America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 21: Breaking Very Bad

by Walter Knight

  “Boy, do you need some milk to go with that barbecue?” asked Johnson dismissively.

  “No thanks, I’m having a beer.”

  “Being a lowly sergeant is a hell of a lot different than being a heartbeat away from Commander-in-Chief. You aren’t even close to filling Eisenhower’s shoes.”

  “At least I’m honest and don’t steal votes.”

  “Now, see here!”

  Secret Service agents rushed to separate the two, not wanting a repeat of the presidential debate. fracas. There wasn’t really much chance these two would come to blows, but Johnson was very animated, removing his cowboy hat and throwing it to the ground for theatrics. As Johnson picked up his Stetson from the ground to dust it off, he issued a final challenge. “What are you going to do about Cuba? There’s no jumping up on a tank at the last second like you did in France. Your reckless escapades will start a war.”

  “I’ve been in lots of movies, I know what I’m doing,” answered Murphy testily. “The Castro brothers will soon be killed. That will end the so-called people’s revolution in Cuba. America will not tolerate Russian adventurism anywhere in the Americas. It’s been that way since the Monroe Doctrine. You can take that to the bank,” added Murphy, flipping the quarter back at Johnson as he walked away for more barbecue and beer.

  Chapter 22

  Chicago Mayor Richard J. Daley took much-needed time off to relax and drive through wooded Northern Michigan. UFOs my ass, he scoffed, glancing up at the night sky. Had Kennedy gone crazy? He did it on national TV, no less. The fool deserved the beat-down he got. No problem. Daley would return from this country drive to report all was well in Northern Michigan, aye.

  Suddenly the car radio went static, and the headlights went out. All electrical systems shorted, bringing Daley’s Cadillac to an abrupt halt. A bright omnipotent light from above turned night into day. What the hell?

  Daley wasn’t the type to wear a seat belt, and his fat body was easily sucked up like a beetle through a vacuum straw. Daley lost consciousness, but soon awakened to find himself hanging upside down by a rope from the ceiling of a UFO. Swaying upside down next to Daley was his old friend, Teamster’s boss Jimmy Hoffa. Figures. He sighed and faded back to unconsciousness.

  * * * * *

  Daley grunted and awakened as I poked him with a swagger stick and said, “I’m making you and your Mafia pal an offer you can’t refuse.”

  “What the hell? You’re Joey R. Czerinski, Patton’s campaign manager.”

  “That I am. And unless you want to be swimming with the fishes in Lake Michigan, you will both actively support Patton for President.”

  “So it’s true?” asked Daley. “You’ve got Martians doing your heavy hitting?”

  “There’s no such thing as Martians.”

  “There’s no such thing as the Mafia, either.”

  “We’ve got employees with special skills working on the campaign,” I conceded. “It’s technical. Gentlemen, what’s it going to be? Are you flying with the winner, or swimming with a loser?”

  “What’s in it for us?” pressed Daley. “I can’t just ask Chicago’s political machine to support a Republican.”

  “Patton is the future,” I assured. “Patton’s insider connections with the scientific community will lead America in a high-tech revolution. His friends will be remembered and rewarded, his enemies crushed. You’re either with us, or against us. Decide now, or be probed.”

  “No way,” scoffed Hoffa. “There aren’t real aliens. You’re bluffing.”

  “I can’t swim,” said Daley, resigned to support Republicans rather than meet the traditional Chicago underworld fate of swimming with the fishes in Lake Michigan. “I’m all in. You were wise to come to me. I’ve got friends in dead places. Everyone in Illinois knows you can’t get elected if you can’t carry the cemetery vote.”

  * * * * *

  Fidel Castro sauntered to the common latrine area at the Isles of Pines Prison, Cuba, to brush his teeth. He was tired. Leading a revolution on the inside was hard work, and he had a lot of reading and writing to do. For a moment, Castro lowered his guard, a fatal mistake in any prison.

