America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 22: Blue Powder War (3 page)

* * * * *

The spider commander suspended ongoing operations against blue powder trafficking, ordering a dragnet to arrest Tony Higuera. Soon the hapless granola salesman was in chains, facing capital charges of attempted murder, terrorism, and crimes against galactic civilization. The Kellogg Nutra-Grain Corporation complained to the President, who complained to General Daly, who complained to me.
Really? Spiders passing Granola bars are worse than giving birth to a hundred sand mite infested monitor dragon hatchlings? Who knew?
Being the compassionate all-encompassing diplomat combat-tested Legion commander that I am, I visited the spider commander at his hospital room, offering him a whoopee cushion.

“I want nothing from you!” he responded suspiciously.

“I demand Tony Higuera be released immediately. Phony charges against American citizens will not be tolerated. Besides, it’s bad for business and DMZ tourism.”

“That terrorist Higuera will be given a fair trial, humanely tortured, and executed,” replied the spider commander. “For the pain he caused to my poop-chute, he’s getting off lucky that I only kill him once. I should have him medically revived, and executed again.”

“Kellogg lobbyists are turning your alien abduction of Higuera into an intergalactic incident. I’ve been ordered to use force if necessary to free Tony Higuera.”

“Threaten me at your peril, Czerinski. That Mafia goon will die slow and painful.”

“Higuera is not Mafia. He’s just a granola salesman.”

“All human pestilence Mafia henchmen are nicknamed Tony,” accused the spider commander, confirming that fact on the Galactic Data Base with his communications pad. “Tony Spilotro, Tony Stiletto, Tony the Tiger, Tony Soprano, Tony Higuera, all Mafia. The list is endless.”

“Tony is just a name,” I explained. “America is one big melting pot of names. This Tony is totally innocent.”

“Liar! Higuera translates from Latin to mean ‘badger.’ Tony the Badger is yet another American mobster of the human sub-species Italiano. Big Tony will pay dearly for peddling deadly granola bars of death inside the Empire. He’s already confessed under torture to blue powder trafficking.”

“Truth is highly individual,” I explained from experience. “Tortured confessions are not reliable. Just say the word ‘testicle,’ and I’ll confess to anything.”

“Exactly my point. All you human pestilence perverts are guilty of something. Did you know Higuera was wearing illegal Iranian nipple armor?”

“It’s Iranian?”

“I’m moving up his execution time on that last account.”

“Kellogg is willing to pay compensation for pain and suffering,” I offered reasonably, sliding settlement papers across the spider commander’s dinner tray stand. “Kellogg admits to no wrongdoing, but wants Tony the Badger released unharmed.”

“The Empire does not negotiate with terrorists.”

I checked the database on my pad. Sure enough, Higuera was linked to a secret Badger fraternity from Tucson, Arizona, its Old Earth origins obscured by antiquity.
No matter.

“Medic Ceausescu wants her deluxe multiple pressure head hose and attachments returned,” I advised, trying a different tact, snatching the well-used nozzle from the bathroom. “Sorry, she insists the shower head has too much sentimental value to part with.”

“Wait!” cried the spider commander desperately. “I’ll sign, but the magic water dispenser stays.”

“And Tony the Badger?”

“Have it your way. I’ll release that badger beast, but all Kellogg products are banned from the Empire.”

“Even Sugar Frosted Flakes?”

“Especially Sugar Frosted Flakes,” insisted the spider commander, noting cartoon Tony the Tiger advertisements for flakes on the database.

“Agreed, but expect a backlash from Kellogg lobbyists.”

“More threats?”

“Just saying. They’re ruthless.”

“All human pestilence lobbyists are banned from the Empire!”

“Ha, good luck with that one,” I snickered, hearing the whoopee cushion fart as I left. “Resistance is futile.”

* * * * *

Paul Grabowski of the Polish Drug Cartel and his henchmen used an industrial tunneling machine to break into the Legion dungeon cell block holding Cartel kingpin Aaron Kosminski. However, the machine bored into the wrong cell. The commotion woke up legionnaire guard Walter Knight. He peeked through the cuff port of Ferguson’s cell. “What fresh hell is this?”

“Nothing, go back to sleep!”

“Who goes there?” challenged Private Knight, sounding the alarm. “Surrender, or you’re in lots of trouble!”

“I have a hostage,” replied Grabowski, holding a pistol to Ferguson’s head. “Release Aaron Kosminski, or the lawyer dies!”

“Sorry, but you’ll need to take a more valuable hostage than that,” answered Private Knight, stalling as he accessed hostage negotiations on his database communications pad. “I can give you cold pizza from my lunch box.”

“What kind of pizza?”

“Sausage and pepperoni.”

“I want extra cheese. Slide the pizza under the door real slow. No tricks!”

“I’ll have to contact my superiors.”

“You don’t want to die down here,” added Grabowski reasonably. “It would be for nothing. Don’t call your boss. Just let Kosminski go.”

“The great banana peel of fate is always on the floor somewhere,” philosophized Knight, adding an inspirational note for his next book. “America does not negotiate with terrorists.”

“Tough guy, eh? You’ll be sorry.”

Hearing noise below, Sergeant Green called Private Knight on his communications pad. “What’s happening down there?”

“Terrorists broke into Ferguson’s cell, demanding Kosminski be released. They threatened to kill Ferguson if their demands are not met.”

“Is that all?”

“I gave them pizza?”

“Anything else?”

“I added extra cheese.”

“American Cheese?”

“Yes, sergeant.”

“Good work, Knight. We’ll get help down there as soon as possible.”

“When this is over, can I get off night shift?”

“No.”

“What if they want more pizza?”

“Throw a grenade through the cuff port.”

“What about Ferguson?”

