“No!” insisted Colonel Lopez. “I want security posted at my door! Czerinski is to be barred from the hospital!”
“It seems that we can add paranoia to his delusional symptoms,” commented the nurse, increasing the morphine drip again. “Captain Czerinski is your friend.”
“Paranoia was a preexisting condition,” I added, trying to be helpful.
“Czerinski is an assassin!” insisted Colonel Lopez, before finally nodding off.
“Do you have psych meds you can load him up with?” I asked. “Lopez self-medicates, but I think he needs some structure in his medication regimen.”
“Scorpion medications are stronger than what you humans take, but are basically the same,” commented the nurse. “It is just a matter of getting the right dose. I will consult with the doctor when he makes his rounds again.”
“That will be fine,” I said. “The more psych meds, the better.”
“Assassin!” yelled Colonel Lopez, jolting upright, then falling back into slumber, mumbling something about assassins and untrustworthy Polish traitors.
* * * * *
Klaxons rang out as Major Desert-Sting tracked the cruise missile fired from the hills held by spider militia across the border. The missile circled around town, occasionally dipping below radar detection. As the cruise missile reached south by the spaceport, it darted directly north towards Walmart. Desert-Sting fired two SAMs. Immediately the cruise missile cut loose decoys. Taken by surprise, Desert-Sting fired more SAMs in desperation. Multiple targets were hit, but the bogeys kept coming. Debris rained down on the neighborhood, including a decoy that crashed harmlessly in the Walmart parking lot.
“Those cowardly spiders target innocent civilians!” shouted Desert-Sting, shaking his claw triumphantly to the north. “But this time we were ready!”
Cheering shoppers emerged from the Walmart bunkers and mobbed their scorpion National Guardsmen. A couple cars burned in the parking lot, but everyone was safe.
“Attention Walmart shoppers,” announced the public address system. “Walmart is pleased to announce our first bombing clearance sale. All electronics are marked at half price. All items from our gardening department are seventy-five percent off. Please shop responsibly and remember to shop Walmart first for all your one-stop shopping needs.”
The crowd rushed the doors, fighting over shopping carts and limited available music sound systems and electronic devices. Agitated scorpion housewives snapped their claws and wickedly swung their stingers as they jostled for position down narrow isles and in long lines. A greeter was trampled before nearby National Guard units finally restored order. Will Walmart ever learn?
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Chapter 3
I met with my military counterpart across the border at his office to discuss escalating tensions between the spiders and scorpions. We held these informal talks once a week.
“Why are you wearing a blue helmet?” asked the spider commander. “Is it Easter already? The kids love that holiday of yours. Searching for hidden eggs is a real hoot!”
“We are peacekeepers now,” I advised. “I’m wearing blue so I won’t get shot at.”
“I do not think that will work,” mused the spider commander. “Blue helmets look odd even by your human pestilence standards. They will draw attention.”
“I am here to discuss the missile attack on Walmart,” I said. “The Legion will not tolerate such terrorist attacks on civilians.”
“That missile was fired by the militia,” replied the spider commander. “I will issue a strong letter of condemnation about the attack.”
“You will arrest the militia leader,” I insisted. “I want the militia leader extradited to face terrorism charges.”
“I will not extradite anyone,” replied the spider commander. “Even if I wanted to, it would be physically and politically impossible to dislodge the militia from those hills. They are dug in too well for it to be worth my while.”
“I don’t want excuses,” I warned. “These missile attacks must stop. If you harbor terrorists, you will be held personally responsible for their actions. Do you want to face a war crimes trial?”
“Do not make threats,” advised the spider commander, agitated. “What about the bombing of Walgreens? You harbor your own terrorists. We should be working together to exterminate the scorpions. I know you don’t trust them. I’ve heard you say it many times. Both our species were here first. They are invaders and vermin pests. The scorpions will revolt at the first chance when they no longer have a use for Legion protection. Do you want to be stabbed in the back? No, of course not. Join me. We can burn the scorpions out now while they are still weak.”
“The scorpions are USGF citizens and registered republicans,” I said. “You will not plot their extermination.” “They are cannibals!” said the spider commander. “And their terrorist attacks against the Empire will be dealt with harshly.” “How are your new oil wells coming along? Getting rich yet? That’s what this is really all about.” “Production will be online shortly. And the pipeline will be completed by next month.” “If you refuse to resolve this border tension, your pipeline will be the next target. I’ll bet the scorpions have already dug tunnels under it.”
“There are plenty of industrial targets on your side of the border. You keep your pet scorpions on your side, or else. Happy Easter!”
* * * * *
Spider militia commander Mountain Storm looked on as Arthropodan marines delivered five more cruise missiles to his militia stronghold. “Very nice,” he said. “Now we can get serious about those vermin scorpions.”
“Keep your missiles under the camouflage netting,” advised the marine Special Forces lieutenant. “The Legion has a spy in the sky.”
