America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 22: Blue Powder War

by Walter Knight

  Chapter 7

  The joint Arthropodan-American effort to rout out the Polish Cartel from the Web bogged down because the mostly spider fighters were little affected by nerve agent. More effective insecticides had been banned by galactic treaty, putting American resolve in doubt. Refugees continued to stream south. Missing legionnaire Higuera’s face was posted on every milk carton and beer can on the planet as the Legion belt tightened. General Daly demanded bold action, or else. I was just beginning to despair when spider drug kingpin Blue-Claw called my personal communications pad.

  “Colonel Czerinski, we finally meet. I am willing to make you a deal you can’t refuse on your boy Higuera.”

  “The answer is no,” I countered, ever the tough seasoned negotiator sticking to the Legion hostage negotiations manual. “America does not negotiate with terrorists.”

  “Technically I am not a terrorist,” bristled Blue-Claw. “I am a Lord of Drugs.”

  “Drug lord narco-terrorist is more like it.”

  “I prefer undocumented pharmacist. We’re thinking about going corporate.”

  “You are a ruthless scumbag drug dealer.”

  “Sticks and stones. It’s in both our interest to resolve our differences. Your failed Legion invasion of the Web is nevertheless cutting into my profits, upsetting investors. You want Higuera back to avoid more bad press. Let’s make a deal we can all live with. We swap prisoners. I’ll return your legionnaire unharmed, you leave the Web.”

  “Higuera is just a private. I want more.”

  “What else is there to negotiate?”

  “Money. It’s as good as cash. Do you have any idea how much it costs America to put all those refugees on welfare?”

  “No.”

  “It’s probably a lot. They’re never going to want to leave, once they get their EBT cards.”

  “And you call me the Mafia,” hissed Blue-Claw. “I will not stand for your shakedown.”

  “There is no such thing as the Mafia.”

  “Big Tony has already admitted under torture that he’s a Teamster and Mafia want-to-be, so don’t tell me there’s no such thing as the Mafia. Teamsters thug Carlos O’Neil has been organizing my employees for a long time. My drug dealers demand eight hour shifts, weekends and holidays off, and overtime. What ever happened to good old fashion entrepreneurial spirit? It’s criminal if I go out of business because of your human pestilence Teamsters Mafia.”

  “Tell me about it,” I lamented. “I have a pile of unfair labor practice grievances on my desk, and the War on Blue Powder has only just started. It’s all your fault by breaking Kosminski out of jail. If you want to return Higuera, I want five million to cover America’s inconvenience.”

  “What? Bloody hell, I’m the terrorist. You pay me.”

  “You’re a drug dealer,” I argued, fine tuning my translation device to edit out the annoying British accent. “I’m firm on the five million.”

  “Arthropodan credits?”

  “Pounds.”

  “No way.”

  “Fine. U.S. Dollars.”

  “Even more ridiculous. Do you think American money just grows on drug-trees?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll pay one million, and feel egregiously cheated by your human pestilence Mafia tactics. Where is the goodwill?”

  “We are sworn enemies, to the death,” I explained patiently. “There is no goodwill. Four million.”

  “Two-point-five million is all I can do, what with the downturn in the economy, high taxes, a union closed shop, and increased transportation costs. Even my crack-hoes are negotiating for more money, and they’re independent contractors.”

  “Can you make that cash?” I asked innocently.

  “You’ll have to take a check,” apologized Blue-Claw. “I have serious cash flow problems. It’s technical. Do not attempt to cash my check until after the weekend.”

  “You have a deal,” I replied magnanimously. “I expect Private Higuera to be released immediately.”

  “Whatever. Are we done? Is that all?”

  “I still want Aaron Kosminski, dead or alive. I prefer dead to save on court costs and red tape. The War on Blue Powder isn’t over until Kosminski is back in Legion custody.”

  “Kosminski means nothing to me, but returning him violates the Teamsters Collective Bargaining Agreement. Employees can’t just be thrown under the bus to the feds.”

  “Legion lawyers say Kosminski is management, exempt from CBA protection,” I explained. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure O’Neil signs off on that.”

