America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 4: Demilitarized Zone (16 page)

“I think José needs a new translation
device,” said Captain Lopez. “We are going to need more than two
runs to win this game.”

The next Legion batter hit a grounder to
third. The long throw to first base was dropped. The next batter
hit a change-up over the left field fence. The spider commander
charged out of the dugout, carrying an assault rifle. His own
players restrained him as both benches cleared. This time the
entire Sheriff’s Office was out on the field. Horse-mounted
deputies knocked players aside. The spider pitcher and
first-baseman fled to the Legion dugout. Once they got to safety,
both players gave the one-fingered salutes across the field to
their old commander. “Rot in hell you incompetent piece of dragon
dung!” yelled the spider pitcher.

“Traitor!” the spider commander yelled back.
“You both will face firing squads!”

The spiders’ new pitcher shut us down, but we
entered the eighth inning up 15-13. We were out of pitchers, so I
took the mound. I had done some pitching as a kid, but really
sucked then. I hoped the computer chip enhancements embedded in my
arm would enable me to pitch much better now. The spider commander
immediately came out to argue with the umpire. I continued to warm
up. My ball was popping pretty good.

“Colonel Czerinski is not listed as a player
on their roster,” argued the spider commander. “He is ineligible to
play.”

“I am in uniform, and I am going to play,” I
responded. “I am a player/manager. I am listed on the roster.”

“You are listed as a coach,” said the spider
commander. “This is against the rules.”

“Player, coach, manager? It’s all semantics.
Perhaps you need to get an update on your translation device,” I
suggested. “You are losing too much in translation, using last
year’s model from Radio Shack.”

“I want the rules enforced to the letter!”
the spider commander shouted at the umpire. “We agreed to abide by
professional American League rules.”

“What are you afraid of?” I asked. “Me? Yes,
of course you are.”

“I am afraid of no human pestilence,” replied
the spider commander. “The integrity of the game is at stake!”

“Colonel Czerinski will be allowed to pitch,”
announced the umpire. “Play ball!”

I continued my warm up pitches. The sprinkler
system came on again. Someone in the stands threw a grenade out in
right field. A few shots were fired. During the commotion, the
Legion groundskeepers moved the portable outfield fence further
out. Remarkably, no one noticed.

My embedded computer chips greatly improved
my hand-eye coordination and strength. I gave up no runs in the
eighth inning. By the top of the ninth inning, however, my
adrenalin was used up, and my arm was sore. Captain Lopez injected
me with a shot of something he said would give me a boost. The
side-effects were I would not sleep for days. I loaded the bases
with three walks, then gave up a run on a long fly ball to the
fence in left field. I loaded the bases again with another
walk.

With the Legion leading 15-14, the game was
interrupted by a New Gobi Desert dust storm. Goggles were needed to
see just a few feet away. The field and players were covered with
dirt and sand. It got everywhere. After two hours, the game was
called, and the Legion team was declared the winner. I was
relieved, pleased, and vindicated. Baseball was, is, and always
will be, the best game in the galaxy. And, baseball will always be
America’s game.

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Chapter 14

The speed of light used to not only be king,
it was the law. Now that principle was no longer true. As we gadded
about the galaxy in an instant, our only restriction was to
calculate where we would stop or land. Computers did that for
us.

In light of all this transportation
technology, it never ceased to amaze me when I found myself
traveling in an armored car on a bumpy, dusty dirt road. The road
paralleled a canal that seemed to stretch to the horizon. Wheat
fields lay on both sides.

General Kalipetsis told me the best
commanders get out into the field as much as possible to see their
men. When I did not take the hint, General Kalipetsis ordered me to
the field. It was just as well. I almost got killed several times
in New Gobi, and it did seem nice and peaceful out here in the
country. I would miss my once-a-week floatation therapy, but
Captain Lopez welcomed the break from garrison duty. He said I was
getting needed activity and exercise.
Doesn’t he realize
exercise can kill you?

