America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 21: Breaking Very Bad (18 page)

“I take a long view of world history,” began General Giap. “Reuniting with the South will be a difficult process, and an unlikely possibility. There is oil off our coast, and the Chinese want it. That’s not going to happen.”

“I agree,” replied Vice-President Murphy. “Improvised responses work better when they’re planned in advance.”

“America is with us?”

“Be assured, you have America’s full support against Red Chinese aggression. Anything else?”

“Pizza Hut is building next door.”

“Outstanding!” exclaimed Murphy, slapping the table as he got up. “That wraps up my part of the visit. Our aides can handle the details.”

“Not so fast,” insisted Giap, staying seated. “President Patton promised foreign aid and American TV. Texaco promised giant oil rig platforms in the Gulf of Tonkin. Both promised lots of United Nations carbon credits.”

“Have you filled out your United Nations environmental impact statement?” asked Murphy testily. “No one wants oil slicks killing baby seals or gumming up the penguins.”

“Vietnam does not have seals or penguins,” replied Giap, triumphantly handing over the necessary documentation. “All we have are sea turtles, and we’re working on a final solution to that menu item.”

“How are you getting along with your neighbors to the south?” asked Murphy conversationally. “No big glorious five-year invasion plans for Laos, South Vietnam, or Cambodia on the horizon?”

“Fools that think war is glorious have never seen war.”

“You’ve got that right. So, no war with the South?”

“The South wants unification, but those hillbillies will not get their grubby little capitalist hands on my oil. No way, Jose.”

“Understood,” agreed Murphy, warmly shaking hands with Giap. “My condolences to Uncle Ho.”

“Whatever.”

* * * * *

Secretary of Defense Barry Goldwater briefed President Patton on the developing Cuban crisis. The Russians threatened to run the blockade to supply arms to Guevara, and promised dire consequences if any of their ships were molested by the United States Navy. Also, there was an alarming increase in Russian submarine and fishing trawler activity off the East Coast.

“Khrushchev is particularly upset about the disappearance of a frigate and several trawlers south of Bermuda,” added Secretary Goldwater. “He blames us.”

“Are we responsible for that?” asked President Patton conspiratorially, knowing marines had boarded and searched several Russian ships. “There’s no CIA Red October thing going on?”

“What? No, Mr. President. We know nothing about Russian ships sinking without a trace, with not even evidence of an oil slick. It’s common knowledge ships disappear all the time in the Bermuda Triangle. I warned the Russians of it, and to stay out. But, do they listen? No!”

“Russians know nothing about sailing. They’re a menace to the high seas,” commented President Patton. “They need to stay out of our ocean.”

“Exactly. It’s probably all a ruse, to foment international sympathy at Khrushchev’s upcoming visit to the United Nations in New York.”

“That Commie bastard. No matter. A lion does not lose sleep over the opinion of sheep. I am the lion.”

* * * * *

Anthony Montana and his cousin Manny Ray Lopez moved into Havana’s Presidential Palace. The place was huge. They were really moving on up the social ladder. The mansion even had an outdoor fountain indoors. It was like a Spanish castle, except different, with more bright paint.

Lopez had big plans for the place. He just got off the phone with the CIA when Montana confronted him about secret calls to the United States. “I made a deal with America,” boasted Lopez. “By executive order, President Patton is moving the Houston Astros Baseball Franchise to Havana. They’re even putting me in the starting rotation. Remember how good a pitcher I was when we were kids back in the day?”

“You made a deal?” asked Montana incredulously. “
You
? Cuba is
mine
. I made all this happen. I make the deals about Cuba, not you!”

“I thought we were partners. Besides, we need the Americans to help fight the Communists. The CIA promises to rain death from the sky on Che Guevara. They can do it. They’re going to the moon, you know.”

“We’re not crawling to the all-powerful Americans. I don’t need their military or DEA snooping around my island.”

“But Che Guevara...”

“Shut up with Che Guevara! What is Guevara, the boogeyman? Should I tremble at mere mention of his name?

“I just want to bring major league baseball to Cuba,” explained Lopez reasonably. “Did I mention we both get lifetime season box-seat tickets? The Americans will build a grand air-conditioned stadium, with a retractable roof.”

“What do I care of baseball and retractable roofs?”

“Chicks dig baseball, and I intend to score a lot.”

“Soccer is the future. It’s a worldly man’s game, so if you want to build stadiums, build soccer stadiums.”

“Soccer is for sissies.”

“You’re calling me a sissy?” exploded Montana, reaching in his pants for his pistol.

Lopez’s bodyguards were faster, spraying Montana with sub-machine gun fire. Montana fell back into the fountain, a bloody mess.
Say hello to all my little friends.

“Tony, you should have listened,” cried Lopez, genuinely grieving. “I’ll miss you, man, but I’ll get over it by opening day of baseball season. For the record, I made this happen, too. It’s not just about you,
bendaho
! And the Americans? If they can land on the moon, they can land on Che Guevara, big-time. See if they don’t!”

Chapter 27

When the lunar module landed on the Sea of Tranquility, Commander Ted Williams took the first steps on the moon. Neil Armstrong watched from the hatchway. Posing for the camera, Williams tossed up a baseball, striking it squarely with his bat. It was a home run for America, one great swing for mankind. Moments later, the ball was returned to Commander Williams by a spider-like alien wearing a spacesuit. First Contact was made during prime time. Aliens were no longer science fiction.

“Holy shit!” blurted Commander Williams, signing the ball for the alien autograph seeker. “That’s going to be worth a lot of money someday.”

“Welcome to the moon, human pestilence,” replied the alien. “It’s about time you got here. I am the ambassador for the Arthropodan Empire, sent to make first contact with your governments.”