  “So we’re done?”

  “I expect a hand-claw shake,” I added, not quite done. “I don’t deal with voices on the phone. As you pointed out before, goodwill goes a long way.”

  “And get shot like my last messenger? No way, José.”

  “I never shoot the messenger. That was the spider commander. You will shake my hand if you want a deal.”

  A manhole cover by my feet scraped loudly across asphalt. Blue-Claw emerged, soaked in sewer grime and slime. He shook himself like a shaggy dog before approaching with two henchmen-spiders. I shook his extended claw firmly. All I got back was a dead fish hand-claw shake with no genuine grip.

  “That’s not good enough,” I chastised. “Shaking hands-claws is a time-honored galactic tradition, and you will do it right so I know we really have a deal, and goodwill.”

  “Now you know what I look like,” replied Blue-Claw, clinching my hand as he peered into my helmet camera lens. “Know this, you will die horribly if you cross me on our agreement.”

  “Ditto, sewer-bug breath. Keep to your side of the border, or we will meet again under less favorable circumstances.”

  * * * * *

  Phil Coen of Channel Five World News Tonight caught up with me for an interview about the release of Private Higuera, our newest Hero of the Legion. I’d been ducking the press, but conceded grudgingly that they were an important American institution. General Daly ordered me to say a few words. Bastard.

  “Colonel Czerinski, some say the Legion gave too much away for the return of Private Higuera. What say you?”

  “The Legion leaves no man behind.”

  “Is it now Legion policy to negotiate with terrorists?” pressed Coen. “Doesn’t it set a bad precedent?”

  “Technically they’re drug dealers. It’s okay to negotiate with drug dealers and criminals.”

  “What is your personal stand on dealing with terrorists?”

  “Standing on the windpipe works great.”

  “Now that your failed incursion into the Web is over, and legionnaires are returning south, what is your strategy to continue the War on Blue Powder?”

  “That’s classified. Efforts are ongoing.”

  “You have no comprehensive plan, do you?”

  “It’s technical. A lot goes on you don’t know about.”

  “That’s a good thing for you, I’m sure,” needled Coen. “Are you any closer to catching drug kingpin Aaron Kosminski, who escaped Legion custody under your watch? That’s quite an embarrassment, and another blight on your already checkered career.”

  “Our Arthropodan allies are closing in on Kosminski as we speak. The Legion takes a long view approach to the war.”

  “Kosminski is Polish, right Colonel Czerinski? Kind of ironic.”

  “What are you implying?”

  “Just saying.”

  “Don’t go there, Coen.”

  Chapter 8

  The prisoner swap occurred at midnight. It was a full moon. A cold desert wind from the north chilled to the bone. A lone wolf howled in the distance. What? Sorry, wrong story. It was a mangy coyote yelping, and the heat was turned up inside the DMZ Walmart. I entered on the American side with two bedraggled spider prisoners in tow. Blue-Claw entered from the Arthropodan side with Private Higuera.

  “Follow the yellow line, just like at DMV,” I instructed. “Walk slow, and you might even live out the day.”

  “No!”
protested one of the spiders. “You are the Butcher of New Colorado, the Butcher of the Web. You can’t be trusted. You will shoot us in the back.”

  “I will honor our deal,” I replied, deeply hurt that my credibility was questioned. I shoved them forward. “Meet in the middle, and you might live.”

  “Please, I don’t want to die.”

  “Be positive. There’s always sunshine above the clouds.”

  “But we’re indoors. We’re going to die under neon lights!”

  * * * * *

  “Seriously?” asked Private Higuera. “Walmart? Are you kidding me?”

  “Not my call,” answered Blue-Claw. “If something goes wrong, your paranoid commander wants it all recorded on Walmart security tape.”

  “Is it okay if I snatch some tamales?” asked Private Higuera reasonably, salivating as they passed the Mexican foods section. “And chips? I’m starving.”

  “No!” replied Blue-Claw, giving his hostage a push. “Walk straight to your boss, Czerinski. Stick to the plan.”

