Peacekeepers (8 page)

* * * * *

“Now that you are rich, how will you spend all that newfound money?” asked the spider commander. “I suppose you will buy lots of fancy cars?”

“I love it,” said Mountain Storm. “I came from a dirt farm, and now I am filthy rich. I might buy a few cars just to impress business associates, but basically I do not want to own anything that will not fit into my coffin. I am more interested in investments. Local oil production is looking more attractive everyday if we can keep the scorpion terrorists at bay.”

“Shares of stock are always available,” suggested the spider commander. “News of your investment would surely cause the price to go up. Is that why you called me.”

“No,” said Mountain Storm. “What good is all this money if I cannot spend it because of arrest warrants out for me on both sides of the border? I need amnesty. I want you to talk to Czerinski about that for me. That human pestilence keeps dropping bombs on my head.”

“You are a terrorist and a murderer,” replied the spider commander. “Perhaps you should hire a lawyer to settle your legal issues.”

“I do not need any bloodsucking lawyer!” replied Mountain Storm. “I have a tactical nuclear warhead. I will use it if I do not get some traction on my amnesty request.”

“I hope you are not threatening me,” advised the spider commander. “That would not be wise. I am already sitting on your Imperial Warrants because of our working relationship. The problem is that local Peacekeeping Commander Captain Czerinski. As you just indicated, he holds grudges forever. Perhaps you should kill him.”

“I have thought about that, but the Legion would just send another to replace him. I want you to talk to Czerinski first. No, forget that. Do you know Czerinski’s personal phone number? I will call him up myself!”

* * * * *

I was not all that hungry, but out of habit I drove my armored car to the McDonald’s take-out window anyway. “I will have an order of fries.”

“Sir, would you like fries with your fries?” asked the clerk over the intercom. “No thank you, I’m cutting back on carbohydrates,” I replied. My personal phone rang. “This is Mountain Storm. Quit bombing me!” “No problem,” I said. “Give up your nuke. And quit launching missiles at Walmart.” “That is between me and the scorpions,” insisted Mountain Storm. “It is none of your business.” “I shop at Walmart all the time,” I said. “Besides, Walmart is an American corporation. The Legion is tasked with protecting all American assets.”

“So is Walgreens,” said Mountain Storm. “But I do not see you bombing that terrorist Hidden-Sting.” “He’s on my list, too. I am the commander of the peacekeepers. I’m tasked with stopping the fighting any way I can.” “You are in bed with the scorpions in more ways than one,” accused Mountain Storm. “I have seen your database videos.” “I’ve been in bed with everyone,” I said. “It’s not my fault. It’s an alcohol problem.” “Okay, I can identify with that,” conceded Mountain Storm. “But the
T. Roosevelt
has got to stop dropping bombs on me. Just this morning you blew up my rented stretch limousine. This has to end!”

“Give up your nuke,” I repeated. “Fine! If that is all you want I will, but only if you grant me amnesty.” “Is that all you want?” I asked. “You have a deal. But I can’t speak for the scorpions or the National Guard.” “Let me worry about those slug-eating scorpions. You and I have a truce. I will give the nuke to Guido at the border crossing. Tell Guido to call off his vendetta, too. I do not need wise guys coming around harassing me.”

* * * * *

A spider UPS driver tossed a heavy wooden crate on the doorstep of Corporal Tonelli’s guard shack. It was marked ‘Fragile – Do Not Turn Upside Down.’

“Are you Guido?” asked the UPS driver.

“Yes,” replied Guido. “What is this?”

“Special overnight delivery from Mountain Storm,” advised the UPS driver. “Sign here. What is with the blue helmets? Is it Thanksgiving Holiday already? I love your turkey, potatoes, and gravy.”

“Blue is the Legion’s new color,” explained Guido. “Our new slogan is: What can blue do for you?”

“It has kind of a ring to it,” commented the UPS driver. “But I don’t think blue will catch on. It just doesn’t kick ass like your old camouflage khaki brown did. I liked the old color much better.”

“Me too,” said Guido. He signed for the crate and took a crowbar to it. Inside he found a green painted Arthropodan marine tactical nuclear warhead. Guido became very agitated. Turning to the UPS driver he yelled, “Get out of here!”

“Excuse me,” said the UPS driver. “Don’t shoot the messenger. You human pestilence are a peculiarly rude lot.”

