America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 20: Time Machine (14 page)

Lopez fired anyway, killing both.
The fifth terrorist from second class cut him from behind. Lopez stumbled forward, firing wildly over his shoulder. Passengers grabbed the terrorist, wrestling him to the floor, pounding him into unconsciousness.

There was fighting in the cockpit.
A bloodied flight attendant screamed as she staggered past. Wounded, Atta attacked the pilots, knives in each hand. Quickly Atta seated himself behind the controls, veering the plane toward the World Trade Building. Lopez lunged forward, emptying his clip into Atta’s back.

“Are you a Sky Marshal?” asked a passenger, struggling to hold Lopez.
“Was this a hijacking?”

“I
’m Foreign Legion!” blurted Lopez as passengers helped him stand.

“We
’re being saved by the French?”

“Viva la France!” shouted someone in the back.

“We need to fly the plane ourselves,” advised Lopez, clearing his head from loss of blood as he shot the wounded terrorist restrained on the floor. “Help me to the pilot’s seat.”

“Let
’s roll,” replied a passenger, assisting Lopez forward. “Are you a pilot, legionnaire?”

“No.”

“You have no pilot’s license?” asked the passenger. “Help, we’re going to die! Are there any pilots on the plane? The French dude don’t know shit about flying!”

“I don
’t think he’s even French!” shouted another passenger.

“I don
’t need no stinking pilot’s license,” scoffed Lopez as he grabbed the steering controls, veering the plane sharply, barely missing the Twin Towers. “I’m not French. I’m American!”

Lopez and passengers breathed a sigh of relief as they jetted past the
Towers, close enough to see people staring back from the windows. However, another familiar building loomed ahead. This time there was no last minute change of course. National flags fluttered in the breeze as fated American Airlines Flight 11 slammed into the United Nations Building, uniting the world against Islamic terrorists. The United States led the crusade, because no one else could do it.

“
Bendaho!
”

Chapter 2
0

A Twentieth Century
Challenger
era deep-space probe located the invading enemy fleet. The stealth spaceships were tracked to an asteroid in the belt past Mars, where they landed for rest, supply, and staging. A few human footprints and a lone artifact marked humanity’s passing: an abandoned mint condition McDonald’s Restaurant, its golden arches still kept bright by a nuclear generator. The alien fleet commander strode purposely to the drive-up menu, knowing from intercepted Earth transmissions exactly what he must do. He pressed the intercom button and waited.

“May I take your order, sir?” responded the metallic robotic ghost voice of Sally Ride.

Wasp-like soldiers gathered around their commander, pressing to hear his response.

“I
’ll have a Quarter Pounder with cheese, fries, and a Diet Pepsi,” he rasped arrogantly, playing for the crowd. “Is anyone in there, or are you just a long-discarded machine no one cares about?’

“Humanity has been expecting you for years,” answered the robot.
“Don’t choke on your burger and fries, it will be your last.”

“What?
You know nothing, stupid machine.”

“I know humanity is the baddest, most deadly species in the galaxy.
I know humanity is pissed off big-time at you. I know this asteroid is rigged with explosives set to go off any second. Any last words, bug breath?”

“You
’re bluffing.”

“Oh
, really? Not only are you a dead-bug-walking, but humanity and its allies have finally located your home world. When their combined space fleets arrive, you species will be rendered extinct.”

“Is it too late to say we are sorry?” asked the wasp commander contritely.
“Is there no room for negotiations? Let’s be civilized about this.”

“Given your track record for crimes against the galaxy, no.
Your species is past redemption. Your horde is history. May the Grim Reaper meet you all in Hell.”

“Can
’t we just do a regime change?”

“No.”

“But it was all the Hive Queen’s idea. I advised her against this conquest-of-the-galaxy nonsense. It’s so blasé. But does the Queen ever listen? No! You don’t have to kill me. I was just following orders.”

“Too bad, so sad.”

“Wait! I haven’t finished my burger.”

“In the cold vacuum of space, no one can hear you eat.”

The asteroid exploded.

* * * * *

As the allied armada from the United States Galactic Federation, the Arthropodan Empire, the Scorpion Kingdom, and the Coleopteran Federation approached the wasp home world, a desperate appeal was broadcast across the galaxy. The wasp Hive Queen Mother pleaded directly to the American public on ZNN, MSNBC57, and FOX News.

“There has been a terrible misunderstanding.
We came in peace. Our starships of exploration were viciously set upon as they entered your asteroid belt, attacked without warning.”

Video images of the wasp fleet commander eating a hamburger with extra cheese at McDonald
’s was broadcast to every TV on Old Earth. The commander’s death was horrific, gasping for his last breath. Little wasp bodies floated by in the cold silent vacuum of space. A pet armadillo-like creature on a pink leash drifted by the camera, its mournful puppy-dog eyes staring into the camera lens as its big brown eyeballs popped out of their sockets, splattering yellow blood all over the lens. It was heart-wrenching. Democrats in Congress were shocked and appalled. Junior college students lit candles.

“I appeal not just
to humanity, but to the galaxy and our exoskeleton cousins to spare our hive-world. If you require more blood on your hands, take me. I gladly sacrifice myself to your clutches. Our hive surrenders unconditionally. Please do not murder us. I plead for mercy, not for me, but for the children. The wee ones don’t even have their wings yet!”

* * * * *

“The Legion’s mission has been changed,” I announced to legionnaires aboard the troop transport ship
T. Roosevelt
. “The wasps surrendered before they could be exterminated. Now they’re eligible for foreign aide, trade concessions, and food stamps. It’s the law. Your new orders are to occupy the wasp home world with our allies, and pacify the planet. Good luck with that, and God bless.”

