America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 20: Time Machine

by Walter Knight

  Neighbors expressed shock at what is already being called the crime of the century. Police spokesman Mark Fuhrman advised several leads are being investigated, including a glove tossed from the suspect vehicle. “We’ll find who fits this glove.”

  Chapter 4

  “There are rumors on the database of the time machine being abused,” accused General Daly during our weekly meeting update. “Tell me you have not been violating anyone’s civil rights, or using the time machine for personal gain.”

  “I have not intentionally violated anyone’s civil rights.”

  “Good. Keep it that way. I’m calling because the Teamsters Union is about to go on a planet-wide transportation strike.”

  “So? The Legion has its own trucks and drivers.”

  “Their core grievance is they want to know what happened to Jimmy Hoffa. I promised Legion cooperation. You will send a drone back in time to find out. A union representative will contact you to observe the mission.”

  “Don’t you think the Legion has more pressing matters to attend to than centuries-old missing persons?”

  “This project is having funding issues. The Teamsters made us an offer we couldn’t refuse. Handle it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * * * *

  I put a drone in the air outside the Detroit restaurant where Jimmy Hoffa was last seen. Teamsters Rep Carlos O’Neil accompanied me to the viewing room. Major Lopez brought buttered popcorn and Pepsi for the show.

  “The Galactic Brotherhood of Teamsters really appreciates this gesture of goodwill,” assured O’Neil. “Goodwill between the Teamsters and the Legion is a priority to me.”

  “You muscled your way in, so cut the crap,” I replied, passing the popcorn. “We are not friends.”

  “Nevertheless, I owe you. We’re both professionals. If ever you need a favor, just call on me, and the full resources of the Teamsters will be made available, along with a generous donation I’ve already made to the Joey R. Czerinski retirement fund.”

  “Don’t forget the Manny Lopez retirement fund, too,” added Major Lopez.

  “Shut up,” I ordered, using the joystick to zoom in on a lone figure approaching Hoffa as the union boss left the restaurant. Shit! It was Lopez.

  Camera reception interference was caused by two time machines operating in close proximity. I immediately turned off the monitor, recalling the drone. All goodwill was lost.

  “What have you done?” asked O’Neil, jumping up to restore power to the monitor. “I want that killer identified, or else!”

  “You threaten me?”

  “That was not a threat. It was a promise. You’ll be swimming with the fishes!”

  “You’re under arrest.”

  As O’Neil was about to protest, Major Lopez hit him from behind with a chair. Legionnaires carried O’Neil to the dungeon to find Jesus. They deserved each other. The Legion will not be threatened.

  * * * * *

  “Really?” I asked, confronting Major Lopez. “You murdered Jimmy Hoffa?”

  “I keep telling you that’s not me,” bristled Major Lopez.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “My evil twin is trying to whack threats and undesirables,” explained Major Lopez uncomfortably. “Or, maybe I just went crazy.”

  “You’re trying to change our country’s direction,” I speculated. “I know you. Your twisted mind wants glory and power.”

  “After all we’ve been through together, you call me twisted? Try looking in the mirror.”

  “All I know is, we had a chance for some great press, and you blew it. General Daly is going to go ballistic. We need to kill your evil twin. Is that clear? Are you up to it?”

  “Yes, sir, but that bendaho is not me. I’ll kill him myself.”

  “Good. Otherwise, you’re going to mess up history big time and get us busted for treason. Where do you think you’ll strike next? What enemy of America are you most likely to want to murder?”

  “That’s easy. Hitler.”

  * * * * *

  Major Lopez and I transported to pre-World War One Vienna, easily finding a young Adolf Hitler painting and selling watercolors in the town square. I enthusiastically complemented Hitler’s artwork, offering a big wad of cash to buy them all. Major Lopez stayed in the shadows, watching.

  “You really admire my work?” asked Hitler, basking in my praise. “Most do not appreciate the difficulty and attention to detail involved in painting a busy city scene.”