“What the fuck?”

“We come in peace, not to fornicate.”

“Ted, this is Houston,” interrupted NASA Director John Blyler. “Watch your language. You’re on national TV, and the American people are watching. This is a family channel. Just do it. You’re making history up there.”

“Sorry, Houston. We’ve got a problem. We’re not alone. It’s fucking unbelievable.”

“I can see that. Who are you talking to?”

“Aliens.”

“Mexicans?”

“No, Martians.”

“No way. It’s a Russian trick. We’re on the moon first! You got that? No smoke and mirrors this time.”

“I’ll be coming home in a flying saucer,” boasted Commander Williams. “This is fucking unbelievable!”

“Oh, hell no,” replied Director Blyler, zooming in for a close-up shot of the alien. “You’re not leaving the lunar module behind on the moon and returning with aliens. Do you have any idea how much that thing costs?”

“No, sir. How much?”

“It’s probably a lot.”

“I want to treaty with your President Patton,” demanded the alien ambassador. “Is that a problem?”

“You know of President Patton?” asked Commander Williams incredulously. “How is that?”

“We’re fellow Republicans,” the alien said, snickering at his inside joke. “Of course I want to meet the leader of the free human pestilence world. Make it happen.”

“President Patton will be on the radio shortly,” advised Director Blyler. “It will take a few minutes. I’m putting transmissions on scramble for security reasons.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve got a mission for you, Williams,” said Director Blyler in a hushed tone. “See that fancy patch on that alien’s shoulder? I want you to trade a NASA patch for the alien patch. It will look great in my collection.”

“Will do, sir.”

“I knew I could count on you, Ted. You’re a team player.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gentlemen, the President of the United States.”

“It’s not Commie bastards up there after all?” asked General Patton enthusiastically. “Finally, some good news. I told you so. Those Russian Mongols couldn’t put a tin can atop the Kremlin, let alone land a spaceship on the moon. Let’s get right to it. You aliens want to make a deal?”

“
You aliens
?” the Arthropodan Ambassador echoed derisively.

“Martians ... little green men ... whatever. Out with it. Let’s rewrite history.”

“I propose an exchange of ambassadors, and assistance to you human pestilence in taking a responsible place among the galaxy of nations,” the alien ambassador read from a wrist teleprompter. “It’s an offer you can’t refuse, if you know what’s good for you. In exchange for an economic and military alliance, and Starbucks coffee, we will transfer technology beyond your wildest dreams.”

“Did you just call us human pestilence?” asked President Patton. “That won’t work. It’s a politically-incorrect slur. No more use of the ‘P-word.’ Don’t you know we’re on TV? Lord knows I don’t need any more bad press. God damn limp-dick Commie pinko liberals, they’ve been out to get me for years!”

“I speak for the Emperor. Personally, I think we should have nuked you Earth-scum in your infancy, back when you were dinosaur toe jam. Humanity’s germ needs to be quarantined, but does the Emperor listen? No! You only get to live because that decision is above my pay grade.”

“Don’t worry, we can edit that one out,” replied President Patton uneasily. “Hypothetically, not that I would ever do it, but could you nuke the Russians without them blaming America? You know, a surprise attack that wipes out those Commie bastards once and for all?”

“Not without an Environmental Impact Statement,” answered the alien ambassador. “Sorry, but the paperwork would be horrendous.”

“How about Red China?”

“The Empire is not involving itself in your petty internal human pestilence squabbles.”

“Damn.”

“In exchange for an alliance, the Empire will lift humanity out of the Stone Age. America will get the Internet first. What more can I do to make this deal happen?”

“We get the Internet first? High-speed satellite? You’ve got a deal, mister!”

* * * * *

History was made on the Day of First Contact. School children still recite ‘holy shit’ and ‘what the fuck’ as the first words uttered by humanity’s man on the moon. Nike got proprietary trademark rights to ‘just do it’ and ‘it’s fucking unbelievable’ on their tee-shirts and tennis shoes. Nike paid aliens to wear Swooshstickas on their spacesuits. As promised, Commander Ted Williams rode home in an alien starship, and NASA Director John Blyler got an alien shoulder patch for his collection. Neil Armstrong faded to a mere footnote of galactic exploration history.

* * * * *

Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev flew to Washington, D.C. to personally meet the aliens at the United Nations before the Americans could strike a deal or contaminate the aliens with capitalist bourgeois ways. President Patton snubbed Khrushchev, not greeting him at the airport. Khrushchev’s motorcade sped a direct route as anxious crowds waved and cheered. The public highly anticipated that the aliens would help breach icy East-West relations. Many felt the end of the Cold War was in sight.

A pretty twelve year old girl, her hair done up in bright gold old-style Eastern European peasant braids, wearing a blue and yellow dress and waving a bouquet of flowers, stepped in front of Khrushchev’s limousine. The limousine screeched to an abrupt stop. The Premier rolled down his window, smiling, hoping for a photo opportunity in the American and world press. Khrushchev held out his hand for the gift of flowers as cameras zoomed in and security guards scrambled.

“This is for Ukraine!” shouted the peasant girl, tossing the flowers aside as she gave Khrushchev the one-fingered salute. “Burn in Hell, you Russian pig. Damn
katsaps
!”

“What did we do to the Ukraine this time?” asked Khrushchev to an aide seated beside him.

“Nothing lately,” answered Boris Yeltsin, pouring a vodka. “Americans! They take their free speech way too far. Are we there yet?”

“Schedule a purge in the Ukraine when we get back,” ordered Khrushchev, annoyed. “Have the KGB find out about that little street urchin, too. This was a CIA setup.”

“Yes, comrade. Those bastards. We’ll attack at midnight. It’s more evil that way.”