Guido evacuated his post, and called for assistance from both Legion and Arthropodan marine bomb disposal experts. They soon found that the timing mechanism had been altered. They disabled it by cutting the blue wire before cutting the red wire. The spiders were very interested in the bomb’s serial numbers, discovering the bomb to be one of twenty nukes missing from a lost arsenal during the war. The spider commander soon called, demanding the nuke’s immediate return to the Empire. I refused and stored the nuke at Legion Headquarters under my desk. You just never know when you might need an extra nuke.

back to top

Chapter 9

I put Lieutenant Perkins out on a listening post near mile marker 15323 so he could get some field experience. Perkins took Sergeant Williams, Corporals Wayne and Camacho, and Privates Knight and Krueger. They set up motion detectors and settled in for the night. At about 0200, an alarm sounded, but it was too late. Scorpion insurgent leader Hidden-Sting and his freedom fighters surrounded the Legion position, intent on taking hostages.

“You are our prisoners,” ordered Hidden-Sting, emerging from the darkness with weapons aimed. “Drop your guns!” “I thought you had an agreement with Captain Czerinski,” replied Lieutenant Perkins. “We’re allies against Mountain Storm now.” Hidden-Sting motioned to Corporal Wayne. “That spider is no ally of mine. Drop your weapons! He is coming with me.” Private Krueger raised both hands, giving the one fingered salute with his left and holding a live grenade in his right. “Do you want to dance with the Grim Reaper tonight?” asked Krueger, walking boldly up to Hidden-Sting. The other scorpions backed away.

“Are you crazy or just stupid?” asked Hidden-Sting. “We have you outgunned.”

“He is both,” commented Corporal Wayne. “It is a deadly combination found in all human pestilence that short.”

“Life is hard,” said Private Krueger. “It’s harder if you’re stupid. But you are the one who let me walk up to you with a live grenade. Who is stupid now?”

“He means it,” warned Private Knight. “Don’t mess with Krueger. He has a screw loose!” “Don’t I know you?” asked Hidden-Sting. “Aren’t you Walter Knight, the world-famous science fiction author?” “That’s me,” answered Private Knight. “You’ve read my books?” “I have read some of them,” replied Hidden-Sting. “You don’t put enough futuristic technology in your stories for my tastes. You need phaser guns and tractor beams for it to be real science fiction.”

“That’s what my editor says too,” said Private Knight. “She calls it world building. That junk just seems too much like magic to me. I want to be more real.”

“All future technology is going to seem like magic,” advised Hidden-Sting, contemptuously. “Focus!” ordered Lieutenant Perkins, pointing his assault rifle. “Back away, and no one gets killed tonight.” “Our mission takes us across the border,” said Hidden-Sting. “We will meet again, spider.” “I hope so,” responded Corporal Wayne. “Meet me at the Deadly Stinger.” “It will not be that easy,” said Hidden-Sting, as he backed off into the darkness. “You will never see your killer.” “I always thought you to be a backbiting coward!” challenged Corporal Wayne. “You just confirmed it to everyone! Just you and me at the Deadly Stinger with knives! Or are you chicken?”

“We will meet soon enough, spider!”

* * * * *

Hidden-Sting and his freedom fighters crossed the border north without further incident. With slow and deliberate stealth they crept up the steep hillside to their target, a row of newly built condominiums. The scorpions quickly kicked in doors and planted explosive charges.

“Mountain Storm thinks he can retire and get rich selling condos?” fumed Hidden-Sting. “We will see about that.” “This is just a pin prick,” commented Secret-Sting, his brother. “How much will this really hurt Mountain Storm?” “This attack is symbolic,” explained Hidden-Sting. “We are sending an important message that we can strike any place any time.” “What about that legionnaire spider?” asked Secret-Sting. “Shouldn’t we send him a message, too?” “I can kill that big-mouthed spider at my leisure,” boasted Hidden-Sting. “He is not relevant.” “You will not meet him at the Deadly Stinger Tavern?” asked Secret-Sting. “You are chicken?” “I don’t even know what chicken is,” argued Hidden-Sting. “I can take him, even with knives! But why would I want to when I could just shoot him?”

“To send a message to the Legion and their spider lackeys that we are superior and cannot be beaten,” said Secret-Sting. “As you explained, it would be a symbolic message.”

“I will give that some thought,” said Hidden-Sting. “I will give that a lot of thought.”

