America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 21: Breaking Very Bad (19 page)

“Driver, drive!” Khrushchev ordered as he struggled to roll up the window.

* * * * *

Lee Harvey Oswald sighted Premier Khrushchev through his telescopic scope. It would be an easy shot. The fool even stopped by that grassy berm to talk to that stupid girl. Fortunately, she stepped away in time for a good shot. President Patton didn’t show, so that short fat Russian would have to do.

The first bullet struck Khrushchev in the head, splattering blood and vodka all over Yeltsin. Yeltsin gulped another vodka before ducking behind the seat. Two more bullets ripped through Khrushchev’s shoulder and side, but the Russian premier was already dead. A fourth shot ricocheted off the limousine roof.

Oswald dropped his rifle and ran down the stairs. Once outside, he was immediately confronted by Secret Service Special Agent J.D. Tippit. As Oswald reached for a hidden revolver, Tippit fired five rounds from his .45 into Oswald’s chest. A last bullet to the head made sure Oswald was dead.

Chapter 28

Aliens landed their shuttle on the White House lawn to meet the President Patton. Their ambassador brought more shoulder patches to exchange, knowing the human pestilence loved worthless trinkets. The President grudgingly gave up an old Third Army patch. Joint Chief of Staff General Elisha Smith produced a Ninth Infantry Division ‘cookie’ patch. As Chief of Staff, I produced a Green Bay Packers logo.
Go cheese heads!
NASA director John Blyler brought a commemorative NASA patch of a human hand and alien claw shaking hand and claw. ‘We come in peace’ was driveled across the top.

“Very touchy-feely,” said the alien ambassador, scanning the lettering with his translation device. “Where are your Russian brothers?”

“Late as usual,” answered President Patton dismissively. “Those Bolsheviks are a shifty unreliable lot, untrustworthy to the core. They’re always getting drunk, and attacking Eastern Europe.”

“Russians love their vodka,” I conceded jovially. “They’re like children, except different, with AK-47s.” I eyed the aliens, appalled that the Arthropodan Empire had reached Earth three hundred years before they even knew humanity existed in my timeline. I smelled a spider-rat. Something didn’t seem right.

“I could use a drink,” commented the alien ambassador. “Mind if I light up, if it’s going to be a while before the Russians arrive?”

“To hell with those Commie bastards!” exclaimed President Patton, already not liking the smell of the alien’s cigarette. “America runs this planet.”

“Is that tobacco you’re smoking?” asked FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover, ever suspicious, not liking the pungent smell wafting through the White House.

“What can we do for you?” interrupted President Patton, getting into the blue smoke that reminded him of some good shit he smoked in Morocco during the War. “You’ve come a long way to make a deal. Let’s make it happen.”

“Our scientists are prepared to bestow upon you human pestilence the latest beam transport technology. In return, we want your promise that humans and Arthropodans will leave peacefully together and share planetary resources in the future.”

“What planetary resources?” asked President Patton incredulously, seeing the aliens in a new light. “You trying to take us over?” Why had he not seen it before? The stoic critters wore harsh black military uniforms, looking just like God damn Nazis. “No way in hell. You bugs can go fuck yourselves.”

“Pervert,” bristled the alien ambassador, having to be restrained by aides. “You human pestilence live in the Stone Age on your quaint little third rock from the sun at the edge of the civilized galaxy. You need us to escape your watery cage!”

“No wonder they wouldn’t nuke the Russians for us,” whispered President Patton to General Smith. “They’re planning to round us up and–”

“We’re at the dawn of a new age of exploration and understanding,” interrupted NASA Director John Blyler, the voice of reason. “America has the chance to boldly kick ass and go where no man has kicked ass before.”

“What are you babbling about now?” asked President Patton, getting more irritated.

“Space, the final frontier. Seek out new life, new civilizations. Funding for a five-year mission!”

“If we don’t do the deal, the Russians will,” cautioned General Smith. “Do you want that?”

“Fine,” relented President Patton. “But we’re keeping this secret. No one can know we sold out to the aliens, especially with the mid-term elections coming up.”

“We come in peace,” insisted the alien ambassador contritely.

“You can blow ‘we come in peace’ out your ass,” replied President Patton. “Inspectors will travel to your home world to make sure you don’t screw us over. You will make no deals with the Russians or the Chinese. Are we clear on that?”

“Most certainly,” agreed the alien ambassador. “I promise no deals with the Commie bastards.”

“Good alien. Are you sure you can’t drop an asteroid on Moscow?”

“We could, but it might cause a planet-wide extinction.”

“That would be bad,” added Director Blyler. “Very bad.”

“Whatever. Find out what’s in those alien cigarettes.”

“Stop!” shouted Boris Yeltsin, brushing past Secret Service agents to interrupt the Oval Office capitalist conspirators. “Sorry I’m late. I got caught up in one of your bourgeois Washington, D.C., traffic jams. We don’t have such nonsense in the Soviet Union. I have my own lane painted down the center of Stalin Boulevard so I can do the workers’ business without delays.”

“Care for a drink?” I offered, handing Yeltsin a margarita. “Where’s Khrushchev?”

“He got shot. I’m outraged at your messy American security procedures.”

“Sorry.”

“Khrushchev is old news,” added Yeltsin, gulping another drink. “I’m running Russia now.”

“You’re not going to attack Eastern Europe again, are you?” asked the alien ambassador, alarmed at the red-faced human pestilence leader of the unfree world. “We come in peace.”

“Sure you do.”

“My condolences for your loss.”

Yeltsin took a good look at the spider alien. “Holy shit, it’s true!” he exclaimed. “Giant little green men. Usually I don’t see monsters this early in the day, but there you are. You male or female?”

“I am a male of our species,” replied the alien ambassador indignantly.

