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

by Walter Knight

  “I suggest you drive away,” answered Tonelli. “Or this won’t end well.”

  “What’s that weird uniform you’re wearing?”

  “Boy Scouts.”

  “Right. Okay, I’m leaving. This job don’t pay enough to be cleaning up your black-ops shit. The sheriff won’t approve my overtime anyways.”

  “Have a nice day, officer.”

  “Go to Hell.”

  * * * * *

  “Mr. President, Roswell Air Force Base called. The aliens are back.”

  “I don’t want to hear any more about aliens!” replied the President. “The border is as secure as it’s going to get. Polling indicates that issue is all a bunch of Republican bullshit. They’re never happy.”

  “It’s not Mexican aliens,” explained the general. “Space aliens just whacked fifty bikers in New Mexico.”

  “Space aliens? What kind of shit is that?”

  “Little green men from outer space.”

  “For real?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Now, let me get this straight. ET landed in New Mexico? Like little green men, with big ears and no lips?”

  “Look who’s talking,” muttered the general.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing, Mr. President. The Army and Air Force are waiting for your orders. Shall we nuke them?”

  “Not yet,” answered the President. “Let’s not jump to conclusions before we have all the facts. It still might be Muslim terrorists or a right-wing Republican conspiracy. Get me all polling data on bikers and aliens.”

  “Sir, we’ve been invaded by space aliens. We have their UFO on radar.”

  “There is still room for negotiation. I want my picture taken standing next to ET. Do I make myself clear?”

  “No nukes?

  “No nukes! Who is that science fiction writer the IRS is investigating? Wally...”

  “Walter Knight. He’s world-famous.”

  “Get him! Bring Knight to New Mexico for first contact. I want to be in Knight’s next book.”

  “I think you’re already in one of Knight’s books,” advised the general patiently. “That’s why you sicced the IRS on him.”

  “Nonsense. That’s all water under the bridge. First contact could be big. I might even get a third term if this ET thing spins correctly.”

  “You only get two terms, Mr. President. It’s the law.”

  “Just do it! Let me worry about what’s the law. By the way, where is New Mexico?”

  “Between Arizona and somewhere else.”

  “Smart ass white boy. You can be replaced.”

  Chapter 16

  My shuttle landed next to the gas station. Legionnaires poured out to secure a perimeter, and to take the fugitives into custody. I considered summary executions, but decided on interrogations to find out what other mischief they had gotten into. Besides, Williams was still missing.

  “Oh, hell no!” exclaimed Chumlee. “I’m not going on no lame Star Trek adventure with Spock, or whatever the hell that is.”

  Corporal Wayne, the only spider legionnaire with us, smacked Chumlee alongside his head with a rifle butt. “Shut up, human pestilence.”

  “It talks?” asked Chumlee. “Can’t we make a deal? I’ve got cash. It’s as good as money.”

  “How much?”

  “Will you take American Express?”

  Smack.

  “Tonelli has gold in the limo, and I have more at my pawn shop.”

  “Gold?” I asked. “So that’s it? You thought you could make your fortune speculating in the past, and no one would notice? What’s with all the dead bikers?”

  “Collateral damage,” answered Tonelli. “Chumlee is right. We can make a deal. Isn’t there at least some goodwill left between us, after all we’ve been through?”

  “How much gold?” asked Major Lopez.

  “Where’s Sergeant Williams?” I asked, ignoring side issues.

  “Watching the Cotton Bowl. We were going all in on Middle Tennessee State when we got to Vegas. You can still get a piece of our action.”

  Vintage Phantom jets from the New Mexico National Guard interrupted our negotiations, doing a low flyby, followed by choppers and the deployment of Army and Air Force troops blocking the highway. Making a grand entrance, Air Force One landed on Highway 380, just short of the crossroads. The President strode down the ramp, flanked by generals, and followed by the Village Idiot.

  “Take me to your leader.”

  “I’m Colonel Czerinski of the Foreign Legion,” I replied, saluting.

