“Agreed.”
“A wise decision,” advised Silva, shaking my hand. “We were advised doing business with Joey The Toe would be difficult, but I find you most reasonable.”
“I do not like that nickname any more than I like the Butcher of New Colorado slander the media hangs on me,” I advised, placing a hand on my pistol holster. “Don’t do again, or my attorneys will be in contact with your attorneys.”
“Sorry, no offense intended,” replied Silva, visibly shaken by the mere mention of my attorneys. “Did you say something earlier about crocs in Caldera Lake? Do you mean crocs, as in large ugly crocodiles with big yellow gnarly teeth?”
“There’s just a few.”
“Crocs would be bad for water sports,” Silva remarked. “No one water skis with crocs lying about, making a nuisance of themselves. Can you kill them?”
“No,” I answered. “It would be a game violation to poach crocs. The Forest Service would be real upset. Perhaps you can put up a net?”
“A swimmers beware sign warning of crocs should be enough to avoid any frivolous civil liability to Harrah’s,” advised Silva.
“That’s a good idea,” I commented. “That’s why you MBA guys get paid the big bucks.”
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Chapter 3
A huge black shuttle landed next to Caldera Lake on the area just cleared for Harrah’s new golf course. A long black stretch limousine drove down the exit ramp. Sergeant Green cautiously approached the limo, tapping on the black tinted driver’s side window. It rolled down, letting out wonderful cool air from the air conditioning.
“Tell Joey The Toe that Jimmy The Neck, Ozzie The Finger, Johnny The Gut, and Tony The Knuckle are here for our business meeting,” announced the driver. “We have an appointment. Joey The Toe is expecting us.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Sergeant Green. “I’ll take you to The Toe right away!”
* * * * *
Lieutenant Perkins greeted Jimmy The Neck and his associates at the entrance to my command center tent. “Are you the New Memphis wise guys?”
“We are not here to waste our time talking to flunkies like you,” announced Jimmy The Neck. “I have important business to discuss with Joey The Toe.”
“Sure thing,” replied Lieutenant Perkins. “Colonel Czerinski cleared his schedule just for you. Please enter.”
“Gentlemen!” I greeted, standing up from behind my desk to shake hands. “Welcome to my humble abode. Please excuse the mess. This is all temporary. Perkins! Get these gentlemen some of our best wine, and make sure it’s chilled!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Have a seat,” I said, gesturing to folding olive-drab field chairs. “When I got your emails suggesting a meeting, I had no idea you would come so fast, all the way from New Memphis. It’s an honor to meet you all. What could Mafia types like you possibly want to talk with me about, way out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“There is no such thing as the Mafia,” advised Jimmy The Neck. “I find the term personally offensive. So do my associates. You do not want to upset my associates with such bad manners.”
“Let’s not be coy,” I advised. “You’re a bunch of wise guys from New Memphis. Usually I shoot your type immediately as you get off the shuttle. This is a no-Mafia zone. But, you four have style, arriving in that bullet-proof limo. That shows class. So, what do you want?”
“We have an understanding with General Daly that our syndicate, New Memphis Gaming, has a lock on exclusive casino development in the Eastern New Gobi Desert. Now, I find Harrah’s muscling in on our back yard, and with Legion support to boot.”
“General Daly left,” I explained. “General Lopez runs things in New Phoenix. However, more important for you, I run things here. Harrah’s was here first.”
“Tell Harrah’s to leave, or there will be problems,” warned Jimmy The Neck. “We can’t allow Harrah’s to stay. It would set a very bad precedent.”
“I understand your situation,” I said. “Try to understand my situation. Harrah’s brought in an MBA from Stanford. What could I do?”
“Stanford!” interrupted Tony The Knuckle. “Those bastards! Bad things always happen when heavy hitters from Stanford show up!”
“Should we bring in more muscle?” asked Johnny The Gut. “We don’t want to be out gunned.”
