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Battle 27 For Constitution Avenue

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EDITOR’S NOTE: Representative Gutierrez’s proposed Immigration Bill is sparking a lot of comments on the Internet.

Personally, I believe The Statue of Liberty means more than just being a gift from France. I believe the statue is a symbol for people cast adrift by governments that there is one nation on the planet that will treat a human being like a human being.

I’ve always felt the “immigrant issue” is a non-issue. The sun will probably come up tomorrow, whether the politicians vote “for” or “against” the sun. Likewise, when people need help – you help.

There have been American political scumbags throughout history who have always tried to blame economic problems on immigrants, rather than look in the mirror and face their own greed, arrogance and incompetence.

Unfortunately, this fake paranoia usually tends to create a National Paranoia, which turns us from a respectable nation into a mob of half-wit lapdogs with an IQ equal to or ,probably, less than the political paranoia ministers.

We make it a point to forget the “illegal immigrants,” who massacred Native Americans, our respected forefathers.

To attempt to address this issue a little more eloquently, I’ve written a short story, “Battle 27 For Constitution Avenue” Redneck Texan Sergeant Max Justus and his Amer-Asian AESF team have time-jumped back to a 21st Century United States to make sure a congressman gets to what is left of the U.S. Capitol to vote on the illegal alien bill.

The villains are the Gopians and the Alkiduh. The real victims are the Borians.

My intent is to get reader’s thinking about what they believe.

Battle 27 for Constitution Avenue

A Short Story by Samuel Warren

Wham !

The percussion grenade goes off about 50 yards from our moving vehicle. Betty slams on the brakes. The vehicle stops. I glance behind me, Debbie pops open the back door and bails out of the vehicle. “Stay close,” I order. I grab the congressman by his jacket and pull him out of the door behind me. I hear a high-pitched whistle and shove the congressman to the ground.

Bam ! The rear of the vehicle rises off the ground at the force of the exploding mortar round. A vacant storefront window reveals the metallic inferno burning behind us.

I’m Sergeant Maximilian”Max” Justus, American Eagle Security Force. My employer, is the major contractor to what is left of the U.S. Department of Defense. Basically, AESF handles all of the military issues that were once handled by the United States Armed Forces.

Budget Cuts and Downsizing

In the mid-21st Century, the United States Congress decided too much money was being “wasted” on the military, so they got out their legislative scalpels and began dissecting the budget of branches of the armed forces and contracting out global military duties to a series of corporations specializing in military actions. The legalized business armies ironically wound up costing the U.S. Government more than her own authorized service branches, which became skeletons of their former glory and efficiency.

The civilian that my team and I are trying to keep in one piece is U.S. House of Representatives Congressman Gregory Lawson . “Stay down, sir,” I advise. Lying on my stomach, I quickly scan the perimeter for signs of movement.

The grandeur of what was once Washington D.C., the Nation’s Capitol, is long gone. The graying skeletons of majestic office buildings are a monument to chaos. The rubble resembles the news photographs of Berlin in 1945. The busted up pavement and the broken water pipes leech a water and sewage mixture on to the streets

Truly, the Smell of Washington Politics is everywhere.

I carefully look at all the nooks and crannies in the distance trying to find any sign of an attacker. All is quite. I move down and position myself in a sitting position against the small wall of rubble, in front of the congressman. I move my hand back to confirm that he has moved up against the wall.

Corporal Betty Kyong, AESF

Corporal Betty Kyong, nods at me and dashes toward my position. The exploding bits of concrete on both sides of her confirms that the attackers have us pinned down.

“We’re to exposed out here in the open. I feel like I’m out in the middle of a cattle pasture and a dozen buzzards are circling overhead,” I whisper loudly to myself.

Betty dives against the wall and moves, in between, myself and the congressman. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Betty checks beneath the congressman’s suit jacket to make sure his vest is still in one piece.

“No shrapnel and no bullet holes. Are you okay, sir,” asks Betty? The out of breath congressman nods his head. Betty looks around the perimeter and holds her pistol ready. “What are we doing here, Max,” she asks ?

A shadow moves in the distance, across the street. I squeeze the trigger and hear a yelp. “Defending the Constitution of the United States of America, against all enemies foreign and domestic, “ I reply to Betty’s question as I watch the wounded shadow, across the street, leave his weapon. Moaning, he drags his shatter leg over the rubble toward cover. I see her take aim. “Don’t waste ammo,” I order, “I can tell from the way he’s moving that my round shattered his leg. If he’s smart, he’ll drag himself to get medical attention.”

“We can’t stay out here forever,” she points out. “Max, H-Q confirms there aren’t any heat signatures left in any hostile positions around us,” Debbie Quezon states into her headset microphone. I look down to the end of the block and see her crouched up against what once must have been a tree. I nod.

