America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits

by Walter Knight

  Chapter 24

  Little-Claw was deeply depressed about losing his first real job due to the terrorist bombing of McDonald's. Determined to commit suicide by cop, he stole a Toyota pick-up truck and raced toward the North New Gobi City border crossing. Arthropodan marines stood at the ready as Little-Claw approached the checkpoint.

  Suddenly Little-Claw gunned the engine, smashing through the black and yellow-striped weighted lift gate. He flinched, expecting to be riddled with bullets that never came. Another gate ahead marked tthe Legion checkpoint. Little-Claw smashed that gate, too. Still no bullets. Welcome to America.

  * * * * *

  Private Randal Telk manned the Legion border crossing. It was easy duty, being the border was closed due to an accidental Legion bombing of McDonald's on the spider side. Private Telk had been lazily reading the newspaper and daydreaming, his feet up on his desk, when the Toyota crashed through the gate. Spider guards across the border were already duct taping the lift gate arm back together. Ha! Another use for duct tape!

  “Hey Randal!” shouted one of the spider marines. “Want to barrow some duct tape?”

  “What the hell?” asked Private Telk. “Who taught you spiders how to drive?”

  “You spiders?”

  “I might have to write an accident report.”

  “Tell me about it,” commiserated the spider guard. “Watch out! He's coming back!”

  Sure enough, the Toyota was speeding directly at Telk's guard shack. Telk dove for cover, hiding under his desk. Too late. So much for easy duty.

  * * * * *

  Even more depressed about still being alive, Little-Claw formed another plan in his little bug brain. Noticing elastic rope in the bed of his truck, Little-Claw tied one end to a roadside power pole, the other end secured his throat. Little-Claw seatbelted himself into the truck, then raced back to the border crossing. The rope quickly went taut, ripping Little-Claw's head clean off. The elastic rope and head snapped back to the power pole, winding around like a tether ball, except different. The Toyota slammed into the Legion guard shack, Little-Claw's headless body still strapped at the wheel.

  Spider guards pulled Private Telk unhurt from the wreckage. They followed a blood splattered trail to the power pole. Little-Claw's head was fixed to the pole by elastic rope, or maybe a bungee cord.

  “I did not see that coming,” admitted Private Telk, gazing up at the gruesome spider head. “You just don't see headless spider drivers everyday.”

  “Ditto,” agreed the spider guard.

  “Why am I still alive?” shouted Little-Claw's head. “Is this Heaven or Hell?”

  “It's America,” answered Private Telk, “as close to Heaven as you'll ever get. I'm Private Telk. You are under arrest for reckless driving, and leaving the scene of an accident.”

  “Shut up, stupid human pestilence!”

  “I'm not doing this report,” said Private Telk, turning to his spider guard friend. “He's a spider. It's a spider problem. You take him back with you.”

  “What happens in America, stays in America,” recited the spider guard from TV tourist commercials. “I'm not doing the report. I saw nothing.”

  “Maybe we should call the Sheriff's Office,” suggested Private Telk.

  “Get me down from here!” demanded Little-Claw's head. “I changed my mind about dying. I want to live. I want to be an undocumented worker. Where's my free stuff? Someone do first aid!”

  “I can duct tape him back together after we get him down,” offered Private Telk. “We can do this.”

  However, fate reared its ugly head. A murder of crows swooped down on Little-Claw's head, finding it tasty. The crows flew away across the border with the head, juggling it playfully from crow to crow.

  “Help, help!” pleaded Little-Claw's head as it disappeared over the horizon. “I'm fighting extradition. Call me a lawyer!”

  “You're a lawyer,” mumbled Private Telk, reverting to his past affliction of daydreaming fantasy. Counseling and self-medication had helped, but the shock a flying exoskeleton head was too much.

  * * * * *

  Randal Telk was the bungee champion of the world, but he was bored. After jumping from the tallest bridges, skyscrapers, and pyramids of Egypt there were no challenges left. That's when the President of the United States Galactic Federation called. Only one other person had Randal Telk's private number. He let the phone ring six times before answering.

  “Mr. President, how may I help you today?”

  “Yo Randal, my main man, my brother from another mother, my best friend,” answered the President.