Speaking of garrison duty, I got an email
about Sergeant Williams. He would soon be returning to from the
South Pole. Sergeant Williams was almost killed and would be
hospitalized for a while. He reportedly was electrocuted while
taking a shower. An improperly grounded water pump sent a jolt of
electricity through Williams when he turned on the shower water.
The smell of burned hair roused his roommate, and prompt medical
response revived Williams. Captain Lopez said this was proof that
staying at base and getting fat was unhealthy, even when there was
a war on. “You have to keep that cutting edge,” reasoned Lopez.

I monitored video from an airborne drone
scouting for insurgent activity ahead of our column. I could see
movement in an orchard grove, but could not determine who or what
was under the trees. I also located a deer carcass alongside the
roadway. We suspected it might contain an IED – improvised
explosion device.

My armored car pulled off to the shoulder of
the road just short of the deer carcass. Other armored cars flanked
the orchard. Together, they fired machine guns into the orchard. I
could see the muzzle flash of an insurgent machine gun firing back,
but it was quickly silenced as the armored cars raced to the
orchard. A blood trail and the machine gun were all that was found.
Perhaps the insurgents dragged their wounded away or were hiding in
tunnels. They were not to be found, and we were not spending all
day here looking for them.

We were about to resume our patrol when the
soft bank of the canal gave way under my armored car. The armored
car slid into the canal and sank to the bottom. I was thrown out of
the vehicle and sank to the bottom. Weighed down with equipment, I
found myself on my back like a helpless turtle, my legs and arms
waving and kicking at the blue water and sky above. I felt God had
cheated me. It was not fair that I was going to die by drowning in
the middle of a desert. How unlucky was that – and ironic? It was
right up there with Sergeant Williams being electrocuted in a
shower at the South Pole. Even dying from friendly fire would be
more glorious than this. As I lost consciousness, light around me
faded. A strong hand – claw – gripped my web belt and pulled me
from the water. I coughed up water and gasped for air. Corporal
Washington dragged me up the canal bank to dry ground.

“Are you okay, sir?” asked Corporal
Washington.

“Of course he is okay,” said one of the new
spider recruits. The spider was one of the baseball players that
had recently defected. “The Butcher of New Colorado cannot be
killed. He is immortal.”

“I am fine,” I replied. “I never could
float.”

“You sank like a rock,” said the spider
recruit.

“What is your name, private?” I asked.

“José,” said the recruit. “Private José.”

“I’ll bet Captain Lopez suggested that name,”
I said, still lying there looking up at the others.

“He did,” said Private José. “How did you
know that?”

“Private José, go check out that deer carcass
for explosives,” I ordered. “You will be riding in the point
vehicle.”

* * * * *

I rode with Captain Lopez to the next town.
The sun was high, and it did not take long for me to dry out. We
were greeted by both human and spider colonists. They seemed
friendly and gave us the locations of houses containing suspected
insurgents. They invited us into their homes to give us relief from
the hot sun. We drank iced tea in the shade of their patios. At
midnight we started kicking in doors. I never liked house searches
because I feared booby-traps – what if a terrorist rigged the
entire house to explode? My strategy was to only search a few
houses at a time, and do it quickly. I hoped surprise would keep us
safe and prevent the insurgents from ambushing us. So far, most of
the tips we were given appeared to be bogus. I suspected some
colonists were just getting back at neighbors they had grudges
against by sending the Legion to their homes. The only value from
searching houses seemed to be that the residents sometimes gave us
information about their neighbors.

One such tip proved to be valid. As
legionnaires approached the front door, a dog started barking.
Privates Camacho and Wayne smashed in the grilled front door with a
hand-held metal battering ram. Guido threw in a flash-bang grenade
to stun anyone in the first room. Privates Camacho and Wayne
quickly entered, taking up positions along the wall. Guido
followed, covering the next doorway. Private Camacho flicked on a
wall light switch.

A spider insurgent threw a grenade from the
next room. Guido fired his assault rifle as the insurgent ducked
back for cover. The grenade hit Private Camacho in the chest, then
bounced to the floor at his feet. Training told Private Camacho to
throw himself on the grenade, saving his comrades. It would be
heroism worthy of the Medal of Honor. Instead, his mind drifted
back to grade school. It was a better time. Ray Camacho kicked the
grenade like a soccer ball, back into the next room, scoring a
winning goal! The explosion filled the house with dust and smoke.
The lights went out.