  Inmate Anthony Montana, combing his hair at the next sink, struck fast, thrusting an improvised shank up and into Castro’s black heart. Castro blocked momentum with his forearm, striking back with his own blade, slicing Montana across his cheek and eyebrow. Montana’s cousin, Manny Ray Lopez, grabbed Castro in a bear hug from behind. Montana viciously struck another mortal wound.

  “Why?” pleaded Castro. “You’re Batista fascists? What did I ever do to you to deserve this?”

  “Nothing personal,” explained Montana. “It’s just business. Don’t blame me, blame the game.”

  “We killed your punk brother Raul, too,” added Lopez.

  “My family!”

  “Say hello to my little friend,” sneered Montana, cutting Castro’s throat. “I’m just a simple entrepreneur, but I’m taking your place, El Presidente. It’s my destiny.”

  “Communist bendaho!” Lopez growled, letting Castro drop with a thud to the cement floor.

  Chapter 23

  General Patton sighed wearily as he sat in his campaign bus, preparing his next speech in the key battleground state of Nebraska. What a dump, nothing but corn stalks for miles. It was depressing. Still, Patton felt pretty good despite his seventy-three years. Age stopped being a campaign issue the day he knocked Kennedy out with one punch. America viewed Patton as a robust septuagenarian, if nothing else.

  More annoying were the nagging non-issues and conspiracy theories swirling about. There were way too many kooks out there, all wanting to know the secret of Patton’s seemingly eternal youth. Had he discovered the Fountain of Youth while vacationing in Florida, another key battleground state? Or, was it just California orange juice and healthy living? There were even reports that Patton had died in a car accident in Germany and was brought back to life. Witnesses disappeared, abducted by aliens. Oh good grief, will it never end? Such nonsense. It seems some in the press won’t be happy until this old soldier is dead and buried, mused Patton. Every day above ground is a good day. Patton tried to shake the nutcases from his mind. Destiny still awaited, yet to be seized.

  Making a deal with the Devil doesn’t make you evil, reasoned Patton, uncomfortably shifting in his chair on that damn microchip in his ass. Campaign manager Joey Czerinski wasn’t the Devil, but he was a close second. The man was an evil puppet master, his hands into everything, and everyone’s business. He was tireless, never calling in sick. Even germs didn’t like him.

  Patton shook his head, resigned to never getting past Heaven’s Pearly Gates. He wasn’t all that keen on going to Heaven anyway, not without his bull terrier, Willie. If dogs don’t go to Heaven, then Heaven is way overrated.

  * * * * *

  I entered the campaign bus to prep Patton one last time for the town hall meeting tonight. “How do you feel?” I asked conversationally. “This is like combat, except different. Are you ready?”

  “No one is ever ready for combat.”

  “Relax. It’s show time.”

  “What’s the point? No one cares what I say out here in the middle of Nowhere, USA.”

  “This is important. You might not be thinking of politics, but politics is always thinking of you.”

  “What?”

  “Focus. TV will broadcast your words live across the Midwest and the nation. It’s the future of campaigns. You proved that with your TKO of Kennedy. You need to keep your foot on Kennedy’s neck and not let him up. Make every word count.”

  “I hate TV,” griped Patton weakly. “The press purposely zooms in to expose every pore and bead of sweat on my face. I’d rather face Nazi tanks than those damn cameras. At this rate, I’ll have cameras snooping up my ass.”

  “That’s coming,” I conceded, remembering my last medical physical. “I don’t like the press either, but we can control them. It’s called spin. Don’t worry, I have ringer
s in the audience to ask friendly questions. We will control the tempo of the meeting.”

  “I don’t like being manipulated,” complained Patton, tossing his notes aside as his temper flared. “Fine, I’m ready. Let’s do it.”

  “You always land on your feet, no matter the odds,” I boasted, slapping Patton on the back. “It’s like you have a guardian angel for good luck.”

  “Luck only goes so far. I think my guardian angel drinks.”

  “Foreign policy is your strength,” I added, ignoring the drinking comment. “Play to that. If the debate turns domestic, emphasize tech breakthroughs like fracking for shale oil deposits that will make America independent of foreign oil.”