  Oh great, thought Telk. The President wants another favor. Telk was tired of giving the President tips on how to satisfy women. Whenever the President wanted a favor he always spewed platitudes and tried to talk tough like he was from the hood. None of it impressed Randal Telk.

  “Yo Randal, before we start can I get a copy of your DVD Jumping Yolanda at 40,000 Feet?”

  The DVD in question was the signature event that made bungee jumping the most watched sport in the world. Telk had done what no man had done before. He jumped from an airplane at 40,000 feet with a 6,000 foot bungee cord. The jump was made more unique because it created a new club, so exclusive it had only two members. Telk had sex with his woman Yolanda on that jump, bouncing up and down from the airplane at the speed of sound, a truly lifetime achievement. The DVD was the highest selling porn in galactic history.

  Randal Telk scowled. The President had access to trillions of tax payers' dollars, but was too cheap to spend $29.95 to buy his own copy. In Randal Telk's book, presidential privilege only goes so far.

  “Yo Mr. President, you know the deal. No freebies for anyone. I need to make a living. Yolanda is high maintenance, big time. I'll send you a coupon for an Amazon.com discount.”

  Telk figured he'd done his civic duty and protected his interests at the same time. The President should be thankful. Instead, the President sighed and muttered something about balancing the budget and Senate approval for more cash. The unbalanced budget was all the prior president's fault.

  “Fine,” fumed the President. “Now for the reason I really called. Your country needs you.”

  The President's voice always deepened whenever there was a national emergency, or he stepped in shit again and needed to be bailed out. Randal Telk sighed. What the hell? He was bored anyway, so he might as well do it.

  “What's the job? I have a free day next week, but have to prepare for the Intergalactic Bungee Jumping Championship. I'm defending my title. It means big bucks if I can gain sponsors for my jump from the International Space Station.”

  “Chill, my brother,” said the President soothingly. “If all goes well, I promise a Legion recruitment sponsor. You are about to set another bungee jumping world record. I need you to make a jump from our new SR-91Z spy plane. You'll jump from 102,000 feet moving at Mach 5. Can you do it? I've already bet five large you can.”

  “I'll do it,” said Telk, not hesitating. “But, I want exclusive movie royalty rights. I will film the jump. Also, Yolanda flies the Black Bird. I only trust her. I need room to hit it. I intend to be the first to join the 22 Mile High Club.”

  “Agreed, but I want free copies of you doing the 396 Steps to Sexual Bliss with Yolanda.”

  What a perv, thought Randal Telk, scowling. He lit a camel no filter, inhaling deeply, blowing the smoke from his nose. “No deal. I told you, no freebies! You only get a coupon.”

  The President grunted his agreement. He tried, but now would have to get his wife's permission to buy a copy. “Here's your mission. You will jump into Iran. The Ayatollah will be carrying a briefcase. We need that briefcase. I can't tell you what's in it or why we need it. Your bird will pick you shortly. I'll order Colonel Czerinski to take care of all your equipment needs.”

  The President hung up before Randal Telk could protest. Telk hated Colonel Czerinski. He knew Czerinski would try to muscle in on his action. Immediately his phone rang
calling from Legion Headquarters. It was Czerinski.

  “The President ordered me to set up the jump. Here's how it's going to go down. Tell me what gear you need and I'll stow it in the SR-91Z. Las Vegas is already betting you get killed, but I like long shots. It's even money that the rope breaks or you hit the ground hard, but that's not happening on my watch. Don't fuck this up. I'm going all in. I get better odds if you sever and snatch the Ayatollah's arm with the brief case. The CIA has a special agent on the ground to blow it off. I get sixty percent of the movie royalties, and a free copy of the DVD.”

  “No way, Jose,” negotiated Telk, not his first rodeo. “I'll give you thirty percent, and I feel cheated at that. Only maintaining goodwill with the Legion permits me to be so magnanimous.”

  “Whatever. Have it your way.”

  “Make sure the length of that bungee cord is accurate to the millimeter.”

  “Sure, I'll get right on that.”

  * * * * *

  They staged at Radal Telk's private airport. Telk inspected the SR-91Z Blackbird deluxe. The heart-shaped bed in cargo area was adequate for the job. Telk removed the hidden cameras the President ordered installed. There would be no free DVDs.