“Collateral damage. It can’t be helped. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sergeant. They’ll get no more pizza from me.”

“I heard that!” shouted Grabowksi. “I not only want more pizza, I want Subway foot long sandwiches.”

“No pizza for you!”

“Your science fiction books suck,” taunted Grabowski, always the critic. “I want my Subway foot long now!”

“I got your foot long right here!” snarled Private Knight, angrily opening the cuff port to toss in a grenade. “The Legion doesn’t negotiate with terrorists, or drug-dealing literary critics!”

“Technically, I’m just an undocumented pharmacist. I’m a chemist.”

“The Legion kills chemists. We barium.”

“Humor can be a difficult thing, huh, Knight?” asked Grabowski, striking a low blow at the sensitive world-famous science fiction author.

“A little,” conceded Private Knight.

Having temporarily distracted Private Knight, Grabowski tossed out his own grenade first. However, being Polish, he forgot to pull the pin. Private Knight adroitly scooped up the grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed it back through the cuff port.
Hey, it could happen!
The explosion was deafening, and loud. Private Knight opened the cell door to find a gruesome scene of dead and twitching bodies. Ferguson and Grabowski were dead. There was a hole in the wall. The Polish Cartel kingpin Aaron Kosminski had escaped.

* * * * *

Spider marines escorted Tony Higuera to the border crossing gate. I met Higuera along with members of the press.

“Welcome back to America,” I said, shaking hands. “The good news is, you’re free. The bad news is, Kellogg fired you.”

“The bad news is I’m suffering from the DT’s,” complained Higuera. “I need a beer. I did nothing wrong. I want my union rep.”

“There’s an opening at United Parcel Service,” I offered. “They pay good.”

“I’m going back to driving beer trucks.”

“Sorry, you need Teamsters connections for the good jobs.”

“No problem, I’m a personal friend of union thug Carlos O’Neil.”

“Were you probed?” interrupted Phil Coen of Channel Five World News Tonight. “How are you going to deal with being violated?”

“I was not probed,” answered Higuera testily.

“Are you sure? Were you unconscious at any time during your alien abduction?”

“Yes, but that means nothing.”

“Did you dream about being probed?”

“Maybe a little, but I always do.”

“So you
were
probed?”

“Yes, I mean no! I’d know it if I was probed. I don’t roll that way.”

“Is the Legion going to scan you for baby aliens hiding in your stomach?”

“Now see here,” threatened Higuera, fists clenched, stepping toward Coen. “Enough with the pervert questions. I’m fine. They roughed me up a bit, but I’m fine.”

“So you say. What about sand mites? Will you be quarantined?”

“No,” I advised. “Mr. Higuera will be debriefed and released. The matter is closed.”

“I’m broke,” complained Higuera, away from the cameras. “I have no job. What’s to become of me?”

“That could be a problem,” I agreed. “There are laws against unemployment along the DMZ. Are you sure you don’t want to be a UPS driver?”

“Oh, hell no. I don’t like those sissy brown shorts they wear.”

“Do you know how to paint?”

“What’s to know?”

“Congratulations, I’m drafting you into the Legion.”

“What? I don’t think so.”

“Private McQueen can teach you to paint,” I suggested, pointing to Tonelli’s half-painted guard shack. “We paint everything Legion sage tan.”

“This ain’t legal.”

“Of course it is. I see fun, travel, and adventure in your short future. The Legion has a great medical plan, so don’t worry, we’ll get rid of most of your sand mites.”

“I am not joining the Foreign Legion,” protested Higuera. “You can’t force me. No one punks me like this.”

“You’re not joining,” I explained patiently. “You are being drafted. There’s a big difference. If you had joined like most legionnaires, I’d have been forced to pay you an enlistment bonus. But now, you’re joining for free.”

“I want the bonus.”

“Did you just say you want an enlistment bonus?” I asked, handing Higuera an enlistment contract.

“How long is the enlistment?” asked Higuera, warily signing. “Two or three years?”

“Ha! You’re in for the duration.”

“How long is that?”

“No one knows. It’s probably until galactic peace breaks out. I’m an officer, and they won’t even tell me how long.”

“I think I’m screwed.”

“I think so, too, Private Higuera.”

“Which is worse?” asked Coen, eavesdropping. “Being probed by aliens, or probed by the Legion?”

“Probed by the Legion. I didn’t even get a kiss.”

Chapter 5

Kosminski burrowed across the DMZ to an Arthropodan neighborhood known as the Web, a lawless blue powder den of iniquity populated by crack-spiders, Fist and Claw terrorists, and drug cartels.

Legion armor massed at the border in unprecedented cooperation with spider marines staging from the north. It was hoped that the joint operation would clean out the Web once and for all. Arthropodan airstrikes began at dawn, followed by a ground assault. Immediately surface to air missiles brought down air wing fighters, blunting the attack. The spider commander graciously authorized very liberal rules of engagement for legionnaires – kill anything in the Web that moves. Spider refugees soon clogged the roads south.

“We seek political asylum,” shouted a spider standing in front of my armored car, waving a white flag. “How much will it cost?”

“Political asylum isn’t for sale,” I replied. “You will be detained until your case is reviewed.”

“We will languish in your gulags at the South Pole?” asked the spider, gathering twenty hatchlings about her in an obvious play for sympathy. “Have mercy!”

“America has no gulags at the South Pole.”

“If you don’t want money, how about we trade for something more personal,” offered the spider crack-ho, batting her mandibles at me. “Please, let us pass. We want to settle in Montana, the Land of Milk and Honey.”

“That’s Big Sky Country, not Milk and Honey.”

“Cheapskate, you would hold back on the milk and honey for my hatchlings?” asked the crack-spider, noting my tough negotiation skills. “How about I share my food stamps with you?”