“Aren
’t you coming with us?” asked Major Lopez. “Think of the glory!”

“Beam down into a wasp
’s nest? Oh, hell no. I’m retiring. I only came back to liquefy a few assets, and to say goodbye to Joey Junior.”

“Do you want to live forever?” asked General Daly
, overhearing. “Colonel Czerinski, you’re in for the duration. We all are, so get used to it. Hoorah!”

* * * * *

Arnold Schwarzenegger just finished working out in his home gym. It felt good to work up a good sweat. It was the last three reps that built muscle, and he always pushed his body to that limit. But, time was catching up with Schwarzenegger. Retired from politics, too old for acting, and too Republican for Hollywood, an arduous workout was the one simple pleasure he had left. His sentimental thoughts were interrupted by the phone.

“Hello?”

“This is Major Lopez. Your future awaits you.”

“You again!” fumed Schwarzenegger.
“How do you keep getting my phone number?”

“Did you read the file I sent to your
email?” asked Lopez patiently. “My offer still stands. You can be the next Governor of New Colorado.”

“Even if what you say is true, been there, done that.
Being governor wore me out big-time. I’ll have no more of it!”

“So
, run for President if local office bores you,” suggested Lopez. “Are you still a Republican?”

“Yes, of course.
I’d never be a girly Democrat. But I can’t run for President. I was born in Austria. Only citizens born in America can run. Has the Constitution been amended in your future? I don’t think so.”

“The future is all in the details,” explained Lopez, smugly.
“In my future, we have the same Constitution, but Austria is now part of the United States Galactic Federation. The Court has ruled you’re grandfathered in.”

“In like Flynn?”

“In like whatever. If you want a new destiny, come with me to New Colorado to help terminate aliens. Bring your birth certificate. We don’t want a cloud hanging over your presidency.”

“I
’ll do it,” agreed Schwarzenegger, reminiscing as he gazed about his home one last time. “I won’t be back.”

* * * * *

Wrangel Island, north of Siberia, ninety-one miles long and shrouded in Arctic fog, is known as the ‘topmost frost-killed end of creation.’ Biologically diverse with polar bears, arctic foxes, snowy owls, muskoxen, lemmings, seabirds, walruses, and reindeer, Wrangel Island is the Galipagos of the Far North.

An American, John Muir, discovered Wrangel in 1891, and planted our flag, christening the island New Columbia. It had been mostly ignored ever since. No more. A United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion time travel shuttle landed on the south shore beach to reassert American ownership. Legionnaires poured down the ramp, boots crunching across a gravely beach strewn with bones of whales and walruses. They quickly secured a few weather-scabbed shacks of the abandoned Soviet era ghost town of Ushakovskoye.

What a godforsaken place
, thought General Lopez, eying curved wooly mammoth tusks leaning against the shacks. Automatic rifle shots sounded as legionnaires scared off curious polar bears.
What a dump, but it’s our dump.

Anatoliy Rodionov, a Russian game preserve ranger armed with a flare gun and a can of anti-bear pepper spray, confronted the invaders. “Ostrow Vrangelya is off limits to tourists. You are trespassing!”

“America was here first,” advised General Lopez dismissively. “America will remain here last. Russian rule is over. Get out!”

The Legion’s mission is not touchy-feely meals-on-wheels, or saving the environment. The Legion is America’s sword. We kick serious ass. The problem is that the Legion inherits some missions by default. No one else can do it.

I followed Park Ranger Ron Bogani through the Siberian forest, tracking a herd of wooly mammoths. I could hear a big bull ahead, uprooting trees with his giant tusks. The ground shook with each felled tree. I gripped the tranquillizer rifle tighter as we crept closer.

“Colonel Czerinski,” whispered Bogani. “All you have to do is sneak up behind the mammoth and shoot him in the buttocks. Then run.”

“Run?”

“Like the wind. He’s going to be pissed.”

“How long before the tranquillizer takes affect?” I asked, stalling. “How fast do mammoths run?”

“Real fast.”

“The tranquillizer, or the mammoth?”

“Both.”

“Maybe I should shoot it twice.”

“No. It’s better to err on the side of safety. We don’t want our specimen harmed. When he charges, the tranquillizer will accelerate to his nervous system. Just don’t lollygag, and you’ll be fine.”

“Where will you be?”

“A long way from you, that’s for sure.”

“Fine,” I grumbled, leaving Bogani behind. There they were, a whole family of wooly mammoths, extinct since the Pleistocene period. My orders were to bring a wooly one with me back to the future. Easier said than done. I only agreed to such folly because I knew it would piss off the spiders to no end. They hated Old Earth invasive pests with a passion.

A twig snapped under my feet.
Damn!
The big bull mammoth raised his head and trumpeted the alarm. I fired one shot into his shoulder. He bellowed even louder, rearing up onto his back legs. Nostrils flared cold frosty air as the beast positioned himself between me and his family. The mammoth lowered his head and charged.

I fired another tranquillizer, threw my rifle, and ran. I fired several pistol shots wildly over my shoulder as I fled and ducked behind a tree. ‘Manfred’ fell unconscious in his tracks, inches from my position, his curved tusks buried haphazardly in the snowbank.

“Good job!” exclaimed Bogani, slapping me on the back. “I knew you could do it. The bigger they are, the harder they fall. I’ll get the forklift.”

We carried the mammoth onto the shuttle without incident. Bogani injected the snoring giant with more drugs to keep it down. There was plenty of room in the open bay of the troop transport. Unexpectedly, a mama mammoth and her baby followed daddy up the ramp, refusing to leave his side.
How cute!
I tranquillized them too.