The catcher immediately threw the ball back to the pitcher. I ran after the pitcher demanding to see the ball. The pitcher shoved me back, causing both benches to clear. When order was restored, the umpire took possession of the ball. Several stitches were cut, and the ball was scuffed up a bit.
“It’s just my claw,” explained the spider pitcher. “Sometimes the ball accidently gets nicked.”
“Don’t let it happen again,” warned the umpire, tossing the ball aside. “Play ball!”
The spider pitcher ‘plunked’ our batter, too. The next batter hit a home run – he knew what pitch was coming because the spotter in center field radioed in the sign. Minutes later, a fight erupted in center field between legionnaires and spider marines. The spotting scope was broken and thrown out onto the field. The fight continued until Legion security clubbed and pepper-sprayed as many spiders as they could catch.
We went into the second inning, up 2-1. Captain Lopez struck out the side. As he walked off the mound, the spider commander ran onto the field to confront Lopez and to complain to the umpire. “There is a brown smudge on one of the digits of this human pestilence,” accused the spider commander.
“It’s just dirt and rosin,” explained Captain Lopez, holding out his offending thumb.
“There is more under the brim of his cap,” yelled the spider commander.
“That’s just more dirt,” advised Captain Lopez. “I give my word as an officer and a gentleman.”
“It could be pine tar,” said the umpire.
“And maybe he was scratching his butt,” I yelled, marching up to the center of contention. “I am sick and tired of the commander’s harassment of my players!”
“Wash your hands and get a new cap,” ordered the umpire. “I am warning everyone. I am kicking players out of the game if this nonsense continues.”
During the next inning, the Legion scored seven runs, going up 9-1. But it came to a crashing end when our cleanup hitter broke his bat. The bat was corked.
“You are out of here!” yelled the umpire, ejecting the batter. “I want all your bats checked. I want bats picked at random to be sawed and examined.”
“You can’t do that,” I argued. “That was someone else’s bat that got mixed in with ours from the recreation league. It will take too long to saw open the bats and have them examined.”
“I am making time,” said the umpire. “The matter will be investigated.”
“What? If I find out you have been paid off by the spiders, I’ll have you shot. Do you know who you are talking to?”
“I know who you are, Colonel Czerinski,” said the umpire. “This game has not been compromised, and I will not be intimidated.”
I kicked dirt on home base as we talked. When the umpire pulled out his brush, about to clean up my mess, I snatched his brush and threw it into the stands. The crowd cheered as I walked away. The umpire, not catching what I had done, swept the plate off with his hands.
In the fifth inning, the Legion was up 11-2 when the spider commander called timeout and complained about Captain Lopez again. An examination of the baseball showed a cut.
“What now?” asked Captain Lopez, holding out his hands. “I washed the rosin and dirt off my hands and got a new cap. What more do you want? It’s not my fault you spiders can’t hit.”
“Search him!” demanded the spider commander. “This human pestilence is cuffing the ball.”
The umpire checked Lopez’ glove and patted him down. A file was found in Lopez’ hip pocket.
“I’m a knuckleball pitcher,” explained Captain Lopez. “I need to keep my fingernails filed to get a proper grip on the ball.”
“I warned you earlier I would not put up with more nonsense,” said the umpire, giving Lopez the thumb. “You are out of here!”
Both benches cleared again, and there was some pushing and shoving while our relief pitchers scrambled to warm up. When order was finally restored, the sprinkler system came on again. Captain Lopez sat down in the dugout, saying he could not leave the stadium for security reasons. Our new pitcher was Private Krueger. He claimed he had pitched back in junior high school and had quality time in the recreation league. Krueger gave up five runs. The next pitcher wasn’t much better. By the middle of the seventh inning, the score was 13-13. As I watched the spiders take the field, I began to worry. Their new pitcher was getting a good groove and was shutting us down. Then my cell phone rang. “This had better be important,” I growled.
