himself in a series of alleyways that were between the buildings on the corners of Eighth Street and Fifth Avenue. Police sirens were now further off, and he began to see his chance of a possible escape.

  Jeff Trent and Genghis Khan saw where Bollar had run, but were fighting against the terrified ebb of people exiting the flower shop, “Make way! Make way! I’m a police officer.” Jeff and Genghis got into the now empty flower shop, and saw the open back door and ran to it. They entered a maze of back alleyways.

  Genghis brought his nose to the air and made a series of quick sniffs. “Jeff, to the left.” They both started to slowly walk the narrow passageways of the ally. Bollar was around the corner sitting on the ground, back against the wall with knees to his chest. He just needed a couple of seconds to rest. The adrenaline was now beginning to fade and he was breathing heavily. His arm and shoulder hurt, but not as badly as his head, which was constantly throbbing. He leaned over slightly and poked his head around the edge of the wall and saw the IPF agent coming around the corner. He pulled his head back and brought the A-56 up and around the edge of the wall and fired a burst. Jeff and Genghis both saw Bollar’s arm come around the wall and took cover just before he fired. The rounds impacted the brick wall behind them.

  “Bollar!” Trent called out, “I am an agent with the Interstellar Police Force. You are hereby ordered to drop your weapon and stand down. You are under arrest!” Bollar was amused at the absurdity of the statement and called back, “Not today, friend!”

  That’s when Jeff and Genghis saw the object thrown in a high arc into the ally. It bounced off a side wall and landed not five feet from them. They both made eye contact and shouted the warning to each other, “COVER!”

  Genghis bolted around the corner where they came in and Jeff jumped behind a dumpster as Bollar's second IPF device exploded. Jagged pieces of shrapnel ripped through Trent’s right leg as he landed on the ground hard. He could feel a burning pain in his leg. He heard movement and then someone running.

  Genghis came around the corner, “Jeff?” He ran over to him. “Jeff, you hit?”

  “Yeah,” Jeff said, as he used the dumpster to stand. “Caught it in the leg. Come on,” As Jeff Trent and Genghis Khan approached the edge of the alley where Bollar was, Jeff quickly came around it with his PK in front of him. Bollar was gone, but he had left a small puddle of blood on the ground. Twenty feet from that, around a sharp corner, was the exit to the alley.

  “Shit!” Genghis said as they came out onto Fifth Avenue. They both looked up and down the street. Bollar was nowhere in sight. Genghis brought his nose to the gr
ound, then into the air. “This way!” Genghis said, as he took a couple of steps to the right. “We’ve got blood on the ground over here too.”

  The police sirens were everywhere and getting closer. “They heard the shots and grenade go off,” Jeff said. His breathing was becoming erratic.“Genghis, I’m in no shape to pursue. We better get out of here and back to the cruiser. We’ll never be able to explain any of this to the local PD.” Jeff started to hobble. As Genghis trotted closer to him, Trent placed his hand firmly on his partner's back for support. Jeff Trent and Genghis Khan slowly worked their way back to the Thunderbird.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The Thunderbird was in the parking lot of the Riverside Mall. The top was up and the vehicle locked up. Jeff and Genghis were below decks in the medical center. Jeff Trent was lying on his back on a long silver examining table. He was propping himself up on his elbows in order to watch Genghis examine his leg. The Doberman Pinscher was sitting on a tall stool, back legs tight together, balancing on the seat, front paws were placed on the silver table. “Yeah, it tore you up pretty good,” he said, looking at Trent’s wounds. Jeff’s pant leg was cut away from above the knee, revealing four very nasty jagged lacerations in his leg. The worst was two inches long and opened a quarter inch wide.

  Genghis reached a paw up and pulled down a device that was attached to an articulated arm. The Medical Diagnostic and Surgical Unit was a large, rectangular device made from the same silver material as the table and bristling with probes, microscopes, and surgical gear of all kinds. Genghis switched it on, made a few adjustments to the MDSU computer screen on the side of the device, and asked, “Pain meds kicking in yet?”

  “Yes, it’s pretty numb now,” Trent said, still watching.

  The powerful bright light from the unit illuminated the wounds. Genghis could see, in between the dark crimson walls of the interior of Jeff’s leg, a piece of shrapnel that was embedded deep into the muscle. The Medical Diagnostic and Surgical Unit started to scan the wound with a yellow-pink laser that fanned out and started oscillating over it. As it did, Genghis read the computer screen. “Well, good news, no nerve damage. Bad news, you got a chunk of metal in the muscle of your leg.”

  “Could have been worse,” Jeff said with a grimace.

  “Yeah, you're lucky it didn’t nick the femoral artery.” Genghis made a couple of more adjustments. As the unit started to move closer to Trent’s leg, Genghis had to duck as the articulated arm’s elbow swung around to get a better view of the wounds. It then started to make a humming sound. Genghis watched the computer display as the piece of metal gently started to vibrate and retreat from the muscle. Blood slowly started to flow. “Hang on,” Genghis said, reaching up and pausing the procedure. “Let me stop that bleeding.” He picked up an instrument the size of a pen from a tray that was beside him. He held it in between his canine digits and pointed it into the wound. A small green laser shot from it and Genghis was able to cauterize and stop the bleeding. “There we go.” The procedure continued and the piece of metal slowly started to pull away from the muscle in Jeff’s leg. It finally fell to the table with a ringing sound.

  “Well done, Mister Khan,” Jeff said weakly.

  “You're welcome, Mister Trent. Now let’s close this one up and start on the others.”

  Out of the bottom of the MDSU. came a thin silver wand and as it drew closer to Trent’s leg, it unfolded with three elbows to the length of just under two feet. The very thin tapered tip of the wand entered the wound in Jeff’s leg and started to fire small lasers in quick succession and, as the wand started to retreat out of the wound, the walls of the laceration in Trent’s leg started to close.