“We will make good use of them,” promised Mountain Storm. “The Legion cannot stop us.” “Last time you missed Walmart,” complained the lieutenant. “How do you miss a target that big?” “The missile was shot down by a SAM,” explained Mountain Storm. “That is why you are delivering five more. Now I cannot miss.” “You had better dig in deep,” advised the lieutenant. “The scorpions and the Legion are going to hit you hard for this.” “I am not worried about scorpions,” replied Mountain Storm, dismissively. “Unlike you marines, I am not afraid who knows I am responsible. You just use us to do your dirty work.”
“I do not get involved in the politics,” said the lieutenant, shrugging. “But, you are right. Plausible deniability is all the generals worry about these days.”
* * * * *
After the marine lieutenant left, Mountain Storm called Corporal Tonelli on his phone. “Guido! It’s been a long time! This is Mountain Storm. I want to bet big on the Yankees.”
“You are a bandit,” replied Guido. “You have no cash or credit. You don’t even pay taxes. Or did you rob a bank I don’t know about?”
“I have four Arthropodan cruise missiles,” advised Mountain Storm. “They are worth about one hundred thousand credits apiece. The missiles are brand new, still in their crates. I want to go all in on tonight’s Yankees game.”
“Are you out of your mind?” asked Guido. “What would I do with four cruise missiles? It’s not like I can just keep them in the back of my guard shack.”
“Sell them on the black market, for all I care,” replied Mountain Storm. “Sell them to the Greens. Those traitorous spiders have lots of money and are always buying arms.”
“No,” said Guido. “Sorry, I have no use for the cruise missiles, should you lose the bet.”
“I also have a small nuke,” boasted Mountain Storm. “It fits nicely atop any of these missiles.”
“I am suddenly interested,” advised Guido. “Let me make a few phone calls. Move that ordinance up to the border so we can move fast to make this happen. You had better not be jerking me around.”
* * * * *
Guido called me. I called Colonel Lopez. Lopez called his CIA pals, who passed Guido’s n
ews on to the Director of the CIA. The director took the matter to the President. For once, shit rolled uphill.
“Mr. President, are you still joining Mr. Steinbrenner for tonight’s game?” asked the CIA Director.
“Yes,” said President Miller. “We will be cheering the Yankees from the owner’s box suite. Finally I get to have some fun in this thankless job.”
“We have a situation on the New Colorado Frontier,” advised the director. “We need an East Coast fix on tonight’s game. For national security reasons the Yankees must lose to the Angels.”
“You have some explaining to do mister,” replied the President. “Steinbrenner is not going to be happy.”
* * * * *
“What!” shouted Steinbrenner. “Throw the game? This isn’t Chicago or Boston. I own the Yankees. We wear pinstripes. That means something. It means we are a cut above the rest of that rabble. You expect me to lower myself to the level of those gutter-dwelling gambling scum that live on the fringes of society in the cheap seats? The Yankees have been owned by my family for generations! I’ll tell you what. I’m voting Democrat in the next election! And you can forget about any campaign contributions, too!”
“Vote Democrat?” asked the President, horrified. “You wouldn’t.”
“What do I care about nukes out on New Colorado?’ asked Steinbrenner. “Do they have a baseball team? No! The spiders and scorpions can both blow themselves up, for all I care. This is a matter of the integrity of the game. I will not soil the Yankees by throwing a game.”
“You have no choice,” said the CIA Director. “For national security reasons, we can order you to throw the game. Bad things will happen if you don’t.”
“What does he mean by that?” asked Steinbrenner. “Oh, never mind. I get the picture. You can call off your attack dog. I’ll call Coach Wolke, but he’s not going to take this well.”
Steinbrenner went down the clubhouse to talk personally with Coach Wolke. President Miller settled into his chair in the owner’s box. He gave a nod to one of the secret service agents, who immediately passed on a coded message. “PODUS says tonight will be a heavenly night,” whispered the agent into his headset. “There are Angels in the outfield. Go all in.” A bookie at the other end recorded and placed the wagers.
* * * * *
Interest and gambling on tonight’s Yankees-Angels baseball game was unusually high. Guido set up a big-screen TV at the border so guards still on duty from both sides could watch. Colonel Lopez was up, and wheel chaired to where he could see the game on a big screen, too. Even the Spider Commander had canceled his original bet on the Yankees and was all-in on the Angels. Rumors get around. The only one who didn’t have a clue was Mountain Storm. He monitored the game intently from his hilltop stronghold, wearing a Yankees hoodie sweatshirt.
In a surprise move, Yankees Coach Wolke started a rookie pitcher, Mickey Cruz, who had only seen limited action in the bullpen. Coach Don Wolke, a genius at evaluating and developing new talent, must have seen something special in Cruz. The kid pitched no-hit ball for the first five innings before leaving the game with a pulled muscle. Cruz gamely argued he could continue, but according to Coach Wolke, it would have been foolish to risk aggravating an injury for such a bright pitching prospect. Coach Wolke masterfully brought in seven pitchers, all throwing no-hit ball, giving the Yankees to a 2-0 lead into the ninth inning. Coach Wolke gathered his players for a pep talk and final secret instructions. They charged confidently out onto the field. However, in a total meltdown of concentration, the Yankees committed five errors in the top of the ninth to lose the game in a heartbreaking 3-2 decision.