  “Will that really work?”

  “Geologists say yes. America is sitting on more oil than Arabia.”

  “Geologists? My campaign depends on the opinion of the dirt people?”

  “Fine. Stick to foreign policy.”

  * * * * *

  “I am but a simple old soldier wanting to do one more service for my country,” began General Patton, facing bright camera lights at the cramped town hall. “I am not a politician. You can’t trust politicians. I sure don’t. Never give politicians the key to your city. Instead, it’s better to change the locks.”

  “Can we can trust you?” asked Phil Coen of ABC News.

  “Damn straight. I’m already rich, so why would I steal? For too long, we hung petty thieves but elected great thieves to political office. That has to end.”

  “You are running as an outsider against the Washington political establishment,” pressed Coen. “Aren’t you Eisenhower’s hand-picked man, even over Nixon?”

  “Politicians are the same all over. They promise to build a bridge with your money, even when there is no river. I’ve come to the conclusion that politics is too serious a matter to be left to the politicians.”

  “You tell a good joke,” commented a member of the audience. “But how does that help me get my corn to market?”

  “The problem with political jokes is they keep getting elected,” quipped Patton, checking his note cards. “You have a lot of corn in Nebraska. You can’t grow too much corn. Corn is America’s oil. We’ve got it, the world needs to eat it. I’ll help you get your crops to the world’s market, at a good price. I’m not here in Nebraska to only harvest corn. I also hope to harvest character.”

  “What about world hunger,” asked a lady reporter.

  “If you’d cut out snacks, you could stop world hunger all by yourself.”

  “Well, I never!”

  “I doubt that.”

  “What makes you qualified to be President?” shouted someone from the back.

  “Nothing. When I was a boy, I was told anybody could be President. I’m beginning to believe it.”

  “Some say you’re too old to serve out your term if elected, but remarkably it appears the sword of time hasn’t pierced you skin. What is your secret to such robust energy and youth?”

  “Caffeine and patriotism keep me going.”

  “But your age...”

  “I’m getting up there in age, I’ll concede that. But, this old soldier is still good for parts. I’ve been over a few bumps in the road, but sometimes you need to save a cracked plate rather than discard it.”

  “How are you in such good health?”

  “In my many travels, I’ve been inoculated against every germ known to science. What’s your excuse?”

  “Sir, there are rumors–”

  “Stop!” interrupted Patton, holding his large hand up like a traffic cop. “I’ll offer my opponents a bargain. If they stop telling lies about me, I’ll stop telling the truth about them.”

  “You’re a genuine war hero!” shouted a woman in the front row. “We already elected Ike to two terms. Why does America need another general in the White House?”

  “I’m not a politician,” repeated Patton patiently. “A politician will lay down your life for your country. I will lay down my own life for this greatest country on God’s green Earth.”

  “As a newcomer to government, do you think you can work with Congress?”

  “There ought to be at least one day, just one, when there is an open season on Congressmen. I can handle Congress. It’s not rocket science. Politics is the gentle art of getting votes from the poor, getting campaign funds from the rich, and promising to protect each from the other. There ought to be term limits on Congressmen, just like there is for President. Given those limitations, I can work with anyone.”

  “Are you tough enough to deal with Russian Premier Nikita Khrushchev?” asked Coen.

  “Is the Pope Polish?”

  “Well, no.”

  “He will be. Khrushchev is a bully and a murderer. America has to stand up to Khrushchev and his Evil Empire. As leader of the Free World, I’ll smack that fool with his own shoe. Read my lips, boys. I pledge to bury Khrushchev and Communism under the ash heap of history.”

  “What about reports of Russian intervention in Cuba?”

  “Khrushchev better stay out of Cuba, or I’ll put a boot up his ass. It’s the American way. Those reds won’t be allowed to cross that red line.”

  “Do we dare risk war with the Soviet Union over Cuba? Isn’t this all about casinos and sugar cane?”

