I got into group C and gave Sergeant Mendoza my card. Mendoza yelled at me for being in the wrong group, and told me to do twenty push-ups. Sergeant Mendoza directed me to group A. “What do you mean group A?” I asked. “I was in the army.”
“Two years in the Arizona National Guard in Yuma does not qualify you as a combat-seasoned soldier,” replied Sergeant Mendoza as he threw my card back at me. “And prior experience means in this century, old man,” he added, looking at me suspiciously. I didn’t look as old as my records.
“Hey, the California Frontier is the still the Wild West,” I countered. “It’s dangerous out there on the edge of civilization.”
“Dangerous if you get a virus in one of those whore houses along the border,” said Sergeant Mendoza, dismissing me. “Or smashed by a surf board.”
“Now wait a minute,” I insisted. “See this scar on my forehead? It’s a bullet wound. That should count for something. Getting shot should be considered combat experience, shouldn’t it?”
Mendoza took my card back and frowned as he read the data. “It says here that the circumstances of your gunshot wound are still under investigation by local authorities on Mars.”
I pulled Mendoza off to the side and said in a hushed voice, “I will pay you $100,000 if you change my service record to show that I got this gunshot wound in combat under heroic conditions.”
“You are trying to bribe me? I could have you shot,” said Sergeant Mendoza, reaching for his sidearm.
“How about $200,000?” I asked.
“You have a deal, my friend. But you should be careful of what you wish for,” warned Mendoza, laughing. “With experience comes certain responsibilities.”
* * * * *
Three hours later, all of us ‘seasoned’ vets were promoted to corporal and shuttled up to Space Station Lech Walesa for orientation and equipment issue. We were now in the Third Battalion of the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion First Division, designated as scouts and commandos. Our job was to jump first and to direct air support from space. It seemed easy enough when listening to Sergeant Mendoza explain our job. Mendoza said he had jumped or ‘beamed down’ lots of times. In 2215, everything was high tech. Just punch in the coordinates, and shock and awe rained down on the spiders from warships and weapon platforms in orbit, explained Sergeant Mendoza. But we still needed boots on the ground to finish a war. Infantry would always be needed. That was the Legion.
Sergeant Mendoza, who was quite friendly now, personally showed us some of the ordinance we would be dropping on the enemy. “With pinpoint accuracy, we can hit an enemy spider hole with everything from a nuke to a bag of cement,” bragged Mendoza. “The trick is to find the spider hole. That is your job.”
“Bag of cement? Why would we want to drop a bag of cement on anyone?” I asked, eying the large orbiting cannon pointed at Mars.
“Czerinski, you drop a 2,000-pound load of cement on someone from a hundred miles up, and it will ruin their day. In fact, anyone in a bunker, building, or armored personnel carrier will be dead. And, kinetic impact rounds limit collateral damage in urban combat zones. No shrapnel, no radioactivity, and no environmental impact statement. You kill only what you hit. Nothing is left but a little dust residue. This space cannon represents cutting-edge space weaponry.”
“I heard rumors you have all sorts of lasers and ray guns up here,” I said, disappointed by the space cannon and talk of dropping cement on the enemy. “Is this all you’ve got?”
“Ray guns and lasers?” scoffed Sergeant Mendoza. “Get real. This isn’t some retro Star Trek convention we’re running here. This is the Legion. And we are ready for the spiders.”
We spent the rest of the day getting uniforms and equipment. Sergeant Mendoza gave me a tour of the armory. He showed me my new M26A infantry rifle that fires two shots at once and cuts down trees on automatic. It even had thirty mini-grenades in the lower barrel. Speaking of grenades, I spied some fragmentary hand grenades on a shelf and reached for one. “Can I have this?”
“Not until you get to New Colorado,” said Sergeant Mendoza.
“Can I buy it?” I asked, pulling out my card.
“Maybe,” answered Sergeant Mendoza.