* * * * *
Guido took possession of the four cruise missiles and the tactical nuke. Mountain Storm was visibly shaken by the loss. Guido tried to comfort him. “Better luck next time,” advised Guido. “You gave it your best shot. The Yankees should have won that game. It’s just not fair.”
“Life is not fair,” cried Mountain Storm, still not believing his beloved Yankees’ meltdown. “You’re exactly right,” said Guido. “If life was fair, Elvis would still be alive, and all those impersonators would be dead.” “Who?” asked Mountain Storm. “Guido, I need a big favor. I’m in a real bind.” “Sorry, but I can’t extend you any more credit,” said Guido. “You don’t have any more nukes do you?” “You do not need to know that,” replied Mountain Storm. “What I need is for the Legion to bomb my base up in the hills. I have one cruise missile left. I will set it up and let you bomb it. Then I will spread the debris around to make it look like the Legion destroyed all five of my missiles. Don’t worry, I will have all my militia safely out before the attack.”
“I don’t get it,” said Guido.
“I need to cover up my gambling loses,” explained Mountain Storm. “If the Empire finds out what I did, they will not give me any more missiles. In fact, they will probably kill me.”
“Because you are a friend, I will help you,” said Guido. “I will call in an air strike from the Space Weapons Platform T. Roosevelt. You have one day to clear out.”
“Thank you, Guido,” said Mountain Storm. “You are a real pal.”
“Yeah that’s me,” said Guido. “Remember, in the future, gamble responsibly.”
* * * * *
AP News Release:
Captain Joey R. Czerinski, spokesperson for the USGF Foreign Legion in Scorpion City, Planet of New Colorado, announced that last night Legion air strikes hit a terrorist training camp run by the notorious militia leader Mountain Storm. Using advanced satellite surveillance, the Legion spotted five cruise missiles about to be launched from the hilltop terrorist stronghold. The Space Weapons Platform T. Roosevelt dropped numerous large smart bombs on the terrorists, destroying all five cruise missiles and inflicting heavy casualties. The attack was in accordance with Legion policy to attack terrorists wherever and whenever they may be found. Mountain Storm is believed responsible for last week’s attack on Walmart. The Legion has already contacted Arthropodan authorities, demanding the arrest and extradition of Mountain Storm. The local Arthropodan military commander issued a curt formal protest, accusing the Legion of adventurism and of violating the Empire’s territorial sovereignty. The spider commander also questioned whether legionnaires should be used as peacekeepers.
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Chapter 4
My day started out good. When I opened my email, I found I had been awarded a Presidential Citation for my peacekeeping work out on the Frontier. Another Legion Medal of Merit would be arriving in the mail, too. I was able to savor the good news for about an hour before bad news plopped itself at my Legion Headquarters doorstep.
“There are two investigators from the USGF Attorney General’s Office here to see you,” advised Corporal John Iwo Jima Wayne. The big spider legionnaire seemed unusually cheerful. That was always a bad sign because Wayne was only happy when there was killing to be done. I suspected he had alien issues our psych people couldn’t or wouldn’t deal with.
“The Attorney General’s Office?” I asked. “What do they want?”
“I think you did not pay your taxes,” advised Corporal Wayne. “I overheard them talking about Leavenworth Prison being full of tax evaders and perverts like you.”
“This is not good,” I said. “The IRS is like the Mafia. They think they can take whatever they want. Can you kill them for me? I’ll promote you to sergeant.”
“Yes, sir,” said Corporal Wayne, drawing his large jagged combat knife. “Do you want it done slow and painful, or quick and merciful?”
“I was just joking,” I said. “I think. We’ll talk later.” “I was kidding, too,” said Corporal Wayne, disappointed. “I didn’t think spiders joked,” I commented. “This one does,” said Corporal Wayne. “It just goes to show I have been around you human pestilence way too long. Have you approved my vacation leave yet?”
“No,” I answered. “Tell the Feds I am out of my office on top-secret f
ield maneuvers, and can’t be reached for days.” “I already told them you were here,” explained Corporal Wayne. “Sorry, sir.” “Spider snitch,” I grumbled. “You can be replaced.” “Good,” said Corporal Wayne, as he opened the door for the Feds. “I do not like it here in Scorpion City surrounded by all those slithering scorpions. Did you know they are cannibals?” Wayne turned back before exiting and hissed, “Your visitors are waiting. Are you sure you do not want me to kill them?”
I motioned Wayne out the door. A moment later the two investigators bustled in. “Captain Czerinski,” said the taller one. “I am Special Agent Morrison, and this is Special Agent Smith. We are here at the behest of a special prosecutor investigating whether President Miller conspired to fix a Yankees baseball game. Impeachment proceedings are imminent.”
“The President is not a crook,” I said. “What are you, Democrats?”
“The President denies the accusations,” advised Agent Morrison. “But mounting evidence indicates otherwise. We have information the conspiracy has its roots right here on New Colorado. Do you have any knowledge of this?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Captain Czerinski, withholding information or lying to federal agents constitutes obstruction of justice, and is a felony,” warned Agent Morrison. “Do not try our patience.”
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