Guido and Private Wayne tossed more grenades
through the smoky doorway. Then the legionnaires withdrew to the
outside. Cannon and machine-gun fire from one of our armored cars
raked the building, reducing it to rubble. A search of the rubble
found small arms, RPGs, grenades, land mines, two dead spiders, and
a dead dog.

* * * * *

Guido and Private Camacho stood by their
postal delivery truck. The hood was up, indicating that they were
broke down. Guido could see no traffic on the dirt road for miles.
It was another stifling hot day. Guido considered a swim in the
canal. It would be great to cool off. But, then he thought better
of it. A Legion company lay camouflaged under sagebrush-colored
netting along a ridge overlooking the road. Guido did not like
being bait for bandits and insurgents. It seemed like every time
there was a crap detail to be done, Czerinski gave it to him. Guido
sat down in the shade by his truck and waited. He took a Coke out
of the cooler and chugged it down.

About two hours later, a jeep full of armed
civilians stopped. They looked like human bandits. Three adult
males stayed in the jeep. A short, dark, teenaged boy wearing an
expensive pair of gold-plated, tear-drop Legion sunglasses and a
Legion pistol strapped to his hip got out and approached the mail
truck.

“
Como es usted, el amigo?”
asked
Private Camacho.

“Where is the rest of your unit,
legionnaire?” asked John Hume Ross. “Don’t you know it is dangerous
out here? It is especially dangerous if you don’t belong out here.
You should go home.”

“We belong wherever the Legion sends us,”
replied Guido, reasonably. “We broke down. A Legion tow truck will
be by soon.”

“Would you like to hitch a ride into town?”
asked Ross.

“No,” said Guido. “We’re fine.”

“How about some water?” asked Ross, handing
Guido a bottle as he walked around the truck. “There is an entire
Legion company operating in this sector. Usually I know exactly
where they are, but they seem to be hiding today. Where are
they?”

“Too bad,” said Guido. “I didn’t know we were
supposed to inform you of Legion troop movements.”

“Where is your dragon, Spot?” asked Ross.

“Somewhere close,” said Guido. “Do I know
you?”

“Not really,” said Ross. “I’ve seen you at
the border crossing in New Gobi. Sometimes I would throw Spot
candy. Where did you get such a cool dragon?”

“I took Spot from a dead spider,” said Guido.
“He cost less that way.”

“I’ll have to get a dragon of my own
someday,” said Ross. “It’s on my list of things to do.”

“What are you boys doing out here?” asked
Guido. “Are you bandits?”

“We’re Militia,” replied Ross. “We protect
the local towns and keep the spiders in line.”

“What is your name?” asked Guido. “Show me
your ID.”

“What if I said we don’t carry no stinking
ID?” asked Ross, smiling.

“Then you would be under arrest,” said
Private Camacho, pointing his assault rifle at Ross and the
others.

Ross ignored Private Camacho. He scanned the
ridge line, looking for movement or signs of an ambush. Then he
handed his ID to Guido.

“The two of you are in Colonel Czerinski’s
battalion,” commented Ross. “Say hello to Czerinski for me.”

“I’ll take you to see him if you like,” said
Guido. “He’s not far.”

“Not today,” said Ross, snatching back his ID
back and returning to his jeep. Ross nodded for the driver to go. A
minute later they were just a dust trail on the horizon.

* * * * *

Towards evening, a spider on a dirt bike rode
by. One of the legionnaires by the broken-down postal truck waved.
The spider did not stop, but he did radio the location of the
broken-down truck to other insurgents. The dirt-biker waited on a
nearby hill for the others to arrive. They would try to take these
legionnaires alive. They would make good hostages for a prisoner
exchange, and a video of the prisoners would make good propaganda
for the cause. The dirt-biker scanned the horizon with binoculars,
watching for legionnaires or his insurgent friends. Soon, two
beat-up old Toyota pickup trucks full of spiders came into
view.