America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 20: Time Machine (11 page)

“Yes, sir.
Go Hawks. Go Tebow!”

Chapter 1
5

Long before there were evil ATMs, there were evil pawn shops. Tonelli contacted proprietor Chumlee, at Chumlee’s Pawn in Brownsville, to move the gold. Chumlee was well-connected, having ties to the Southern Mafia.

“What are you going to do with so much cash?” asked Chumlee.

“We got a sure thing lined up in Dallas,” bragged Williams.

“Shut up!” threatened Tonelli.
“It’s none of his business.”

“I
’m making it my business,” insisted Chumlee. “Sure things don’t come around that often in this difficult economy.”

“We
’ll be back for the gold,” promised Tonelli. “It’s all legal. This is just a loan. Twenty percent interest is the only sure thing you need concern yourself about.”

“A bird in the hand is worth more than a whole hedge of bushes,” added Jesus, trying to be helpful.
“Just saying.”

“Is he stoned or what?” asked Chumlee.
“Where did you get this guy?”

“He
’s my muscle, so don’t piss him off,” warned Tonelli. Ominously, a grasshopper killed itself, smacking Chumlee alongside his head.

“Whatever,” replied Chumlee, shaking his head, seeing stars.
“You know as well as I do, this much gold ain’t legit, so spill it. I know some heavy hitters up in Dallas. What’s your angle on a sure thing up north?”

“Middle Tennessee State University is going to roll over USC by 35 points for the National Championship,” answered Williams proudly.
“It’s in the bag.”

“So the Southern fix is in?”

Tonelli nodded.

“Need a local bookie?” asked Chumlee conversationally.
“My boy Big Hoss right here in Brownsville could handle a couple million.”

“Locals can
’t cover all our action,” advised Tonelli, flipping a coin. “We’re going all in. Heads Atlantic City, Tails Las Vegas.”

Tonelli let the American Silver Eagle Dollar drop to the floor.
It spun, rolled to the corner, bounced, and came up tails. “Las Vegas, baby, the Promised Land!”

“I
’ll drive you to Vegas Town,” offered Chumlee. “I always wanted to see Nevada. Consider my hospitality an offer you can’t refuse.”

* * * * *

Tonelli rented a long black limousine. He dropped Williams in Dallas for The Cotton Bowl, then proceeded with Chumlee and Jesus on a road trip to Las Vegas. Along the way they stopped for gas in New Mexico. As Jesus pumped gas, he could hear a familiar metallic hum from from the sky, but looking up shielding his eyes from the sun, saw nothing.
It’s probably just Dad playing tricks again
, thought Jesus as he squeegeed the windshield clean of grasshoppers.

Fifty Diablos motorcycle gang members pulled off the freeway, menacingly surrounding Jesus.
The blue smoke from their Harleys choked the air. Their leader, Jack Rabbit Jack, obviously was spoiling for a fight as he plucked grasshoppers from his leathers. Harassing the limo seemed a fun diversion. “Are you the chauffeur?” he asked. “Who is inside?”

“I
’m a legionnaire,” answered Jesus. “We’re going to Las Vegas.”

“Really?
Going to strike it rich, are you? I hope you brought lots of cash.”

“Tons.”

“Good. You can share.”

“Corporal Tonelli isn
’t the sharing type.”

Smiling through his beard, Jack tapped on a tinted window with his pistol.
No response. He pressed his face to glass, trying to peer inside.

“Come out Tonelli, and share the wealth.
I’m collecting a toll tax for using my highway!”

Chumlee b
lasted Jack through the glass with his sawed-off shotgun. Tonelli popped out the sunroof, firing his submachine gun. The Legion drone Jesus heard moments earlier fired missiles, the explosions and shrapnel cutting through the bikers like a scythe. Grasshoppers swooped down on their prey, gouging eyes and crawling up assholes. It was ugly, but soon over. Fifty fuzzy-faced Sons of Satin littered the roadway.

“We ain
’t going to pay no toll!” shouted Chumlee triumphantly. “Bitch! Who’s yo daddy now?”

A lone Chavez County sheriff
’s deputy angled his patrol car at the entrance to the parking lot, shotgun at the ready. The deputy had been routinely shadowing the Diablos to the county line. “Hell of a mess you boys made,” he commented. “What the hell? How am I going to write this up?”

“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 1
6

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 Middle Tennessee. With his winnings, he bought a wedding chapel, catering to the rich and famous.