  Yolanda spooled the engines up for a short takeoff. She wanted to get to 120,000 feet as quickly as possible. She hadn't had any Randal Telk in over a week, and the woman had needs. Yolanda came prepared, wearing her crotchless flight suit, and setting two buckets of ice to the side for cooling off later.

  The SR-91Z was a modern wonder to behold, complete with cocktail bar and surround sound. Yolanda set the autopilot and joined Randal Telk on the bed. By Telk's calculations he only had an hour and a half to satisfy Yolanda, which would leave him only fifteen minutes to gear up for the jump. The 396 Steps to Sexual Bliss would have to wait for the flight home. For now he would hit her with the 108 Steps of Telk's Big Bang Theory. Telk would be rushed, but he could do it. The fate of the mission, the free world, and America depended on it.

  * * * * *

  Yolanda hobbled back to the cockpit walking bowlegged, but with a satisfied smile. She applied ice. Randal Telk quickly dressed, and inspected his harness. As suspected, Colonel Czerinski planted a faulty rig. The man held a grudge forever. Yolanda's sweet voice filled the compartment.

  “Fifteen seconds to jump, my love.”

  Randal Telk looked down from the bomb bay doors. Blessed with extraordinary vision, it only took a moment to locate his target. The Ayatollah was walking with twenty Revolutionary Guards towards a limo.

  Randal Telk lit a camel no filter and clinched it between his teeth. Smiling, he turned to the camera and gave a one-fingered salute to the President before dropping out the plane. Telk did a mental calculation, adjusting for angle of flight and wind velocity. The mechanical flight calculator issued by Czerinski was off thirty inches. Bastard!

  The Ayatollah and his guards never saw Randal Telk coming. The bungee snapped tight, slowing Telk's descent to a complete stop just above the target. Telk grabbed the briefcase, still handcuffed to the Ayatollah's wrist.

  A sniper's shot rang out, severing the Ayatollah's arm at the shoulder. Telk jerked up into the air as the bungee contracted. A winch reeled Telk to safety as Yolanda kicked in the afterburners.

  Inside the briefcase, Telk found pirated copies of all his videos movies. He slammed the briefcase shut, shouting, “Copyright infringement, those bastards!” Telk felt betrayed, not knowing who was worse, the Ayatollah for pirating copies, or the President for using him to steal pirated copies. Telk decided to keep the copies for himself, and to make a new video with Yolanda. Then he would be on to the Intergalactic Bungee Jumping Championship to defend his title.

  Randal Telk was jolted back to reality when the SR-91Z was rocked by turbulence caused by the engines sucking in a murder of crows carrying an exoskeleton head of a large spider. What the hell? How does that happen? Maybe it was an omen.

  * * * * *

  Private Telk's fantasy was written by world famous military action adventure author James Boedeker (Death Spiral series). I greatly appreciate Jim taking time from his busy schedule to contribute to my story. Jim is currently in Thailand being bossed around by his wife, building a housing compound for her extended family numbering in the hundreds.

  Chapter 25

  Reports of a talking bird nest along the DMZ attracted Legion attention. Sure enough, someone was shouting for help from a large stick crow's nest atop a power pole. I strapped on pole climbing spikes and a belt, and went up myself for a look. It was a live spider head.

  “I'm starving,” complained Little-Claw's head. “I can't eat. Food goes right through me.”

  “How about water?” I asked, pouring from my canteen. “Believe it or not, I've seen your condition before.”

  “I lost my mind, then my head, by ramming a barricade at the border crossing,” explained Little-Claw's head contritely. “Can you please reattach me?”

  “How did you get up here?”

  “Crows.”

  “I see. We'll do our best sorting this out. Medic!”

  * * * * *

  At the New Gobi City border crossing there was a long line of tourists waiting to view a new roadside attraction called 'The Thing.' Billboards into town advertised the mysterious 'The Thing,' rumored to be a headless spider driver captured by the Legion sneaking into America. Private Telk stood at the front of the line doing a brisk business selling tickets to see 'The Thing' and its black Toyota from Hell. Children clambered on the Toyota honking its horn hoping to wake the headless ugly spider dude.