  “Your paintings are by far the best on display,” I added, happily giving him a tip. “If you will be so kind, can you please assist me carrying my purchases to my hostel so I can arrange delivery home at my convenience?”

  “Most certainly,” agreed Hitler, helping me bundle the paintings. “Where is home?”

  “Poland,” I answered, caught off guard by his familiarity. “Mostly Warsaw.”

  “A fine country,” said Hitler, grinning. “I hope to visit Poland someday. Some of my best friends are you Poles. I can tell you’re one of the good Poles.”

  “I’m sure you would enjoy Poland,” I said politely, securing the last of the paintings. “Poles love fine art, and sausage and beer!”

  “Austrians love beer, too! Let me buy you a beer with some of your money. It’s the least I can do to show my appreciation for buying so much of my artwork. I was broke and starving before you came along.”

  * * * * *

  At the hostel we amicably shared a pitcher of beer. Hitler was the life of the party, slapping me on the back and bragging to all about his art sales and future plans to attend the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna. I played along, waiting for an opportunity.

  “Have you ever felt you are being watched, or followed?” I asked conversationally. “Like someone is plotting against you?”

  “All the time,” answered Hitler, turning sullen. “Just yesterday, a swarthy gypsy followed me, intent on robbery. I chased him away with my knife.” Hitler displayed a dagger. Showing off his expertise in knife play, he almost cut himself.

  “You’re pretty good with that,” I said, lavishing more praise. “If you see that damn gypsy again, let me know. He might be after your paintings.”

  “I certainly will.”

  “Together, we’ll settle accounts,” I boasted, opening my coat to show off a pistol tucked in my belt. “I’m retiring for the night, but you wake me if that bastard gypsy comes back.”

  * * * * *

  Hitler knocked on my door after midnight. “That gypsy is out there. I saw him lurking in the fog!”

  I peeked out my window. Nothing. “Let’s hunt ourselves a gypsy.”

  Downstairs, I let Hitler go first while I kept pace on the sidewalk down the block. Hitler nervously clutched his knife as he tried to make out figures in the dark. General Lopez stepped out from an alley.

  “Aye, bendaho! Bring a knife to a gunfight?”

  Hitler jumped back. I double tapped two shots over his shoulder, hitting Lopez square in the chest. Protected by a vest, Lopez fell back, then got to his feet and fled down the alley. Major Lopez appeared from across the street, firing into the shadows, but his evil twin was gone.

  “Two gypsies!” exclaimed Hitler, cringing against a wall. “You all conspire against me?”

  “What the hell,” I answered with a shrug, shooting Hitler in the face. “Changing history be damned.”

  “Preserving history is way overrated,” agreed Major Lopez. “That punk Hitler wanted to conquer the world. What was he thinking? Stupid bendaho!”

  * * * * *

  I made my own souvenir video of killing Hitler, but General Lopez sent me his copy, too. I was looking at it on my communications pad when he called on the phone, somehow using time-travel technology to communicate. Obviously he had my number. “Nice job whacking Hitler,” taunted General Lopez. “But you’re gonna pay slow and painful for shooting me, Czerinski. You can be a real bendaho sometimes.”

  “Sorry about that,” I replied con
tritely. “Can’t we all get along?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Stop messing with time and history, and I won’t kill you with a similar head shot.”

  “You’re fighting forces bigger than all of us,” warned General Lopez. “We can squash you like a bug anytime. Tell Major Lopez that goes for him too.”

  “You wouldn’t dare kill your time twin – then you’d cease to exist in the future.”

  “You don’t know anything about time-travel paradoxes, Czerinski.”

  “Maybe not. Go ahead, kill your own future and see if I care.”

  “When I kill Stalin,” General Lopez said, changing the subject, “you had better not be anywhere near.”

  “Knock yourself out. I don’t care much about Stalin, but how about you and I make a deal? I’ll back off, and you make some sweet financial investments on my behalf.”

  “It’s always about the money, isn’t it, Czerinski?”

  “Not always. Keep messing with me, and I’ll kill you for free.”

  “Your threats will roll off my knife blade, you greedy bastard.”