“No,” decided Jimmy The Neck “We do not need that kind of heat. Surely Harrah’s does not need the whole waterfront. Can’t we come to some sort of arrangement?”
“You can have a few lots on the far eastern tip of the lake,” I relented. “It’s prime property that I set aside for croc habitat, to make the Audubon people happy, but because you are my friends, I will allow you to buy it.”
“You have ducks on Caldera Lake?” asked Johnny The Gut.
“None,” I replied. “I said crocs, not ducks.”
“Crocs?” asked Jimmy The Neck. “Caldera Lake is stocked with crocs? I like that! We can throw troublemakers and card-counters off the balcony and into the lake. Chomp, and problems float away!”
“I am glad we can do business,” I said. “I assume you are remembering my cut of the action.” “Of course,” said Jimmy The Neck, feigning personal affront. “It’s the law.” “It’s probably in the Constitution,” added Ozzie The Finger. The Finger was the legal beagle of the group. “Outstanding!” I exclaimed. “Can you join me for dinner? We’re dining on MREs.” “We brought our own food,” advised Johnny The Gut. “But, you may join us for fine frozen pizza and pasta. I add extra cheese and pepperoni.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I look forward to dining with you. We can discuss more business, and our spider problem.”
“Spiders are not a problem,” advised Jimmy The Neck. “Most spiders are compulsive gamblers. They lose a fortune to us at the casino, and think nothing of it.”
“Yes, but they still don’t want us out here,” I advised. “They keep posturing at the border, and accusing me of stealing their water. The spider commander is anal about trespassing, and sees conspiracies everywhere. He even thinks I’m bringing in nude sun bathers.”
“I’ll take care of that uppity spider commander,” promised Tony The Knuckle. “I’ll make him a deal he cannot refuse.”
* * * * *
The next day was like any other day, except everyone seemed to have a chip on their shoulder. I surmised it must be the stress of desert isolation.
“Merry Christmas, sir,” said Lieutenant Perkins. “What?” I asked. “Merry Christmas,” repeated Lieutenant Perkins. “Why do you say that?” I asked. “Did someone bring me something?” “Today is Christmas, sir,” advised Lieutenant Perkins. “Are you serious, you didn’t know that?” “I lost track of holidays ever since the USGF changed to the Galactic Calendar,” I explained. “Why are we working on Christmas?” “I was wondering about that myself,” replied Lieutenant Perkins. “I suppose it’s because a legionnaire’s work is never done. We are ever vigilant?”
“No, it’s my fault,” I replied. “I’m tired. I think I’m suffering from jet lag.” “Sir, jet lag is caused by time differences,” advised Lieutenant Perkins. “That too,” I agreed. “Yes, sir.” “Give everyone the day off,” I ordered, magnanimously. “Everyone except for Corporal Tonelli at the border crossing checkpoint. That wise guy can work all weekend, for all I care.”
“Guido won’t be happy with you for that,” warned Lieutenant Perkins. “There will be repercussions.”
“Good!” I said. “Tell Tonelli to bring it on! I’ve been losing too much money to that bookie. Somehow Guido has been cheating me. He can earn his ill-gotten money doing double shifts all Christmas weekend, for all I care. Let that be a lesson to him.”
“Do the miners and drillers get the day off, too?” asked Lieutenant Perkins. “They’re a bit moody today.”
“No!” I answered. “Pay those lazy bums overtime if necessary, but I want that hole deeper. We’re falling way behind schedule, as it is. The spiders are getti
ng suspicious. I think they know about our hole.”
“I just came from the Teamsters Union tent when doing my rounds,” added Lieutenant Perkins. “The Teamsters are talking about making ‘UNFAIR’ signs and picketing your tent. They plan to burn you in effigy over this Christmas issue.”
“So?” I asked. “What do I care? Those fools can be replaced!”
“They promised to video the whole event and put it on the database for media consumption,” explained Lieutenant Perkins. “We don’t need publicity or bad press.”
