“They would do better to use indigenous landscaping,” commented the spider commander. “Those extensive greens waste precious water. Why would the Legion build a golf course here? What trick are they up to?”
“Golf is a favorite game of the business elite,” explained the military intelligence officer, checking the database. “If you have a five-star hotel, you need a golf course to go with it.”
“We have a five-star hotel,” said the spider commander. “Why don’t we have a golf course? How many golf courses have been built in the DMZ?”
“This will be the first,” said the military intelligence officer. “But there are many golf courses in the human pestilence southern area.”
“The first!” said the spider commander. “That’s it! Czerinski wants to be the first to have a golf course in the DMZ! Instruct my engineers to build a golf course immediately. And, I want my golf course to be bigger and better than the human pestilence golf course. Most important, I want my golf course completed before Czerinski’s golf course!”
“The human pestilence have a head start on construction,” said the military intelligence officer. “I am not sure we can get our golf course built first.”
“I will take care of that,” promised the spider commander. “You just get our engineers to work! I want no excuses.”
* * * * *
The point spider scout gripped his assault rifle as he cautiously pushed through the sagebrush, leading his commando team. Sage-colored camouflage netting made the commando almost invisible when motionless. Cautious of booby-traps and landmines, the point spider stopped to listen. Night vision technology allowed him to see legionnaire guards patrolling the MDL fence. A legionnaire in the distance walked a monitor dragon. Fortunately the commandos were downwind from the dragon. A traitorous spider legionnaire walked with the dragon handler. The traitor suddenly stopped, looking directly at the commando team. A flare went off in the sky, lighting the desert below.
The spider scout closed his eyes so as not to lose his night vision. He stayed perfectly still, and could remain so for hours, even days. Spider scouts were specially recruited for their patience and stealth capabilities. They made excellent snipers and sappers. The commando team remained motionless until the flare died out. The legionnaires continued their patrol. The point spider cut a hole in the MDL fence and led the team through to their target.
At the golf course, they expertly placed explosive charges on heavy equipment and on outbuildings. The clubhouse was wired with a nasty delayed fuse that would kill first responders. Even the sand traps and greens were targeted.
The point spider quickly retraced their route back to the MDL fence. A branch snapped somewhere in the darkness. As the point spider held up a claw to signal the team to stop, a shot rang out, hitting the commando in his chest. Grenades exploded, sending blinding flashes and shrapnel into the night sky in all directions. A Legion monitor dragon shrieked as an aerial flare went off.
A team leader grabbed the wounded point spider and carried him through the opening in the fence. They sprinted for cover. At an outcropping of rocks, waiting medics met the wounded. A machine-gun team fired back at the legionnaires. The ‘thunk’ of a grenade launcher was followed by an explosion that knocked the team leader down. Shrapnel cut into his shoulders. He turned, facing the legionnaire positions, using his body to shield the retreating medics and wounded. The muzzle flash from this assault rifle drew more fire. A bullet grazed his face. Another took his leg. The team leader staggered back as explosions at the golf course lit up the horizon. Even the clubhouse exploded and caught fire. The shooting stopped. Mission accomplished.
Attacking a golf course made no sense. The team leader swore that whoever planned this mission would pay. Cannon fodder is what some officer thought of his commandos. There would be a day of reckoning for that officer.
* * * * *
I entered the floatation center, hoping for much needed relief from my stress. After the spiders blew up the golf course, I lost interest in putting on the greens. Golf wasn’t going to help, anyway. Pastor Jim told me about the floatation center. He said there is no better method of letting the stress of the week dissolve into a distant memory than to float for an hour in saline serenity. Floatation tanks filled with ten inches of water and seven-hundred-fifty pounds of Epsom salts made it impossible to sink. I floated blissfully.
The attendant left me alone to float my cares away. Hawaiian music eased me into a ‘theta’ state, the point between sleep and waking, I was told. The effect was almost instantaneous. I was advised such relaxation lowered blood pressure, eased joint pain, sped muscle recovery, and relieved stress and anxiety. Floatation did all the functions my implanted chips were supposed to be doing.
I felt so relaxed after an hour, I was not the least bit upset later when I entered my office and found Captain Lopez waiting for me. He had that look. I thought then that Lopez could use some serious floating too.
“How will we respond to this latest spider provocation?” asked Captain Lopez, pacing.
“If you mean blowing up my golf course, I don’t even care,” I replied.
“Whether you care or not, we cannot let the spiders get away with it,” responded Captain Lopez. “We must maintain a credible deterrence.”
“Blow up that fruit tree by the checkpoint again,” I suggested. “The spider commander gets all pissed off when we do that. I like to get him angry. He’s wound so tight, he’s going to bust a gasket one of these days. Let Guido handle bombing the tree.”
Back to Table of Contents
Chapter 13
Tit-for-tat was becoming part of military procedure in the DMZ. Guido successfully bombed the spiders’ fruit tree. The next day I arrived at my office to find the front door ajar. The office had been ransacked. Missing was a pistol and a pair of sunglasses I had left on my desk. However, the office safe containing documents and petty cash was not touched. It was probably just kids, I thought. When I pulled open the top drawer of my desk, a live Arthropodan grenade rolled out. I dove for cover as the grenade exploded. My injuries were minor, but medics would be digging out small pieces of shrapnel from my backside for months. Some days are just not worth getting up for.