* * * * *

Hidden-Sting accepted Corporal Wayne’s challenge to a knife fight. The event would be sponsored by the Deadly Stinger Tavern, but because of strong public interest, the fight would be held at the Scorpion City High School football stadium. Banners about town billed the fight as the Spider-Scorpion Death Match.

Media from across the Galaxy flocked to Scorpion City for coverage. Corporal Wayne declined to be interviewed. Hidden-Sting told reporters he would rely on his youth and quickness to beat down the old legionnaire spider. When pressed about his speed advantage, Hidden-Sting said, “I am so fast that last night in my hotel room I turned off the light switch and was in bed before the room went dark.” Hidden-Sting predicted the death match would not last five minutes.

Hotel and motel rooms soon sold out as fight fans arrived by the thousands. New Memphis bookies reported betting action on the fight was running about even, with Hidden-Sting being the slight favorite because his tail and stinger was thought to give him a small advantage over Corporal Wayne’s combat experience. ‘Smart’ money had not committed yet, waiting for inside information.

I only like to bet on a sure thing, and so far neither Corporal Wayne nor Hidden-Sting would agree to lose a death match. The President called me on my private number to discuss the matter. “Who are you betting on?” asked President Miller. “Where is the smart money lining up?”

“It’s to early to tell,” I replied. “I am hoping my legionnaire wins.”

“Hoping?” asked the President, angrily. “You expect me to bet on hope? Come on Czerinski. If you are involved, I know for a fact that the fight is fixed. I want to know who is going to win. If you hold out on me, I will sic the IRS on you!”

“Mr. President, as of this date and time, neither fighter has agreed to intentionally lose the death match. But I’m working on it. As soon as I know something, you will be the first to know by email.”

“Great!” said the President. “That’s all I ask. Now, that wasn’t so difficult was it? You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.”

I disconnected. Unannounced and uninvited, Mr. Bonanno of Bonanno & Associates in New Memphis barged into my office at Legion Headquarters. “Is the fix on?” he asked.

“Not yet,” I answered. “But if the fix was on, why would I tell the likes of you?”

“The last time the fix was on, you drove my bookie business into bankruptcy, and I was declared an undesirable on New Colorado. I am only just now becoming financially solvent, and I do not intend to come up short again. If this so-called death match is fixed, I want to know about it. You owe me that!”

“How can I fix a death match?” I asked.

“Poison one of the fools if you have to,” suggested Mr. Bonanno. “I don’t care. If you want, I can supply nerve agent poison darts. The toxin in untraceable.”

“Really?” I asked. “Sure, I’ll take some of those. But as far as the death match goes, it is still legit, so far. But I’m working on it. You know this is a win-win situation for me. If Corporal Wayne wins, I get rid of a pain in the ass terrorist. If Hidden-Sting wins, I’ll shoot him anyway. Maybe I’ll even use those poison darts. Either way, I am able to maintain peace out here on the Frontier.”

“Yeah, I heard about your peacekeeping gig and all those pretty blue helmets,” commented Mr. Bonanno. “I don’t believe that for a New York minute either! Tell me what racket you’re making money on with this peacekeeping nonsense. Are you still skimming off the business license fees? Peacekeeping seems a bit labor-intensive. Me? I’m moving into slot machines. Slots are always fixed for the house. By the way, I’d like to move my slots into Scorpion City. Are you interested in a percentage in exchange for guaranteed exclusivity?”

At that moment, Mountain Storm burst through my door, left open by Bonanno. “Who is going to win the fight?” asked Mountain Storm. “I asked Guido where the smart money was landing, but he is still upset with me. Are you sure you convinced him to call off his vendetta?”

“Does it look like we might be having a private discussion here?” asked Mr. Bonanno. “Take a hike, spider boy!”

“Hey Czerinski, who is this greasy human pestilence?” asked Mountain Storm. “One of your Mafia buddies? He looks like Guido’s long-lost daddy.
You
take a hike!”

“There is no such thing as the Mafia,” said Mr. Bonanno, gruffly. “Get out of here, or I’ll have you whacked.”

“No Mafia?” asked Mountain Storm. “Sure, I’ll buy that the same day I buy beachfront property in the New Gobi Desert. Get lost!”

“Enough!” I shouted, drawing my pistol and firing into the ceiling. Legionnaires and thug bodyguards rushed in, guns drawn. “I will send you both text messages as soon as I can tell you something positive about the death match.”