“Fine!” I responded. “Give those traitors the day off, too! I’ll tell you this. They’re working all New Year’s Day. I don’t care how hung-over from partying all night they get!”
“Yes, sir.”
* * * * *
Corporal Tonelli worked mostly by himself at the border crossing checkpoint searching trucks. He was fine with that. Working by himself gave him the independence needed to run his side businesses, including his very lucrative bookie business. Corporal Tonelli handled sports betting for both the Legion and the spider marines.
However, today, Corporal Tonelli was peeved. He’d been ordered to work a double shift on Christmas Day. It was Czerinski’s doing, he was sure. Czerinski holds a grudge forever! he groused. He was so upset, he barely noticed the spider Military Intelligence officer walk right up to his guard shack.
“Guido!” exclaimed the spider officer, knocking on the window. “Who do you pick to go to the Super Bowl? America’s team, Dallas?”
“No way,” replied Guido. “It will be the Seattle Seahawks again.”
“I am going with Dallas to go deep into the playoffs,” commented the spider Military Intelligence officer, swiping his card on Guido’s pad. “What is all this I have been hearing about you legionnaires digging a top-secret hole under that big tent?”
“Czerinski won’t tell anyone,” answered Guido. “Why? Who knows? All I know is, it’s getting deep.”
“How deep?” asked the Military Intelligence officer.
“They’re drilling core samples thousands of feet down,” said Guido. “And I hear rumors they’re following that up with extensive tunnels and ventilation. Maybe they’re looking for oil or natural gas. Or, maybe they’re digging a huge well. I just don’t know.”
“There is no oil or underground water out here,” advised the Military Intelligence officer. “Our geologists have already checked. Might Czerinski be digging a bunker system for missiles?”
“I don’t think so,” replied Guido. “They’re digging for something valuable. There is urgency in Czerinski’s demeanor. The drillers and miners are working twenty-four-seven, and even on holidays.”
“And the Teamsters let him get away with that?” asked the Military Intelligence officer, incredulously. “I can’t get our Teamsters to do squat. They won’t even work during dear and elk hunting season.”
“Czerinski has an unlimited expense account,” advised Guido. “He’s paying the Teamsters triple time to work on Christmas.”
“Are you getting paid triple time, too?” asked the Military Intelligence officer, sympathetically. “It only seems fair that you would.”
“Hell, no,” complained Guido. “I’m in the Legion. All I’m getting is screwed! Money is so tight for me, I’m getting pre-declined credit card offers in the mail.”
“Is that a bad thing, getting screwed on Christmas?” asked the Military Intelligence officer, checking his translation device to refine Old Earth human pestilence slang.
“It is especially bad for me,” replied Guido. “I’m getting screwed big time.”
“You do not want to be screwed?” asked the Military Intelligence officer, still confused and checking his translation device. “Or should I not be asking that question because of the Legion’s don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy?”
“What?” asked Guido. “No one wants to be screwed-over on a holiday! It’s just not fair, especially on Christmas!”
“I see,” commented the Military Intelligence officer, not seeing at all. The spider slapped his translation device, hoping to jar loose a better explanation. “I do not like sex on holidays either. A male should be allowed some rest from pushy females. That Czerinski is a real bastard to treat you like that.”
“You’re an odd duck,” commented Guido. “If you’re done placing wagers, you need to leave. I have orders to shoo you snoopy spiders away from the border. Didn’t you see the sign? It says no trespassing!”
“I saw a black limo and a black shuttle,” continued the spider Military Intelligence officer. “What was that all about?”
“That’s my competition,” groused Guido. “Czerinski is letting the Mafia build a casino at the far end of the lake. When it’s completed, I’m out of business.”
“But I thought you were already in the Mafia,” commented the Military Intelligence officer. “Are there two Mafia’s?”
“Technically, there is no such thing as the Mafia,” advised Guido. “It’s just an expression. We Italian Americans find that word offensive because we get a bad rap over it.”