“Don’t throw a hissy-fit. I don’t see nothing dangling down there. It’s not my fault you aliens got no balls.”

“The Emperor wishes to sign a non-aggression trade pact with humanity. The United States has been quite cooperative.”

“I’ll bet they have,” said Yeltsin, eying the Americans suspiciously. “Don’t trust capitalists. They’ll sell their own mother to make a profit.”

“Is that true?” asked the alien ambassador, turning to President Patton. “Human pestilence are for sale?”

“We got rid of slavery long ago,” explained President Patton. “It’s he law, somewhere in the Constitution.”

“I’ve got gulags full of canceled Czechs and political malcontents you can buy,” offered Yeltsin. “They’re hard workers, smart, and weather resistant. Let’s make a deal. I’ll trade you for lasers and ray-guns.”

“I have no weaponry to offer, only intergalactic beam-transport technology.”

“What, you think I want to take a vacation to the moon? I’ve got almost a billion Chinese just across the border, chomping at the bit to invade Mother Russia. Can’t you at least sell me some poison gas or nasty bio-weapons? You’re holding out on me!”

“We intend to help humanity out of the Stone Age, not bomb you back into it,” explained the spider ambassador. “You human pestilence will be free to explore the universe, and all its secrets.”

“I see,” pondered Yeltsin, slumping in a nearby chair. “My people need to be kept busy. Otherwise, they become counter-revolutionary. Are you sure you can’t help me with my Chinese problem? You must have something lethal lying about, like giant Chinese-eating caterpillars, or space monsters.”

“No.”

“What kind of pussy-bugs are you?”

“We come in peace.”

Chapter 29

Boris Yeltsin, acting Premier of the Soviet Union, got wasted, more than usual. He woke from his three-day drunk in the Lincoln Bedroom. Negotiations had been brutal, and he deserved the break. He cautiously surveyed the damage. Vodka bottles lay strewn everywhere. New York hookers decorated the bed. An aide handed Yeltsin a copy of the
Washington Post
. Yeltsin put on his reading glasses, happily seeing he was featured on the front page, something about the Nobel Peace Prize.

“What the hell? I freed who?”

“East Germany, Poland, Hungary, Romania, Czechoslovakia, and Bulgaria,” answered the aide. “You really screwed the Siberian husky this time.”

“No more Iron Curtain?”

“Nope. I just watched the Berlin Wall torn down on American TV. Capitalist pigs are selling pieces of the Wall on the Jewelry Channel. Ratings are through the roof.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“Moscow wants you to return immediately.”

“Shit.”

“The KGB is not happy. They think you are part of an American and alien plot of world domination.”

“The KGB is never happy. What about everyone else?

“That depends on who you talk to,” explained the aide. “The Polacks and Krauts are happy, but the Ukraine wants to be freed, too. So do the Chechens.”

“What’s a Chechen?”

“Muslim terrorists by the Caspian.”

“Who let them in?”

“They’re indigenous.”

“Damn. How come no one told me?”

“I’m telling you now.”

“I’m not going back. I love New York.”

“This is Washington, D.C.”

“I love Washington, D.C., too. God bless America. I want to buy a capitalist ranch in Montana, under that big blue sky. I will not freeze my ass off in a Siberian gulag.”

“You have to return. It’s your duty. The Chinese are massing troops at the border, demanding we free the People’s Republic of Mongolia. Only a show of strength on your part can save the Soviet Union.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about Mongolia.”

“Weakness sets a bad precedent. We cannot cave, or all will be lost.”

“You’re right!” announced Yeltsin, marshaling his resolve as he read details in the
Post
about being a Nobel nominee. “We’ve got Martians on our side now. I signed a peace treaty. If the Chinese cross Gobi, nuke them.”

Epilogue

Scandal strikes, no matter the success of an administration. Russian cosmonauts hitching a ride to the moon with aliens found a shallow grave containing human remains. Forensics indicated the corpse was missing Teamster’s President Jimmy Hoffa. Originally, Hoffa was suspected of absconding with union pension funds, but now someone had serious explaining to do. Already, big-rig truckers sounded their horns at spontaneous demonstrations across the country, blocking highways and city centers.

President Patton sighed, slumping in his chair, trying to enjoy this birthday extravaganza, a star-studded Washington, D.C., social event. He reminisced about his misspent youth, wondering where it had disappeared to.
It must be hiding somewhere between winning lottery tickets and world peace.
A very fetching Marilyn Monroe sang a seductive ‘happy birthday’ song for her Commander in Chief.

‘First Lady Marilyn Monroe’ has a nice ring to it
, mused Patton, daydreaming. It had been almost a decade since Beatrice died, long past time to move on and find another true love. Being President had its perks in that regard. Alien Fountain of Youth microchips embedded in Patton’s bones made him youthful as ever, literally a new man. It used to be that life really began when a person first realized how soon it would end.
Now, there’s lot of time, and it’s just good to be President. It is also a great time for America.

A scholar and maker of history, Patton intended to continue making his mark on the world. His presidency was just the start of American projection of power and culture, and of a long line of successful Republican administrations. The galaxy was still to be conquered, and Democrats would never be allowed past Mars.

* * * * *

All in all, everything turned out pretty well for America. My work here accomplished, I decided it was time to return home to my own time and face the music. Except the tune I planned to hear would be decidedly pleasant. General Daly and I were going to have a more serious discussion about using nukes to clinch American sovereignty on New Colorado. And there’d definitely be a confiscation ban instituted on green flares both sides of the DMZ.

I contemplated leaving Phil Coen behind, but he’d stuck close by ever since the Arthropodans had made first contact on the moon. I still didn’t trust those spider bastards, but I was sure shadowy ‘General’ Lopez would be keeping a close eye on them.