  “Get the Polish Ambassador on the phone, pronto,” whispered the President to the nearest general, still smiling and shaking my hand. “Where’s the aliens?”

  “All I brought was Corporal Wayne.”

  “That’s good enough. Get him over here for some photo-ops and sound-bites. Can he read a teleprompter?”

  Corporal Wayne stood next to the President as reporters from CNN shouted questions. “Did you come back to Roswell to recover bodies from the botched alien autopsy?” asked a seasoned White House reporter. “Do you blame Truman and Republicans for their deaths?”

  “The sooner I leave Old Earth and you human pestilence, the better,” snarled Corporal Wayne, not yet having mastered diplomatic skills. “Get that camera out of my face, or I’ll cut you.”

  I prompted Corporal Wayne with an elbow. “I come in peace,” added Wayne, getting the hint.

  “Where’s the rest of you aliens?” asked the President.

  “You aliens?” asked Corporal Wayne.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to ruffle your scales, or whatever it is you have. What are you, some kind of bug?”

  Corporal Wayne drew his jagged combat knife, but Secret Service and legionnaires swarmed over him, pulling him away from the President and shoving him at the Vice President. They immediately struck up an amicable conversation. “Why do they call you the Village Idiot?” asked Corporal Wayne.

  “None of your business.”

  “I apologize for Corporal Wayne,” I said smoothly. “He doesn’t get out in genteel society much. But he’s a loyal legionnaire.”

  “When did Poland make first contact with extraterrestrials?” asked the President. “You know, some of my best friends are Polish.”

  “I’m an American from the future,” I explained.

  “I see. Do I get a third term?”

  “No, Mr. President.”

  “Who wins the USC game?”

  “Middle Tennessee State, by 35 points.”

  “For real?”

  “We need to leave, Mr. President,” I explained. “The longer we stay, the more likely it is we will screw up history.”

  “I quite agree. Are you sure I don’t get a third term?”

  “If we stay, you might not finish your second term,” I warned.

  “Quite right. Load your men and ET, and get out. Earth is full! But first, do me a favor. Take world-famous science fiction writer Walter Knight with you. He and his Tea Baggers have been rabble-rousing again. Take the Village Idiot, too. Michelle wants his job.”

  “Yes, Mr. President. It’s been an honor meeting you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere!” protested the Vice President, struggling with Corporal Wayne. There was a distinct sound of a bone crunching.

  “Me either!” added Chumlee.

  Marines and Secret Service pummeled both, carrying them to my shuttle. I bade the President farewell and good luck on the game.

  “What are we going to do about Chumlee and the Village Idiot?” whispered Major Lopez. “Neither will be allowed past Mars.”

  “Throw them out an airlock.”

  * * * * *

  During the confusion, Private Christ donned a cowboy hat found in the gas station, and wandered away, past marines and roadblocks. He hitchhiked to Las Vegas. The arid climate agreed with Jesus. The heat was stifling, but it was a dry heat, like back home in Nazareth. As planned, Jesus bet all his cash on Mi
ddle Tennessee. With his winnings, he bought a wedding chapel, catering to the rich and famous.

  Jesus Blessed Weddings, Inc., gives Elvis stiff competition in Vegas to this day.

  * * * * *

  “I want to buy a ticket for the championship game,” announced Sergeant Williams to a clerk at the Cotton Bowl.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but tickets were sold out long ago. Maybe you can buy a ticket from a scalper.”

  “How about box seats?”

  “Luxury box seats? Sorry, sir, but we don’t rent them, either.”

  “I don’t want to rent, I want to buy,” advised Williams, pulling gold bars out of his backpack. “Make it happen.”

  “Yes, sir. Right away, sir. Let me make some phone calls.”

  “After I’m settled in, I’ll be expecting company. Let them in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * * * *

  Major Lopez, Sergeant Green, and I joined Williams in his luxury suite for the game. Champagne sat chilling in a bucket. Williams handed me a hotdog and garlic fries. “Enjoy the game, sir. It will be a classic beat-down.”