  “Money can’t buy happiness,” I reasoned. “But it can buy a lot of toys and companionship. Money is as good as cash. Do we have a deal?”

  “Agreed.”

  Chapter 5

  Investigative reporter Phil Coen of Channel Five World News Tonight arrived to interview me about reports I had arrested Jesus and a Teamsters rep. I’m not sure which was the bigger news. A growing number of pilgrims gathered outside Legion Headquarters, and the Galactic Brotherhood of Teamsters was pissed. Apparently people did not believe the Legion explanation that the Jesus abduction was a hoax, or that Teamsters Rep O’Neil committed racketeering. Also, rumors abounded about the Legion trying to change history, in violation of Time Travel Treaty. I’ve always hated Coen and his rumor-mongering.

  “Colonel Czerinski, there are reports you are holding two men incognito in the dungeon under Legion Headquarters, Teamsters Rep Carlos O’Neil, and the person seen in the now infamous Jesus abduction tape,” accused Coen, playing to the crowd. “In light of your nefarious record for abusing prisoners, I demand to interview both men immediately.”

  “The Jesus abduction was indeed a hoax,” I replied. “The O’Neil matter is under investigation. I hope to resolve both soon.”

  “So you admit there are two in your custody?”

  “Both matters are under investigation.”

  “Do you have knowledge of illegal time travel? Although Jesus looked like a fake, those Roman soldiers looked very authentic. The stark brutality was striking.”

  “I can assure the entire matter was staged. Database pranksters commit these kinds of hoaxes all the time.”

  “But what about a statement by the local Arthropodan commander that you did indeed abduct someone claiming to be Jesus H. Christ? What reason do the spiders have to lie?”

  “Alien abductions go back to the dawn of time,” I scoffed. “Talk about the UFO calling the flying saucer silver. The Legion does not abduct humans, and we certainly did not abduct Jesus. Frankly, these wacko conspiracy theories are just too far-out to be believed.”

  “Then let us talk to Jesus!” shouted a pilgrim from the crowd. “What are you hiding?”

  “Yeah!” shouted another as the crowd pressed in. “We want Jesus! We want Jesus!”

  Several shots rang out. Air horns sounded from Teamsters in their trucks. Nervous legionnaires pushed back, but the crowd was getting more unruly.

  “Fine!” I relented nervously. “You can talk to Jesus. You can all talk to Jesus!”

  * * * * *

  Jesus was brought upstairs wearing an orange jumpsuit and sporting a haircut. He waived at the crowd. Many were disappointed Jesus did not have long blond hair or blue eyes. Jesus was a good-looking man but looked like an Arab, complete with dark sun-weathered skin, brown eyes, and short black hair. How could this be Jesus?

  “Are you the Christ?” asked Coen, getting right to the point. “Why should we believe you are Jesus, and not a mere mortal man?”

  “I am a mere mortal man,” answered Jesus. “I don’t ask you to believe otherwise.”

  “But the tape. Was it real? Are you Jesus of Nazareth? Are you the Son of God, abducted by the Legion and brought back through time to the present?”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Jesus, smiling for the cameras. “I could never prove such a thing to unbelievers such as yourself, and I do not intend to try.”

  “But many here want to believe,” pressed Coen. “Was the tape everyone saw a fake?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “Believe me, it matters. Inquiring minds want to know.”

  “I will not speak of such frivolity until I have had a chance to consult with the Pope. It is my understanding that Christianity has gone viral. I intend to be cautious. The last time I granted an interview with the press, I got nailed to a cross. Do you think I want that to happen again? Oh, hell no!”

  “He’s a fake!” shouted someone from the back.

  “Where’s the real Jesus?” another called out.

  “Someone get a rope!”

  “That’s enough!” I announced, raising my hands. Legionnaires ushered Jesus out. “The prisoner will be held until fingerprints can confirm his true identity, at which time he may face deportation proceedings back to Mars. I can assure you this is not the real Jesus. The Legion does not engage in time travel, except to document major historical events, or for national security emergencies. Time tampering is illegal.”