  It had been a little over ten hours since they left Jennifer at the end of the drive, watching as they drove toward the Seventh Avenue bridge. It was now one a.m. when they pulled into the dark garage and shut the engine off. They saw a rectangle of light at the top of the stairs as Jennifer swung the door open and came running down the backstairs.

  “Where have you been? I’ve been watching the whole thing on TV.” She was talking very quickly and frantically. “It’s the only thing they're showing, I can’t believe he got away, I was really worried. They had a couple of news helicopters up there and I was able to see that guy running and shooting up the place, I even saw your car parked on 9th, but didn’t see you anywhere. I was really worried.” Jeff slowly got out of the Thunderbird wearing a different pair of pants.

  “Even Lester Holt went live with it. He said it was the most dramatic event since some '97 shootout in LA and said . . .” She then saw Jeff limping. “Huh!” Her hand shot to her mouth, “You're hurt! Were you shot? Are you okay?” She ran to him and grabbed his arm to help him as he closed the car door. “Oh, my God, is that blood? Are you okay?”

  “Yes, Twinkie, I’m fine. I just got a few pieces of metal in my leg.”

  “Oh, my God! That bomb! You were that close? Does it hurt?” She helped him to the stairs.

  “I’m fine, Twinkie. Really.” Trent was saying, as all three started to ascend the stairs.

  “Do you need anything? Can I get you anything? How about if I put some coffee on?”

  “That would be swell, Twinkie.” Jeff said. “I could use a cup.”

  About that same time, Bollar was sitting on the floor of his little one room shabby little one-room apartment, leaning against the base of the dresser. He tore an old sheet into strips and wrapped his arm the best he could. He held a dirty dish rag to where his ear should have been. The bleeding finally stopped, but the pain was excruciating.

  He had been able to double back to his car. It was a lucky break that he got into the shootout with the IPF agent. It made for a nice diversion that got most of the local police to that area before they had the time to start searching and impounding abandoned cars.

  He started wondering how everything fell apart so quickly. He had planned everything perfectly, down to the last detail. Down to the minute. Yes, it took a little longer then he planned, but that could not have caused everything to unravel the way it did. He could think of only one possible explanation. Prodor Moffit did set him up. Why else would he have wanted to know so much about his next job? It was time to get the hell out of this town and never look back. But not right now. First he would stay low for several weeks. He needed to heal and he needed some help.

  He reached over to the IPF radio that was lying on the floor next to his A56 and pulled it toward him. He picked it up with his bad arm and cringed, dropping it. He then grabbed it with his other hand and keyed the mike. “Mr. Bourbon?” he said, taking in a breath. “Mr. Bourbon, are you there?” He thought for a second then said, “Over!”

  He heard the mike on the other end key open. “Hell yeah, man!” Billy responded. “Where the hell you been? I been trying to get a hold of you. Your friend came into town shortly before all that shit went down.”

  “Yes, Mr. Bourbon, I’m well aware of what happened in town today. Now shut up and listen to me.” He had to take another deep breath. There was an intense throbbing in his head. “I need your assistance and can pay you handsomely for it.”

  Chapter Fifty

  The following morning Jeff was lying on the couch wearing a red plaid bathrobe, his bandaged leg was resting upon two pillows that Jennifer had stacked up for him. She entered the living room from the kitchen with the coffee carafe in her hand. “Here, have some more coffee,” she said while refilling Jeff’s “World’s Number One Dad” mug. “Do you want another sandwich?”

  Jeff had a plate balancing on his lap with a half-eaten sandwich on it. “No, thank you, Twinkie. This is great.”

  Genghis, sitting on the floor next to Jeff, he glanced up at Jennifer with his best, I could use a little more coffee too look. His mug was empty. She looked down at him and said, “No, Genghis! No more coffee for you, it’s for Jeff.” She snatched up Genghis’s “Death Before Disco” mug, “And besides, doggies shouldn’t be drinking coffee in the first place.”r />
  She then turned for the kitchen, leaving Genghis with a shocked look on his face. He then gave Jeff a scathing look that said Oh, your leg doesn’t hurt, you're just milking this! Jeff, in response, just gave him a big grin while taking a sip from his mug.

  Just then, the walls of the apartment started to vibrate with a distant rumble. Jennifer came out of the kitchen and stared at Jeff and Genghis, who were staring back. Then came the sharp knocks on the apartment door. Jennifer walked over to the door and opened it and took one involuntary step backward.

  “Mister Trent, is he here?” Mrs. Remke said, in her machine gun-like fashion. “Where is he? Is he in?” She started darting her head back and forth, trying to see around Jennifer, and spotted him lying on the couch. “Mister Trent! When I said you could use my garage to store that monstrosity of a vehicle in it I did not intend for you to rocket out squealing your tires like a teenager late for a hot date and drawing the attention of my busybody neighbors . . .” She paused in mid sentence, then, “What’s wrong with you? Did you hurt your leg? Did you hurt your leg on these premises? Well, I will tell you right now that I will not be held responsible for any and all injuries sustained in this apartment or the surrounding property while you rent from me. I will not be sued for your clumsiness . . .”

  “Mrs. Remke,” Jennifer interrupted her. “Didn’t you see what happened yesterday in town?”

  “Well, of course I did, child. I keep up with current events. What are you implying?”

  “No, nothing!” Jennifer put her hands up in defense. “No, Mrs. Remke, I’m not implying anything, it’s just . . .”

  “If you ask me, they should have shot that man right in the head and ended it right then and there. Now when they do catch him and throw him in jail, my tax dollars will make sure he’s fed three times a day and make sure he gets free medical care and free cable TV. Not very fair when you think about it when we have to pay for all of those things.”