“I wish to defect,” said the voice on my phone.
“What?” I asked, switching to speaker so Captain Lopez could listen. “Now? Who is this?”
“This is the pitcher,” said the voice. “I am also the Arthropodan team leader who blew up your golf course.”
“That was good work, team leader,” I said. I looked out to the mound and saw that the spider pitcher was indeed talking on a cell phone. The pitcher waved.
“Thank you, sir,” said the spider pitcher. “I have specific issues with my commander and with the Empire in general. Political disillusionment forces me to defect. I want to pitch for the New York Yankees.”
“Sure,” I said. “I can arrange that. But first I want you to give up at least two quick runs.”
“You want to negotiate?” asked the spider pitcher. “I will let you talk to my agent.”
“Hello! Can you hear me now?” asked the spider’s agent. “I’ve been monitoring this call. My client also wants a two year no-cut contract!”
“Who is this?” I asked. “What about those two quick runs?”
“Yes, yes, we can do that,” said the agent. “That is the easy part. I am also playing first base.”
“I suppose you want to play for the Yankees, too?” I asked, eyeing the spider first-baseman. He was also talking on a cell phone.
“No way, José,” said the spider first-baseman. “New York ain’t much of a town. I want to play for Boston.”
“I want two quick runs,” I repeated. “Do we have a deal?”
“Deal,” both spiders chimed in.
“What do you think?” I asked, turning to Captain Lopez.
“I think José needs a new translation device,” said Captain Lopez. “We are going to need more than two runs to win this game.”
The next Legion batter hit a grounder to third. The long throw to first base was dropped. The next batter hit a change-up over the left field fence. The spider commander charged out of the dugout, carrying an assault rifle. His own players restrained him as both benches cleared. This time the entire Sheriff’s Office was out on the field. Horse-mounted deputies knocked players aside. The spider pitcher and first-baseman fled to the Legion dugout. Once they got to safety, both players gave the one-fingered salutes across the field to their old commander. “Rot in hell you incompetent piece of dragon dung!” yelled the spider pitcher.
“Traitor!” the spider commander yelled back. “You both will face firing squads!”
The spiders’ new pitcher shut us down, but we entered the eighth inning up 15-13. We were out of pitchers, so I took the mound. I had done some pitching as a kid, but really sucked then. I hoped the computer chip enhancements embedded in my arm would enable me to pitch much better now. The spider commander immediately came out to argue with the umpire. I continued to warm up. My ball was popping pretty good.
“Colonel Czerinski is not listed as a player on their roster,” argued the spider commander. “He is ineligible to play.”
“I am in uniform, and I am going to play,” I responded. “I am a player/manager. I am listed on the roster.”
“You are listed as a coach,” said the spider commander. “This is against the rules.”
“Player, coach, manager? It’s all semantics. Perhaps you need to get an update on your translation device,” I suggested. “You are losing too much in translation, using last year’s model from Radio Shack.”
“I want the rules enforced to the letter!” the spider commander shouted at the umpire. “
We agreed to abide by professional American League rules.”
“What are you afraid of?” I asked. “Me? Yes, of course you are.”
“I am afraid of no human pestilence,” replied the spider commander. “The integrity of the game is at stake!”
“Colonel Czerinski will be allowed to pitch,” announced the umpire. “Play ball!”
I continued my warm up pitches. The sprinkler system came on again. Someone in the stands threw a grenade out in right field. A few shots were fired. During the commotion, the Legion groundskeepers moved the portable outfield fence further out. Remarkably, no one noticed.
My embedded computer chips greatly improved my hand-eye coordination and strength. I gave up no runs in the eighth inning. By the top of the ninth inning, however, my adrenalin was used up, and my arm was sore. Captain Lopez injected me with a shot of something he said would give me a boost. The side-effects were I would not sleep for days. I loaded the bases with three walks, then gave up a run on a long fly ball to the fence in left field. I loaded the bases again with another walk.