  “You don’t seem surprised to see us,” I commented.

  “I knew you’d have money on the game and would want to watch.”

  “You’re AWOL,” advised Major Lopez. “You’re coming with us.”

  “None of you are big enough to take me,” warned Williams. “Have a seat. Enjoy the real world. I’m not going back. I’m no longer in for the duration.”

  I sat. The hotdogs were great. Williams let out a rebel yell as USC kicked off to Middle Tennessee. Adam Traidman ran the ball back one hundred and seven yards for a touchdown, a Cotton Bowl record.

  “You don’t think we can take you back?” I asked conversationally. “We’ve got you outnumbered.”

  “I’m not as dumb as I look.” Williams laughed. “Threats won’t work. I’m a multimillionaire, living the life of luxury on Old Earth. Even the President can’t get a box suite like this. After the game, I will be even richer. You don’t think I can afford to hire muscle? Think again. Enjoy the game, sir. Then leave me be, or I’ll open a can of whoop-ass on all of you.”

  “This isn’t over,” bristled Major Lopez, reaching for his sidearm.

  “Yes it is,” I intervened. “I’m tired. I have one more mission left in me, then I’m through, too. You have a good life, Williams.” We shook hands, kicking back to enjoy the game.

  “No hard feelings?” asked Williams skeptically. “The world is like a tree, and I’m just a squirrel looking for a nut. I learned that from you, sir.”

  “What’s that?” asked Sergeant Green. “A Polish proverb?”

  “Maybe,” I answered. “Did I really say that? I must have been drunk.”

  “You were playing blackjack,” answered Williams. “Going all in.”

  “We’ve come a long ways,” said Sergeant Green, also shaking Williams’ hand. “You can’t be serious about staying. Do you really think you’ll be happy living in the past?”

  “As long as I’m in Tennessee and rich, I’ll be happy. I’m home.”

  “Good luck, my friend.”

  Chapter 17

  Finishing my meal at a Chinese restaurant just across the Arthropodan border, I opened a fortune cookie. ‘He who always looks back, cannot look forward.’ What kind of shit is that? I cracked open another cookie, hoping for a message upgrade. ‘Do not hold grudges. Move on.’

  “Who writes these fortunes?” I complained to the spider waiter. “I want another.”

  “No more fortune cookies for you!”

  I snatched another fortune cookie from the waiter anyway, immediately opening it and reading. ‘Human pestilence go home. That means you, Czerinski!’

  “Thanks, I’ll keep this one.”

  * * * * *

  I traveled back in time to Mars, to resolve personal issues from before my Legion enlistment. Wearing an air-breather for the thin Martian atmosphere, I waited patiently outside the backdoor of the Sheriff’s Office. I did not have to wait long.

  Bounty hunter Bubba Jones and two henchmen were summarily tossed out an airlock by the police. Bubba crawled desperately in the dirt towards me, grasping at my boots. I kicked him away.

  “Air! Please, I need air!”

  I disconnected my air tube, giving Bubba a whiff, just enough to keep him from passing out. His eyes went wide with recognition.

  “Long time no see, Bubba,” I gloated. “You have a falling out with the cops?”

  “Czerinski! I just shot you in the head. How are you still alive?”

  Reflexively I touched the old scar on my forehead. “No matter. I want my smiling face to be the last image etched into your retina before the Grim Reaper takes you straight to Hell.”

  “Shooting you wasn’t personal,” pleaded Bubba. “It was just business. You know that!”

  “Where are my gold chains?” I asked, checking Bubba’s pockets, finding nothing.

  “The police got ’em.”

  “When you get to Hell, you still owe me for my bling. Understand?”

  “Come on, Czerinski. For the love of God, have mercy on this poor sinner. Don’t let me die like this. Please, air!”

  “I wouldn’t give you the last fart out my ass,” I replied, reconnecting my air tube. I kicked Bubba in the teeth, then shot him in the head. “When you meet the Grim Reaper, tell him I said hello.”