We negotiated a deal for the grenade. $10,000. Quite pleased with himself, Mendoza asked, “Want to know a secret?”
“Sure,” I replied.
“In four hours we all beam to New Colorado. You better not kill anyone with that grenade before then.”
* * * * *
Sergeant Mendoza let me take a shuttle back to Mars. Feeling a bit depressed and self destructive, I walked up to a roulette wheel and bet $1,500,000 on red, and won. The casino put my image on a big screen up high so everyone could see the big spender. Gamblers cheered. “Good Luck Mister C.” announced a pit boss over a public address system. I let it ride, and won again. Great. I had over $6,000,000 on my card, and no time to spend it. I was going to die on New Colorado, probably today. The pit boss changed the dice. I suspect the new dice had been stored in the freezer just for me.
Before leaving, I eyed a pretty card dealer, checking her name tag. “Patty, can I interest you in a date?” I asked.
“No,” she replied.
“But I’m rich,” I pointed out, deftly. “We could have a lot of fun.”
“No. Not ever. Never.”
“Did I mention I joined the Legion to fight aliens?” I asked. “I might even get killed.”
“We at Harrah’s will all miss you Mister C.,” she said. “I sincerely hope the spiders do not eat you.”
“Please, just a short date. It would be your patriotic duty to comfort a lonely soldiers about to go off to war.”
“What part of no did you not understand?” asked Patty. “The N or the O?”
“So, you are saying no?”
“I would rather date an alien than you.”
“Do you have an evil twin sister I can date?” I asked.
“I have a sister, but she is not evil or a twin.”
“Introduce me.”
“Lisa would not like you.”
“Why?”
“She only likes unemployed felon losers with lots of tattoos,” explained Patty. “You have no tattoos.”
“How do you know that?” I asked. “I might have a few secret hidden tattoos.”
“You only want one thing.”
“You mean Mexican food?”
“You know. What all guys want.”
“Money?”
“No.”
“Monday Night Football?”
“Yes, that’s it,” said Patty. “You would break Lisa’s heart by abandoning her on Mondays.”
“But today is Tuesday,” I argued. “Let’s go out.”
“Where?”
“Taco Bell, then my place. My ship is leaving soon.”
“No, I am calling security.”
“Okay, I can take a hint.”
* * * * *
I walked to the chip store again and confronted the tech clerk. “What’s your name?”
The clerk didn’t recognize me until he heard my voice again. He was surprised to see me. “Lou Nelson,” he answered, eying the scar on my forehead. “I thought you died.”
“Not yet,” I said. “I want to buy two more Fountain of Youth chips.”
“No can do, sir,” he replied. “Fountain of Youth chips are illegal now. Oh, don’t worry about the chip in your arm. You are grandfathered in. But now it’s illegal even to admit the technology exists.”
I eyed the young tech clerk with my best mad dog stare and pulled out a wicked Legion commando knife. “I will get the chips I want, even if I have to cut them out of your arm,” I threatened. “I know you have black market connections.”
“Okay! But the price has jumped. Please put that knife away.”
“How much?”
“$800,000 apiece,” he said, checking my card and smiling. “And I see that you are good for it.”
We made the
transaction. I had the two chips mailed to Earth, avoiding USGF customs by sending them to a post office box in Los Angeles, Kingdom of California. An E-mail attachment contained instructions and a large sum of money addressed to William and Olga Czerinski. It was totally out of character for me to do anything that wasn’t related to my own self-interests, so I sent the life-saving chips to my parents with a message asking that they figure out a way to get me out of the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion.
* * * * *
I walked through Harrah’s Hotel & Casino again, taking one last look at the table games. I thought about going ‘all in’ like they do on the public broadcast game shows, but I was too depressed even to gamble. It was getting late. Not too many people were out. Instead, I covered my face with my cap and approached the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion ATM. I set the timer on the grenade and rolled it under the ATM. The explosion was horrific, but Mars now had one less smart-ass ATM.