With the Legion leading 15-14, the game was interrupted by a New Gobi Desert dust storm. Goggles were needed to see just a few feet away. The field and players were covered with dirt and sand. It got everywhere. After two hours, the game was called, and the Legion team was declared the winner. I was relieved, pleased, and vindicated. Baseball was, is, and always will be, the best game in the galaxy. And, baseball will always be America’s game.
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Chapter 14
The speed of light used to not only be king, it was the law. Now that principle was no longer true. As we gadded about the galaxy in an instant, our only restriction was to calculate where we would stop or land. Computers did that for us.
In light of all this transportation technology, it never ceased to amaze me when I found myself traveling in an armored car on a bumpy, dusty dirt road. The road paralleled a canal that seemed to stretch to the horizon. Wheat fields lay on both sides.
General Kalipetsis told me the best commanders get out into the field as much as possible to see their men. When I did not take the hint, General Kalipetsis ordered me to the field. It was just as well. I almost got killed several times in New Gobi, and it did seem nice and peaceful out here in the country. I would miss my once-a-week floatation therapy, but Captain Lopez welcomed the break from garrison duty. He said I was getting needed activity and exercise. Doesn’t he realize exercise can kill you?
Speaking of garrison duty, I got an email about Sergeant Williams. He would soon be returning to from the South Pole. Sergeant Williams was almost killed and would be hospitalized for a while. He reportedly was electrocuted while taking a shower. An improperly grounded water pump sent a jolt of electricity through Williams when he turned on the shower water. The smell of burned hair roused his roommate, and prompt medical response revived Williams. Captain Lopez said this was proof that staying at base and getting fat was unhealthy, even when there was a war on. “You have to keep that cutting edge,” reasoned Lopez.
I monitored video from an airborne drone scouting for insurgent activity ahead of our column. I could see movement in an orchard grove, but could not determine who or what was under the trees. I also located a deer carcass alongside the roadway. We suspected it might contain an IED – improvised explosion device.
My armored car pulled off to the shoulder of the road just short of the deer carcass. Other armored cars flanked the orchard. Together, they fired machine guns into the orchard. I could see the muzzle flash of an insurgent machine gun firing back, but it was quickly silenced as the armored cars raced to the orchard. A blood trail and the machine gun were all that was found. Perhaps the insurgents dragged their wounded away or were hiding in tunnels. They were not to be found, and we were not spending all day here looking for them.
We were about to resume our patrol when the soft bank of the canal gave way under my armored car. The armored car slid into the canal and sank to the bottom. I was thrown out of the vehicle and sank to the bottom. Weighed down with equipment, I found myself on my back like a helpless turtle, my legs and arms waving and kicking at the blue water and sky above. I felt God had cheated me. It was not fair that I was going to die by drowning in the middle of a desert. How unlucky was that – and ironic? It was right up there with Sergeant Williams being electrocuted in a shower at the South Pole. Even dying from friendly fire would be more glorious than this. As I lost consciousness, light around me faded. A strong hand – claw – gripped my web belt and pulled me from the water. I coughed up water and gasped for air. Corporal Washington dragged me up the canal bank to dry ground.
“Are you okay, sir?” asked Corporal Washington.
“Of course he is okay,” said one of the new spider recruits. The spider was one of the baseball players that had recently defected. “The Butcher of New Colorado cannot be killed. He is immortal.”
“I am fine,” I replied. “I never could float.”
“You sank like a rock,” said the spider recruit.
“What is your name, private?” I asked.
“José,” said the recruit. “Private José.”
“I’ll bet Captain Lopez suggested that name,” I said, still lying there looking up at the others.
“He did,” said Private José. “How did you know that?”
“Private José, go check out that deer carcass for explosives,” I ordered. “You will be riding in the point vehicle.”