  * * * * *

  Waiting inside my office was Lieutenant Sam Hughes from Legion Headquarters in New Phoenix. Wary of why he might be here, I hesitated before entering.

  “He’s a headhunter from the Inspector General’s Office,” offered Master Sergeant Green. “What did you do this time?”

  “Nothing,” I lied, wondering if I was busted, and for what. I put on my game face, all smiles. “What can I do for the IG’s office?”

  “General Daly asked me to talk to you about a routine computer audit of your helmet camera recordings,” answered Lieutenant Hughes, not bothering to salute. “The general is concerned about the many deletions and missing video, but I am here to council you about your conduct and management demeanor as it relates to subordinates.”

  “There are gaps in video files because of national security matters,” I explained reasonably. “I work closely with the CIA on many classified and top-secret black-ops special stuff missions you don’t need to know about, or I’d have to kill you.”

  “The deletions are not my main concern,” explained Lieutenant Hughes. “Video indicates you verbally abuse subordinates. You need to work on your interpersonal communication skills.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “Exactly my point, Colonel Czerinski. In today’s new Legion, officers are expected to not demean subordinates by using the F-word.”

  “This is a bunch of crap.”

  “Officers should not use the C-word, not either of them.”

  “There’s two C-words? What’s the other C-word?”

  “You know, the female C-word.”

  “Crazy-white-bitch?”

  “I’m serious,” admonished Lieutenant Hughes, losing patience. “In light of increasing numbers of female legionnaires, verbal sexist abuse will not be tolerated. The B-word is off limits, too. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I think I do. No more swearing at the troops. Ain’t that a real mother f–”

  “Stop!” warned Lieutenant Hughes, waving his hands. “Unless you learn to curtail your foul language, I will be forced to recommend sensitivity training and/or shock-aversion therapy.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!” I exclaimed. “Shock what?”

  “Faith-based rants are not allowed, either.”

  “Damn it. This is the DMZ. You can see the spiders from my window. Technically we’re still in a combat zone, in a semi-state of war, so don’t tell me how to talk to my legionnaires. Isn’t there some sort of fucking exception for out here on the frontier?”

  “No, sir. Professionalism among officers has no boundaries. I
suggest you change with the times, or else. Words matter.”

  “Well hush my lips and slap my grandmother,” I replied mockingly. “If you don’t get the fuck out of my office, you’re going to experience the K-word.”

  “Sir?”

  “The K-word, as in I’m going to kick your ass through the goal posts of life.”

  “Physical threats are highly inappropriate.”

  “Have you ever been hung upside-down from a ceiling hook? It happens all the time out here on the frontier.”

  “Not since college.”

  “Another use for duct tape during your freshman year?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get out!”

  * * * * *

  “I called Master Sergeant Green on the intercom. “What four-letter word starts with ‘C’ and is inappropriately used to describe female legionnaires?”

  “Are you doing a crossword puzzle, or what?”

  “Or what.”

  “Crazy,” speculated Sergeant Green. “As in crazy-white-bitch.”

  “I thought so, too, but ‘crazy’ has five letters. It won’t fit.”

  “I swear they’ll promote any Polack off the street to officer,” grumbled Sergeant Green, the intercom sounding scratchy.

  “I heard that! We don’t use the P-word in the new and improved Legion. Understand me?”

  “Whatever.”

  “You better work on your tone. How would you like to join me for shock-aversion therapy?”

  Sergeant Green disconnected.

  Chapter 18

  The Legion put a drone over the historic Battle of Gettysburg to record the event for historians and academics to study. The build-up to the TV premiere of Gettysburg was non-stop, sending TV ratings through the roof. The public was riveted to their sets. Gettysburg had my undivided attention, too, but for a more personal agenda.

  Disguised as a Confederate courier, I made my way through the rebel camp until I located Private Benjamin R. Czerinski of the Fourth Texas Infantry Regiment. Big Ben sat with his fellow scouts around a low fire. Soldiers instantly recognized us as kin because of our strikingly similar facial features.