  “We found the head,” I advised Private Telk. It's still alive, and wants its body back.”

  “I was hoping the head had fallen into a vortex,” replied Private Telk, saluting. “ was going to mount a lit pumpkin on the body to scare shit out of the little ankle biters on Halloween. It's coming right up, you know. We'll do a fortune in ticket and candy sales.”

  “I want to see the headless body,” I said, pulling Little-Claw's head out of a bag by its antenna. “Now!”

  “Yes, sir. You don't even need a ticket, sir. Am I in trouble?”

  “A little bit.”

  Are you sure that's the right spider head?” asked Private Telk, examining Little-Claw's head. “They all look alike.”

  “I demand my body back,” hissed Little-Claws head. “This is an outrage. I also want fifty percent of all profits and merchandising!”

  “My pumpkin idea is looking better and better,” suggested Private Telk. “Let's just do it.”

  “No.”

  I poured water on the neck stump of the spider body, and on the base of Little-Claw's jaw area. The two pieces fit together perfect, like a puzzle, except different, and bloody. I secured the head with duct tape. Good as new. Ha! Another use for duct tape.

  “Am I free to go?” asked Little-Claw, realizing profits for 'The Thing' just tanked. “I really appreciate all the Legion had done for me. It's truly a modern miracle I'm alive.”

  “You're under arrest for crimes against humanity and being an undocumented alien worker,” I answered. “I know who you are. You will tell me Cactus-Claw's location, or I cut off your head again, slow and painful.”

  “I was just kidding about wanting fifty percent,” pleaded Little-Claw. “You can have it all!”

  “The law is nothing to mess with,” I said, standing firm. “The Legion has a no tolerance policy on banditry and INS violations.”

  I ordered Little-Claw taken to the dungeon under Legion Headquarters. Helmet cam images went viral. Many humans and exoskeleton species across the galaxy agreed that The Reattachment of Little-Claw was indeed a modern miracle. In fact, Little-Claw was nominated for sainthood, pending his execution.

  A new cult was founded called the Reattachment Church of New Gobi. Members tried to recreate the Miracle of the Heavenly Reattachment. All failed, reducing membership and recruitment. However, more flocked to join. You can't fix stupid, you can only apply more duct
tape.

  * * * * *

  The spider commander called for an emergency meeting to iron out border issues. I assumed he was upset about the Legion bombing McDonald's, but for that all was forgiven. McDonald's was still upset, but you can't please everyone. The spider commander wanted me to give back Little-Claw.

  “Absolutely not,” I argued. “America does not give up its terrorists. We won't rest until they're all captured, dead or alive. America remembers Harry Crack.”

  “If you give me Little-Claw, the Empire pledges to devote all available resourses to capturing Cactus-Claw and his gang. He's the leader, not Little-Claw.”

  “A bird in the hand is worth two in the fucking bush,” I argued, quoting Teddy Roosevelt. “It's not happening.”

  “The Emperor himself has intervened,” explained the spider commander. “His Majesty is infatuated with Little-Claw's new-found celebrity. He wants to reach out and touch Little-Claw for good luck. That Reattachment spectacle on Cable TV has become quite the sensation throughout the Empire. Poll numbers indicate some hope it will lead to the discovery of the Fountain of Youth.”

  “Has the Emperor and the galaxy gone mad? I am not releasing Little-Claw, no matter how much prime time TV he gets.”

  “Yes you are. The Emperor talked to the President, who talked to General Kalipetsis, who will send you a memo shortly. I assure I will deliver on the Emperor's promise to capture or kill Cactus-Claw. He's the brains of the gang, anyway. We can kill stupid Little-Claw anytime. He's just a bit player, a pimple on the ass of society, and a fad that will pass.”

  My communications pad chimed, signaling a text from General Kalipetsis releasing Little-Claw. Fine. Whatever. This isn't over until it's over. I swear to kill them all.

  * * * * *

  Medic Elena Ceausescu gave Little-Claw a standard medical physical before release. The bandit seemed to be in good health. Bad weeds die hard. Legionnaires summarily strapped Little-Claw to a cold stainless steel examination table. Ceausescu injected a small computer chip into Little-Claw's neck. Little-Claw protested, but what could he do?