* * * * *
I rode with Captain Lopez to the next town. The sun was high, and it did not take long for me to dry out. We were greeted by both human and spider colonists. They seemed friendly and gave us the locations of houses containing suspected insurgents. They invited us into their homes to give us relief from the hot sun. We drank iced tea in the shade of their patios. At midnight we started kicking in doors. I never liked house searches because I feared booby-traps – what if a terrorist rigged the entire house to explode? My strategy was to only search a few houses at a time, and do it quickly. I hoped surprise would keep us safe and prevent the insurgents from ambushing us. So far, most of the tips we were given appeared to be bogus. I suspected some colonists were just getting back at neighbors they had grudges against by sending the Legion to their homes. The only value from searching houses seemed to be that the residents sometimes gave us information about their neighbors.
One such tip proved to be valid. As legionnaires approached the front door, a dog started barking. Privates Camacho and Wayne smashed in the grilled front door with a hand-held metal battering ram. Guido threw in a flash-bang grenade to stun anyone in the first room. Privates Camacho and Wayne quickly entered, taking up positions along the wall. Guido followed, covering the next doorway. Private Camacho flicked on a wall light switch.
A spider insurgent threw a grenade from the next room. Guido fired his assault rifle as the insurgent ducked back for cover. The grenade hit Private Camacho in the chest, then bounced to the floor at his feet. Training told Private Camacho to throw himself on the grenade, saving his comrades. It would be heroism worthy of the Medal of Honor. Instead, his mind drifted back to grade school. It was a better time. Ray Camacho kicked the grenade like a soccer ball, back into the next room, scoring a winning goal! The explosion filled the house with dust and smoke. The lights went out.
Guido and Private Wayne tossed more grenades through the smoky doorway. Then the legionnaires withdrew to the outside. Cannon and machine-gun fire from one of our armored cars raked the building, reducing it to rubble. A search of the rubble found small arms, RPGs, grenades, land mines, two dead spiders, and a dead dog.
* * * * *
Guido and Private Camacho stood by their postal delivery truck. The hood was up, indicating that they were broke down. Guido could see no traffic on the dirt road for miles. It was another stifling hot day. Guido considered a swim in the canal. It would be great to cool off. But, then he thought better of it. A Legion company lay camoufl
aged under sagebrush-colored netting along a ridge overlooking the road. Guido did not like being bait for bandits and insurgents. It seemed like every time there was a crap detail to be done, Czerinski gave it to him. Guido sat down in the shade by his truck and waited. He took a Coke out of the cooler and chugged it down.
About two hours later, a jeep full of armed civilians stopped. They looked like human bandits. Three adult males stayed in the jeep. A short, dark, teenaged boy wearing an expensive pair of gold-plated, tear-drop Legion sunglasses and a Legion pistol strapped to his hip got out and approached the mail truck.
“Como es usted, el amigo?” asked Private Camacho.
“Where is the rest of your unit, legionnaire?” asked John Hume Ross. “Don’t you know it is dangerous out here? It is especially dangerous if you don’t belong out here. You should go home.”
“We belong wherever the Legion sends us,” replied Guido, reasonably. “We broke down. A Legion tow truck will be by soon.”
“Would you like to hitch a ride into town?” asked Ross.
“No,” said Guido. “We’re fine.”
“How about some water?” asked Ross, handing Guido a bottle as he walked around the truck. “There is an entire Legion company operating in this sector. Usually I know exactly where they are, but they seem to be hiding today. Where are they?”
“Too bad,” said Guido. “I didn’t know we were supposed to inform you of Legion troop movements.”
“Where is your dragon, Spot?” asked Ross.
“Somewhere close,” said Guido. “Do I know you?”
“Not really,” said Ross. “I’ve seen you at the border crossing in New Gobi. Sometimes I would throw Spot candy. Where did you get such a cool dragon?”
“I took Spot from a dead spider,” said Guido. “He cost less that way.”
“I’ll have to get a dragon of my own someday,” said Ross. “It’s on my list of things to do.”
America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 4: Demilitarized Zone Page 12