* * * * *
Captain Lopez informed me that blowing up the spiders’ fruit tree was not enough of a response. He felt that this weak symbolic Legion response to the golf course attack was not proportionate to the spiders’ intent to cause great harm and loss of life. Captain Lopez said the spider commandos rigged explosives at the golf course clubhouse to detonate after first responders arrived at the scene. It was only luck that the clubhouse exploded early and no one was killed. The motive seemed to be mindless terrorism. Captain Lopez insisted terrorism could not be tolerated. That was one problem with having an intelligence officer. He always found bad news for me. And Captain Lopez seemed intent on finding as much bad news as he could. At this rate, I was going to need the services of the floatation center more than once a week.
I noticed the spiders were building a golf course too. Maybe I would call in an air strike on the 17th hole. It would be more tit-for-tat and might keep bloodthirsty Lopez happy.
After a few days, I asked Captain Lopez if there were any updates or further information about my office burglary. Lopez said he was still reviewing video surveillance records in the area. The investigation continued. He thought anyone wanting to kill me should have used a bigger bomb – that was what he said he would do. I felt so much better hearing him say that.
* * * * *
I lost interest in golf. It was a boring sport, anyway. In fact, I was not so sure golf should even have been considered a sport. A sport required a team. I had the golf course converted into a baseball field. First Division’s recreation league fielded teams to play ball. I noticed this often attracted the interest of spider marines across the border. They gathered in large numbers at the MDL fence to watch games. Finally the spider guard at the border crossing approached Gui
do about their mutual interest in baseball.
“Did you know we play baseball, too?” asked the spider guard. “We are rabid fans of the game. I play every chance I get.”
“I didn’t know you even had a ball field,” replied Guido. “Do you have a local team?”
“This military sector has a marine team,” advised the spider guard. “But they do not play much because the Legion keeps shooting at us.”
“Ditto,” said Guido. “Is your team any good?”
“No,” said the spider guard. “They suck. How about your Legion teams? I see you have a league. That is awesome.”
“They’re just amateurs,” said Guido. “Most of the hitters couldn’t bat themselves out of a wet paper bag.”
“That is too bad,” said the spider guard. “I was going to suggest a game between us. Maybe even some small friendly wagers. But if you think a Legion team would not be competitive, it probably would not be worth the effort to set up a game.”
“Your players are so out of practice, I would not want to take advantage of the situation by placing bets,” said Guido. “But, to further interspecies understanding and goodwill, I will present the idea to Colonel Czerinski.”
“I normally do not approve of gambling,” said the spider guard. “But a baseball game might generate more interest if a few small friendly bets were allowed to be placed. Our players are so out of shape, you will probably win by ten runs.”
“I’m catholic,” said Guido. “Usually I don’t gamble much, either. But I’ll take your money.”
“How much money are we talking about?” asked the spider guard. “Just a little chump change? Or are you feeling bold?”
“How much can you afford to lose?” asked Guido. “Baseball is America’s game. You can’t beat us. Our local talent is strictly amateur, but it’s better than anything you can field.”
“Put your money where your mouth is, legionnaire,” hissed the spider guard. “New Memphis bookies can handle all your action. Who knows? You might get lucky.”
“Luck won’t have anything to do with it,” said Guido. “Baseball is embedded in our genetic code. You spiders just learned the game yesterday.”
“You spiders?” said the spider guard. “What do you mean by ‘you spiders’? I hope you human pestilence bet the farm. I need all the extra cash I can get for my investment portfolio.”
“Whatever,” said Guido. This is going to be easy money, he thought. Whoever heard of aliens playing baseball?
* * * * *
“Is there any way we can fix the game?” I asked. “I like to bet on a sure thing.”
“Not unless you want to throw the game,” said Guido. “It’s hard to do business with the spider commander.”
“Losing a baseball game to the spiders is not an option,” I said. “Not on my watch.”
“We need to play this smart,” said Captain Lopez. “What kind of odds are the New Memphis bookies giving?”
“Surprisingly, the spiders are favored,” said Guido.
“Someone knows something we don’t?” I asked. “Have we been set up?”
“I’ve heard rumors the spiders are flying in a bunch of ringers from the professional leagues on Arthropoda,” said Guido. “We need to get a stipulation that all players be military and local.”
“Even bringing in players from the North is a violation of the spirit of our agreement,” protested Captain Lopez. “Just give me the word, and I’ll have that shuttle shot down while it’s still in orbit.”
“Can we bring in our own ringers?” I asked.
“On such short notice?” asked Guido. “We can try.”
“Do it,” I said. “How come the spiders have time to bring in pro players and we don’t?”
“I think they have been planning this game for quite some time,” said Guido. “Now that I think about it, we are being played.”
“What else can we do?” I asked. “I am not shooting down any shuttles.”