Later, at Space Station Lech Walesa, I waved at Sergeant Mendoza as he carted some supplies toward the beam transport facility. “Art, I have one last favor to ask of you.”
“That’s Sergeant Mendoza to you. And I don’t think I should do you any more favors. I just heard a news report from Mars about a grenade blowing up a federal ATM at Harrah’s.” Mendoza sighed as I pulled out my card. “What do you want?”
“I want to drop something at this address.” I handed Sergeant Mendoza a note with Mr. Depoli’s New Boston Heights address on it. “You know, dropped from 100 miles up.”
“Fancy part of town,” commented Sergeant Mendoza. “Sorry, I don’t do murders.”
“Who said anything about murder?” I asked innocently. “Think of it as a prank. Scan the house to make sure no one is inside. I just want to send a message.”
“I can’t do it. After your little incident with the grenade, inspectors will by crawling all over my inventories to make sure all ordinance is accounted for,” explained Mendoza.
“You will have no problem with inventories,” I said, sliding my backpack off my shoulders and unzipping it. I pulled out a basketball-sized rock. “Use this.”
“What’s your problem with this Depoli guy?” asked Sergeant Mendoza.
“Depoli? He’s the lawyer that tried to unplug me at the hospital.”
“A lawyer? Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? But it will cost you.”
CHAPTER 7
I didn’t really understand quantum physics. I knew quantum physics and some fancy tricks with artificially generated wormholes allowed our instant communications across the galaxy. It had something to do with the radio waves being in two places at one time. Somehow the science geeks figured out a way for objects to be in two places at one time, too. That gave us our prized beam technology, enabling me to transport directly from Space Station Lech Welesha to the USGF troop transport T. Roosevelt in orbit around New Colorado. I was greeted by Staff Sergeant Eddie Wilson, who seemed very glad to see me.
“Welcome to the front, Corporal Czerinski,” said Sergeant Wilson, as he shook my hand. “We can sure use your vast combat experience. None of us has any.”
“You’re one of the guys I just saw on BHTV a couple hours ago,” I said, amazed. “What combat experience are you talking about?”
“Don’t be modest,” said Sergeant Wilson. “I’ve read your file. In fact, that’s why you’re here. You have done black ops from California to China. You were even in on the L.A. hostage rescue.”
“East L.A.?” I asked, trying to remember news accounts from that time. I needed to read my card to see what all Sergeant Mendoza put into it. “I don’t really want to talk about it, Sergeant. All those operations are supposed to be classified to prevent terrorists from going after our families.”
“I still can’t believe it. The Hero of East L.A. in my platoon. How’s that head wound doing? Looks near completely healed up,” said Sergeant Wilson, eying my forehead as we walked down a passageway to my quarters.
“Stop it!” I said, getting irritated.
“Here, meet some of the other members of our platoon. Privates Manny Lopez, Tyrone Green, Morris Nesbit – our newest – and Billie Kool, our radio man.”
“I just saw most of you talking on TV,” I said, as I shook hands. “You all are like famous movie stars now.”
When I shook Private Nesbit’s hand, he freaked out, yelling, “It’s you!” He grabbed me by the throat.
I expertly broke the choke hold, flipped Private Nesbit over my shoulder, and slammed him onto the ground as I kicked him in the ribs. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” I yelled, looking down at him.
“You’re the reason I’m here!” Private Nesbit yelled back. “I had a nice job at Harrah’s, and you talked me into shooting up an ATM. The police found my fingerprints on your gun, and they arrested me along with Bubba Jones. I got fined and had a choice between being thrown out an airlock, or enlisting in the reserves for the enlistment bonus. I had to pay off the fine, so I enlisted. And now we’re at war. You ruined my life!”
“Shut up!” I ordered, as I kicked him in the ribs again.
“You know Bubba Jones?” asked Private Green.
“Yeah. I had Bubba and two his associates thrown out an airlock on Mars,” I answered. “Nesbit, do you want to be next to get tossed out an airlock?”