  The crowd dispersed, many dismayed about having made such a long and expensive trip for nothing. It was just another tourist trap rip-off, like Mecca, or The Thing along the highway. News crews packed their camera equipment and left. However, my communications pad chimed with a priority message.

  “Colonel Czerinski? This is the Pope. Let me talk to my main man, Jesus.”

  Chapter 6

  Major Robert Anderson commanded the First US Artillery Regiment at Fort Multrie, Charleston, South Carolina. He knew Fort Multrie was indefensible from Confederate land attack because all batteries at Charleston Harbor pointed outward against the sea. To compensate, Anderson moved his regiment under the cover of darkness to Fort Sumter, one of the most dominant island fortresses in the world.

  Major Anderson commanded sixty cannons but only eighty-five men, not nearly enough. Worse, most of his guns pointed to the sea, away from confederate batteries. Ammunition and food was low. Resupply was promised, but enemy picket ships and artillery fire kept the Union Navy at bay.

  Confederate General P.G.T. Beauregard began the pre-dawn bombardment on April 12, 1861, starting the Civil War. Six thousand troops waited off shore for the Yankees to be softened up. Major Anderson withheld return fire until daylight to conserve ammunition. His men calmly ate breakfast, prayed, and manned their guns to fight Johnny Reb.

  * * * * *

  A small odd-looking barge emerged from the water, beaching itself in the shadow of Fort Sumter’s seaward walls. What the Hell, wondered Major Anderson, alerted to a lone figure pulling the suspect craft ashore. Anderson directed soldiers to assist.

  “Major Anderson, I presume?” asked the man. “I am General Lopez.” He handed over orders that appeared to be from Don Carlos Buell, Assistant Adjutant General of the Army. Anderson was ordered subordinate to Lopez in vigorous defense of Fort Sumter, and in use of certain secret weapons. “I came to save your ass,” added General Lopez.

  “Indeed?” scoffed Major Anderson at Lopez’s arrogance. “We need food, shot, and powder. Your raft can’t possibly carry sufficient supplies to save us. Where is the navy support I was promised?”

  Lopez tossed MREs to Anderson and several soldiers. They readily accepted the packages, but their mood quickly turned.

  “What is this toxic mixture? You try to poison my men?”

  “It’s an acquired taste,” admitted Lopez with a shrug as he loaded a shoulder-fired rocket launcher. Choosin
g a vantage point atop the seawall, Lopez laser sited on a floating armored battery adjacent to Fort Multrie and Sullivan Island. The barge boasted two thirty-two-pounders and two forty-two-pounders. The rocket arced to its target, destroying the barge and sending crew and guns to the bottom of Charleston Harbor. Union soldiers stopped firing to gawk from the walls, then began cheering.

  Hot shots fired from Morris Island struck wooden structures within the stone wall perimeter, starting small fires. Major Anderson ordered details to douse the flames. Lopez returned fire, destroying the battery and killing its crew of cadets from The Citadel. Next Lopez targeted a combination of Howitzers, mortars, and rifled cannon from Fort Moultrie and Charleston proper.

  Lopez saved his last missiles to set an example. The Mayor of Charleston and a delegation of leading citizens and onlookers gathered on the docks for a grand view. Picnic baskets and blankets were laid out for the festive event. Lopez’s first missile killed the mayor instantly. The mushroom firestorm lit the early morning mist. A second missile caused more carnage, setting the docks and a warehouse of cotton afire. People ran for the safety of town. Lopez dropped incendiaries in their path, spreading the fire into the Charleston business district. Quickly the fire raged out of control, destroying most of Charleston, killing thousands.

  “You deliberately targeted civilians!” accused Major Anderson, outraged as he drew his sword. “Have you no shame, no sense of honor, no civility?”

  “Civility?” asked Lopez. “This rebellion will cost well over a million deaths and casualties, and those bendahos were having a picnic! The enemy and the world need to know from the very start that if you mess with the United States, you will get a boot up your ass. War is not a game or a picnic. Is anything I’m saying sinking in?”