“No offense, but do you prefer the words organized crime?” asked the Military Intelligence officer. “Is it just a coincidence you Italians run all the rackets here on New Colorado?”
“The New Memphis syndicates are partnered with spiders, too, so it’s not just Italians,” advised Guido, defensively. “No offense either, but I’m supposed to shoot any spider trespasser who strays over the line. Get on your side of the border!”
“I was just trying to better understand certain aspects of your human pestilence culture,” explained the Military Intelligence officer. “You are an odd species. I heard that your economy is so bad, the Mafia is laying off judges.”
“That’s not true,” replied Guido uncomfortably. “I don’t appreciate being pumped for information.” “Inquiring minds want to know.” “Say goodbye now.” “Goodbye now,” repeated the Military Intelligence officer. “I need to download an upgrade to this translator,” he mumbled as he headed to the quartermaster’s tent.
* * * * *
The spider commander gathered his newly arrived company of engineers. “Dig,” he ordered. “Straight down!”
“What are we digging for?” asked an engineer team leader, greedily. “Gold? Diamonds?”
“I do not know,” replied the spider commander, testily. “But there is something down there the human pestilence Legion wants, and I intend to reach it first!”
“Can you not even speculate?” asked the team leader. “Perhaps we can make up for the Legion’s head start by drilling core samples ahead of actual tunnels.”
“I will take care of the Legion,” advised the spider commander. “You worry about digging. You will focus and reach the prize first, or I will throw each and every one of you to the crocs!”
* * * * *
Arthropodan commandos slipped across the border fence, creeping to the backside of the largest Legion tent. A spider team leader slit an opening through the tent wall, expecting to find busy miners at work. Instead, he found the tent abandoned. The only sign of movement came from an air compressor, pumping fresh air down into the mine shaft.
The team leader led his commandos inside, quickly placing explosive charges on equipment and on the air compressor. Commandos dropped into the mine to place still more explosives. Mission accomplished, the commandos set timers and fled into the night and across the border.
Explosions lit up the skyline. The spider commander clapped his stump as he watched through field glasses. “Outstanding!” he exclaimed. “Take that, Czerinski! Even if your treasure is buried in Hell, I will get there first!”
* * * * *
As is my custom, I slept at night in a specially prepared underground bunker. Even so, the blast woke me from a sound sleep. It’s not that I’m paranoid. It’s just that everyone keeps trying to kill me, so I sleep better underground, where it is safe.
I pushed up through the debris of my command center tent
and peered next door at the mine. The large tent and all the mining equipment and drills were destroyed. Small fires still burned. I glanced across the border at the spider side. I could hear the spiders hissing their cheers.
“You want to mess with me?” I yelled. “This is not over!”
Sergeant Green came running up to my location. “Sir, are you okay?”
“Yes,” I replied, still glaring across the border. “Those spiders haven’t built anything worth bombing over their yet. As soon as they do, we will blow it up!”
“Yes, sir!” said Sergeant Green. “I’m looking forward to that!”
* * * * *
Master Sergeant Green and Sergeant Williams floated slowly in a small flat boat along the shore of Caldera Lake. Sergeant Green had is assault rifle at the ready, aimed at the shoreline. As they floated closer to shore, Williams silently exited the boat and waded the rest of the way to the suspected croc tunnel. He carried a long sturdy stick and a sledge hammer.
“Are you sure you know to hunt crocs?” asked Sergeant Green. “How do you even know there’s a croc in there?”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” assured Sergeant Williams. “Back home, I hunted alligators this way all the time. A croc is nothing more than an oversized gator.”
“I don’t know,” said Sergeant Green, watching Williams approach the croc den. Green shined a spotlight mounted on his rifle into the dark hole.
“The croc will always surface before it attacks,” advised Sergeant Williams. “Then I will knock it out with this sledge hammer. Don’t shoot unless I miss. Colonel Czerinski’s orders are to bring back a live croc.”
The Ark Page 2