“Cheat,” said Captain Lopez. “Cheating is a baseball tradition. We’re human. It’s our game. We should be able to out cheat the spiders. We have centuries of baseball cheating experience on them.”
“Can we pay off the umpires?” I asked.
“No,” said Guido. “The New Memphis Sheriff’s Office is providing the umpires. They can’t be bought. We’ve tried that before. Remember?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “Try.”
“We have enough baseball talent and expertise right here in First Division to beat them,” said Captain Lopez. “I’ll put together an all-star roster from the recreation leagues. My Military Intelligence people will work with the players to see what technology we can use to help give us more of an advantage. And guess what? We already have one of the best pitchers in the Legion.”
“Oh?” I asked. “Who?”
“Me,” bragged Captain Lopez. “My knuckleball and spitball can’t be hit.”
“We have one week to make this happen,” I said. “I’m betting a lot of money on this game. If I lose my money, someone will be joining Sergeant Williams, counting weather balloons and penguins at the South Pole. I don’t forget, and I don’t forgive.”
* * * * *
Weather for the game was perfect. The sky was blue, and the temperature was moderate by local standards – 90 degrees. Captain Lopez recruited a fine team and organized an extensive support staff. I looked out to the center field stands. A legionnaire scout team had a spotting scope set up, pointed at home base. They radioed they should have no problem stealing signs from the catcher. Video cameras covered the base coach positions, and listening devices were installed in the spiders’ dugout. Our pitchers would be throwing ‘heavy’ baseballs. The baseballs had been humidified, then frozen earlier that morning. We were storing them in dry ice chests in the dugout. We all had corked bats. Other bats had been coated with a layer of lacquer, making them as hard as metal. Sergeant Green and I labored to carry a cooler of ‘special’ Gatorade to the spider dugout.
“Do you think we really need to cheat to beat a bunch of spiders?” asked Sergeant Green. “It just doesn’t seem right.”
“It’s only cheating if we get caught,” I replied. “We won’t get caught. Getting caught would be unprofessional. Call it gamesmanship. It’s a baseball tradition. It’s an American tradition. So is winning – a tradition I aim to maintain.”
“What’s in the Gatorade?” asked Sergeant Green.
“Something nasty Captain Lopez cooked up,” I said. “I’m not sure what’s in it. Just don’t spill any on yourself. It might have some nerve agent mixed in.”
The spider commander met us halfway to the spiders’ dugout. He was managing for the spiders. He ordered the Gatorade poured out on the ground. I walked around the puddle, watching the grass wilt.
“I know better than to let my team drink your poison,” said the spider commander. “And we found your listening devices in the dugout, too!”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I said. “I heard the New Memphis mob is still upset about you bombing their brewery. It was probably them.”
“That is ancient history,” said the spider commander, looking up in the stands for Mafioso types. He didn’t see any Italians except Guido.
“I called Rudy Juardo and reminded him of your handiwork,” I said.
“I am warning you,” said the spider commander. “I have taken special security precautions. Legion provocations will be dealt with harshly.”
“I should have had your team shot down like Captain Lopez wanted,” I said. “I didn’t do it because we can beat the best ringers you can field.”
“Play ball!” shouted the umpire.
We had home field advantage. Captain Lopez took the mound. Lopez threw mostly knuckleballs, with a few fastballs to keep the hitters honest. The first spider hitter seemed agitated and highly animated. He continuously waved his bat, and was in and out of the batter’s box, calling timeout and adjusting his equipment. He choked way up
on the bat and hit a couple foul balls. Finally I called timeout and approached home plate. The spider commander immediately charged to home plate too.
“This spider is amped up,” I complained. “He’s higher than a kite. Check the dilation of his pupils!”
“You can’t prove that! Team Leader #39 did not take drugs,” the spider commander objected.
The umpire looked at Team Leader #39’s eyes. There were eight eyes, and they did not all point in the same direction. “Good grief,” he mumbled, then turned to us and ordered, “Managers, get back to your dugouts. Play ball!”
Captain Lopez then ‘plunked’ Team Leader #39, putting him on first. The spider easily stole second base, and then third. He was brought home on a weak single. That spider stole second base, too. I called timeout and went out to talk to Captain Lopez. “This is not a good start,” I said. “I have several million bet on this game. I thought you said you could pitch.”
“I can’t believe how fast those spiders are,” complained Captain Lopez. “They must run sixty miles per hour.”
“I’m taking care of that,” I said. As I spoke, the automatic sprinkler system came on, delaying the game about a half an hour. Tarps could not be found because it never rains in New Gobi. No one could figure out how to turn off the sprinklers. In the meantime, the base pads turned to wet clay. The soft pads slowed the spider runners considerably. When the game resumed, the spider on second was thrown out while trying to steal third. Lopez finished the inning, down only 1-0.
The spider pitcher had some wicked action on the ball. The first two batters struck out. I called timeout again, and ran out on the field. “Examine that ball!” I told the umpire. “He’s doctoring the ball.”
America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 4: Demilitarized Zone Page 11