  “Plan? I don’t need no stinking plan. I’m an American. Americans don’t plan, we do. I need to eat, or my blood sugar will drop.”

  “If you want to survive, get your mind off food and do as you are told!”

  “Puta,” fumed Higuera under his breath, defiantly grabbing an apple fritter as he passed pastries. “Good thing I’m getting released, or I’d kick your punk spider ass!”

  * * * * *

  The two spider prisoners and Private Higuera walked slowly, meeting at the center of Walmart in the electronics department. Private Higuera deftly slipped a latest model Kindle into his pants. Playing catch-up, the spiders pilfered digital cameras.

  “How come we didn’t get food like you?” complained one of the spiders. “Not even pizza. All hostages get pizza. The Legion never feeds its prisoners.”

  “Discrimination,” answered Private Higuera. “Deal with it.”

  “Give me half your fritter, you can have a camera,” offered the spider, reaching for Big Tony’s sweets. “You need to share, bro.”

  “Get off me!” replied Private Higuera, holding back. “I don’t think so, not in this lifetime.”

  “They’re going to shoot us all,” whispered the spider, leaning closer. “Shit rolls downhill, and we’re at the bottom of the poop-chute. It’s always been that way.”

  “No one is shooting anyone,” assured Private Higuera, trying to finish the fritter as he pointed to ceiling camera. “They wouldn’t dare. We’re all on Channel Five World News Tonight.”

  “Damn!” gasped the other spider to his buddy. “You better put those cameras back. This is going to mess up my parole.”

  “Too late. Run!”

  Choking on the fritter, Private Higuera adroitly elbowed the spider aside and made a dash for freedom. The spiders did the same. Just as they reached Blue-Claw a Legion sniper’s shot rang out, killing one of the spider parolees. Narrowly missing death himself, an enraged Blue-Claw fired an RPG at Private Higuera. The rocket overshot, destroying much of the sportswear department. Nike shoes flew off the shelf faster than a Black Friday riot. Reliving past football glory, Private Higuera caught a pair of Nikes in mid-stride and sprinted for the end zone. I pulled Higuera to cover as a Legion armored car burst through the glass front doors, peppering the spider side with 50-cal machine gun fire. Its cannon blew out the far wall as the spiders fled.

  * * * * *

  It’s all about saving face, surmised Blue-Claw later, wondering if that sniper’s bullet was really intended for him, not his dead minion. He shrugged. A one-for-one trade still saved face for both sides, so he would let the matter slide this time. Blue-Claw needed to keep a low profile. More human pestilence TV coverage was bad for business.

  Time healed all, allowing for a new normal, as normal as the blue powder narco-terrorism-trafficking business allowed on the DMZ of a distant planet shared with crazy Polish human pestilence cowboys like Czerinski and Kosminski. He’d kill them both, later.

  Chapter 9

  Some criminals are only alive because the law won’t allow society to kill them. Fortunately, that is not a problem on New Colorado. I may kill as many drug dealers as is necessary to win the War on Blue Powder, starting with Aaron Kosminski.

  All high profile prisoners like Kosminski are embedded with tracking chips in the buttocks. Kosminski’s signal was weak on the surface, but still strong in the tunnels. I decided to personally lead a platoon of legionnaires under the DMZ to go after him. If you want someone killed right, you just have to do it yourself.

  “Knight, you’re taking point,” I ordered, assembling the platoon in the catacombs below New Gobi City. “Follow the arrow on the tracking device. It’s so easy, even a science fiction writer can do it.”

  “This is retaliation,” groused Private Knight, peering through the endless darkness. “The temporary restraining order specifically prohibits this sort of harassment.”

  “Someone’s got to do it,” I replied reasonably. “It’s in the scope of battlefield command decisions to send someone out on point to lead the platoon. My choice was between you and O’Neil, and your Teamsters rep voted for you.”

  “Sir, you hold a grudge forever.”

  “Yes I do, but I think you’re just being paranoid.”

  “With good reason. Even the paranoid have enemies.”

  “Be careful, Knight. Replacements are getting harder to draft.”