  “Look through the door, not the keyhole,” explained Patton patiently. “If we won’t stand up to Russia in our own backyard, we won’t stand our ground anywhere. I’m going to clean up Cuba and make those Commie bastards brush their teeth. I ain’t playing!”

  “You proposed massive amounts of money for space exploration,” commented Coen, abruptly changing the subject. “Some say that’s wasted money that could be used to help fight poverty at home, and world hunger. You don’t really believe there is life in outer space, do you?”

  “That’s an interesting question. If we are alone in the universe, it sure seems like a waste of space. I say let’s find out.”

  “General, don’t kill the messenger. Some say–”

  “Enough! We can’t be alone. Baby steps today, giant steps tomorrow.”

  Chapter 24

  General Patton tirelessly crisscrossed America. Big cities or small towns, he gave the same stump speech. As in war, his campaign pace was relentless.

  I purposely scheduled Patton and Vice-Presidential candidate Audie Murphy not to cross paths, so they could cover more territory. They could have covered even more ground if it wasn’t for Murphy’s unnatural phobia of flying. As the campaign neared its end, they both stopped in Modesto, California, for a much-needed rest. Patton poured his old war buddy a glass of fine Napa Valley Wine. Only the best, to hell with the French.

  “Drink up, Audie. It’s almost over.”

  “I’d rather have a beer.”

  “That’s why you’re on the ticket,” advised Patton, holding the wine up to the light for inspection. “But, you’re right. Wine is way overrated. In thirty minutes, even the good stuff will be nothing more than piss down the drain.”

  “Sooner than that,” replied Murphy, already doing the pee-pee dance. “Do you think we’ve got this thing won?”

  “It’s in the bag, my friend.”

  “I wish I could be so sure. The Democrats got a lock on the South because of LBJ. We won’t just roll over America like you did in Europe.”

  “Just between you and me,” whispered Patton conspiratorially, “I will roll across this great land, like Caesar reincarnated. What we do today will echo for eternity. The greatness of America will cross the stars. Even Rome won’t surpass our accomplishments.”

  “Good luck with that, partner. The Romans are dead. They all became lazy Italians.”

  “We will see victory in our time,” toasted Patton, cheerfully holding up his glass. “America will rule this world. It is our destiny.”

  * * * * *

  Nation of Islam Minister Louis Farrakhan spoke to the Million Man March from the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C., a week before the election. Te
levision brought Minister Farrakhan into the living rooms of millions more.

  “The day of our deliverance is soon upon us. God’s starship will beam us up to the Promised Land, rescuing us from the white devil and his economic slavery, massive unemployment, international capitalism, record deficits, uncontrolled inflation, and many other social woes. Self-reliance, not reliance on politicians intent on papering over our malaise, is our salvation. No more will white masters lord over us. We will be our own masters, our own nation, on Planet Ebony. How will this miracle happen, you ask? General Patton and NASA will empower us to explore brave new worlds, to boldly go where no man has gone before. Vote Republican in November. Live long and prosper!”

  Farrakhan pumped his clenched fist in the air as the crowd chanted, ‘Patton, Patton, Patton!’

  * * * * *

  On election night, George Patton and Audie Murphy sat comfortably watching TV in a deluxe suite at the Watergate Hotel in Washington, D.C. Polls favored Patton by a landslide. Patton happily reviewed notes for his victory speech. Murphy sat silent, brooding.

  “Director Hoover called me today,” announced Murphy. “He thinks you’re in cahoots with aliens. Says he has proof.”

  “What does that even mean?” asked Patton, laughing.

  “It means you have an unexplained microchip in your ass. It means you’ve somehow discovered the Fountain of Youth. You appear even younger than me. Even your hair is growing back. It means there’s funny business going on. You’re holding back on me. Hoover says he is holding secret recordings and evidence. What do you make of that?”

  “You trusted me in Europe, why not now?” asked Patton reasonably, setting his notes aside. “Surely you don’t think I’d betray my country.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “Do you believe in little green men?”

  “That’s not what I said, either. I know you’re hiding something. What? It’s Czerinski, isn’t it? He’s the puppet master for this whole mess.”