“So that’s what happened to Bubba,” commented Private Green, slapping me on the back. “I heard he got killed, but I didn’t know how. Good. I owed that punk a lot of money. If I get through this crazy spider war, I want to buy you a drink on sweet Mother Earth. You’re the man!”
“This is the Hero of East L.A.,” said Sergeant Wilson. “Even Bubba Jones couldn’t mess with him. At least not more than once.”
“El paso puesto en la capa del Superhombre,” added Private Lopez.
“Just leave Nesbit there,” said Sergeant Wilson. “Call a medic. I don’t care. Czerinski, we need to talk in private.” He led me away from the others toward my quarters and lowered his tone. “We are jumping at dawn. Store your personal gear and get some sleep. When you wake up, the captain’s briefing will already be on your notepad, and your gear will be all laid out for you. Sorry about the rush, but things are about to happen big time.”
“You’re kidding? Right?” I asked.
“I’m so relieved that someone with combat experience will be leading the platoon,” Sergeant Wilson said, putting his hand on my shoulder again as I opened the door to my quarters and threw my duffle inside. “They’ll respect and follow you.”
“What?” I asked, alarmed. “Where are you going to be?”
“I’ll be right there with you,” said Sergeant Wilson. “The problem is, I’ve never seen combat. I’m a bit nervous about the prospect. I spent my whole career shuffling computer data and reviewing combat video. Don’t worry, we’re all in this together. See you at dawn.”
Dawn came soon enough. I read Captain McGee’s briefing, and headed for the muster room. Alone. Weapons and equipment were laid out, and the platoon was packing up. I looked at my notepad one more time, and began the briefing. “Good morning gentlemen. Some of you have met me already. I am Corporal Czerinski. I’ll be leading you on our jump,” I said, reading from my computer notepad. “Sergeant Wilson will not be making the jump today because he accidentally shot his foot off last night while cleaning his rifle.” Surprised, I reread that last line to myself to make sure I got it right.
The platoon immediately started complaining. “That pussy,” said Private Green. “I’m going to kick Wilson’s ass when I catch up with him.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Sergeant Wilson will join us in a few days when he gets his new metal foot. Meanwhile, he will be monitoring our camera video and advising us as our mission progress.”
“That fool can monitor this,” yelled Private Lopez from the back of muster, grabbing his crotch.
“Also, Lieutenant Norris is still missing from yesterday’s flyover o
f the LZ. Satellite photos of the area indicate we should be unopposed in our landing. The LZ is in one of the lesser nuked areas of the planet, so there is still some tree cover obscuring potential spider positions and holes.” I opened a box of supplies and started passing out bottles of pills. “These are anti-rad pills. You take one pill a day and you should be safe from the radiation. Private Nesbit! Where are you?”
“In the back,” answered Private Nesbit.
“You will be carrying seven nuclear grenades.”
“What? Why me? I have enough to carry without more weight. Besides, my ribs still hurt from yesterday, and the pain meds are wearing off,” complained Nesbit. “I need to go to sick call again.”
“Great,” commented Private Kool. “A man on drugs will be carrying nukes.” Everyone laughed except Private Nesbit.
“Nesbit,” I said, throwing him another bottle of pills. “Take this extra bottle. You need to take at least two pills a day.”
“Two pills a day? Why? Are these nukes giving off radiation?” he asked as he packed the bombs in to his backpack. “I know what this is all about, Czerinski. You just don’t like me.”
“Nonsense,” I replied. “These nukes are perfectly safe. Trust me, you have nothing to worry about. Besides. They cured cancer over a hundred years ago.”
“Nukes aren’t safe. Everyone knows that,” protested Nesbit, but not as loudly. He was resigned to the task at hand.
“Private Elena Ceausescu!” I called out, going down my platoon list. “You are going to be our medic. Load up with a bunch of medical stuff.”
America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 1: Feeling Lucky Page 4