  Private Knight donned his night-vision goggles, useless in a zero light tunnel. He activated a low intensity strobe to illuminate the tunnel every ten seconds as they advanced. Simultaneously he filed another electronic emergency labor grievance into his communication pad. It was denied. A few seconds later, his appeal was also denied. Damn union, what do we pay dues for!

  The tunnels under the DMZ canal dripped with water. Private Knight stealthily sloshed through the mud, oblivious to stepping on a concealed trip wire. Explosions rocked the tunnel. Rocks and mud poured down on the platoon. World famous science fiction author and Hero of the Legion Walter Knight was lost, presumed KIA. Sadly, there would be no more ‘America’s Galactic Foreign Legion’ sequels. The galaxy mourned. The platoon retreated back to the American side for their Teamsters-mandated lunch.

  * * * * *

  Aaron Kosminski dragged Private Knight from the tunnel debris up to a safe house on the surface. He tied Knight securely to a chair. Water in the face woke Private Knight with a start. Torture now began in earnest.

  “I’ll talk!” shouted Private Knight, always preemptive when dealing with torture by terrorists. “Please, don’t tear out my testicles!”

  “That’s a good idea,” replied Kosminski, nodding to a henchman to get pliers. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Shit.”

  “Drop his pants!”

  “No, wait!” There’s a tracking device in your butt,” warned Private Knight desperately. “The Legion will rescue me any minute. Surrender now, and I’ll put in a good word for you.”

  “I know all about that tracking chip,” sneered Kosminski, patting his pants. “I’m wearing lead Proctor & Gamble diapers to thwart the signal. They’re even waterproof.”

  “That’s diabolical, using American products against us. Can’t we negotiate the ripping out my testicles?”

  “I intend to video you giving Colonel Czerinski a message from the Polish Cartel,” advised Kosminski, pointing to a teleprompter. “Read the text out loud.”

  Relieved at still possessing testicles, Private Knight skimmed the teleprompter screen. “Oh, this is good stuff, but the Legion does not negotiate with terrorists. It’s been American policy since antiquity.”

  “We’re drug dealers,” corrected Kosminski indignantly. “And, we’re Teamsters. According to the CBA, the Legion has to negotiate your release in good faith, or we throw up picket lines all across the DMZ. Commerce as you know it will come to a standstill.”

  “Czerinski won’t negotiate,” cried Knight. “H
e hates me.”

  “Then I tear out your testicles now!”

  “Let’s roll,” began Private Knight, studying the teleprompter with more enthusiasm. “My name is Private Walter Knight, Hero of the Legion, world-famous science fiction author, and corrupt imperialist pig.” In an aside, he whispered, “That was harsh,” then continued reading aloud. “I have been captured by the Polish Cartel due to Colonel Czerinski’s reckless invasion of the DMZ. To atone for Czerinski’s repeated and well-documented civil rights and warmongering violations against galactic peace, the Cartel demands that Colonel Czerinski be publicly photographed having sex with a camel, and that such film video be disseminated on the Galactic Database. Failure to comply with this reasonable demand will resort in Private Knight’s testicles being ripped from his nut sack.”

  “Very good,” gloated Kosminski. “For your sake, I hope you and Czerinski are able to reconcile your differences.”

  “Not likely.”

  “Too bad, so sad. It sucks to be you.”

  * * * * *

  General Daly called, alerting me to the Cartel’s demands posted on the Galactic Database. Feeling caught between a rock and a crazy place, I balked, but there was immense pressure from Penumbra Publishing and science fiction readers across the galaxy to save world-famous science fiction author Walter Knight. General Daly was not happy about the election year bad press, and wanted the matter resolved.

  “You’re the one who lost another legionnaire,” fumed General Daly. “I can’t be micro-managing your slice of the DMZ. What’s the big problem? You’ve already had unprotected sex with every vile species on New Colorado. What’s one more?”

  “Camels are nasty creatures, infested with sand mites, and they spit,” I explained.

  “And your point is? Listen here, Czerinski. I expect a good faith rescue effort of Private Knight. There will be no more violations of the Teamsters CBA. Understand?”