Betty looks at the congressman,”We might be able to get you to safety over behind what is left of that burned out auto,” offers Betty. “No. We have to push on to the Russel Senate Office Building. The vote on the bill will be in the caucus room.”

Small explosions occur around us. I notice that the pattern, suggests that they are intended to keep us pinned down.”

What’s so important about this bill,” Betty asks. “It will grant amnesty to illegal aliens,” states the congressman.

“It is a defining piece of 21st Century legislation that paves the way for more enlightened thinking in the United States. The bill proved to be one of the cornerstones that laid the foundation for Congress to seek humane creative solutions to problems,” I reply, continuing to scan the perimeter.

“That’s why we time jumped back to the 21st Century. If we can get the congressman to that vote, then, our people believe that all this destruction that you see around you will vanish back into the time stream and the 21st Century will not be the century that sees the United States crumble like the Roman Empire.”

Betty snickers, “Forgive, Max, congressman, he really gets into history. He’s got this crazy idea that if we ever pay attention to the lessons of history, then, we will actually learn from them.”

Time is a moody creature. You hear your heart beating in your ears and you feel like every second is an eternity. Depending on the situation, several hours have passed or only a few minutes. I glance at my wristwatch, only a couple of minutes have passed.

“I know what H-Q said, but, we are going to hold this position until the rest of the team works themselves forward,” I tell Betty.

I look at Betty and the data from her file dances through my brain. Her records place her measurements at 44G-26-38 and she stands six feet even. Born in Paris, Texas, one of her great-grandfathers fled to the United States, during the Korean War of the 20th Century.

Many decades later, one of Betty’s great grandfathers, born in the United States, inherited the family’s taste for political correctness. He chose to legally change his last name to a western sounding name:Smith. Agent Smith went on to serve in the United States Secret Service and die in the line of duty protecting an American president. Years later, Agent Smith’s eldest son decided his family would change their name back to Kyong to acknowledge their Korean roots.

Corporal Debbie Quezon, AESF

Debbie weaves her way around the obstacles and takes up a flanking position off to my right. Corporal Debbie Quezon, according to her records, measures 42J-40-50 and stands 6′ 2””. Born in De Queen, Arkansas, she owes her heritage to her Filipino ancestors. A great grandfather had served with the Philippine Scouts of World War II and went on to serve a distinguished career in the Philippine Armed Forces.

That great grandfather had a son that joined and served in the United States Navy. When the son retired, the bureaucrats had messed up his paperwork and the retired G.I. was considered an “illegal alien.” Naturally, after his death, all the brouhaha was cleared up and his widow finally received the recognition and the military death benefits.

Disappointed by the legal wrangling of decades, the widow decided to remain in the U.S.,with her six grown children. One of the daughters, took odd jobs and worked her way through high school, then, she joined the U.S. Army and eventually wound up a decorated drill instructor. Her three children would all be actively involved in politics and would create the foundation for a great grandfather that would lead to Debbie.

A chip of cement from a bullet explodes by my left ear. I notice the attacker skipping along the rooftop. I quickly aim my M-560 Grenade Launcher and squeeze the trigger.

Voom !

The black smoke and ball of orange flames appears in an instant as the brief yelp of a coward is sucked into the explosion. I slap another grenade into the barrel.

Sergeant Maximilian “Max” Justus

Me, I’m Sergeant Justus. Born in Perryville, Texas and raised in Perryville and Abesville, Missouri. I come from a long line of Texas rednecks and Missouri hillbillies who believe, “If you don’t stand for something, then, you will fall for anything.” I’ve had politics and religion preached at me since I was a young pup. I think most politicians are crooks. And, I’ve never noticed too much of a distinction between Organized Crime and Organized Religion, except, perhaps, the criminals are most honest and better dressed.

I’m probably the most politically incorrect person, whoever walked the earth. I take pride in that self-anointed distinction. Most of the politically correct people that I have met in my life are bland, people, whose character would make a blade of grass seem like an interesting celebrity.

In my time, I’m basically a workaholic, who loves his job. Thanks to AESF, I’ve been through their intensive gungho combat training school that concentrates on the legendary U.S. Army Rangers, U.S. Navy Seals and adds in tactics from the U.S. Air Force, U.S. Coast Guard and, of course, the U.S. Marine Corps.

The time authorities, the National Energy Analysis Time Organization, known as, NEATO is actually a global scientific agency that brings government and businesses together to maintain the overall status quo of our time dimension .

When the NEATO big wigs can throw their weight around at AESF, then, my team and others wind up jumping around the continents helping to maintain public order. Every now and then, NEATO yanks strings at the government level and orders for time jumps get passed out like political flyers. My guys and I get orders to jump back in time and try to clean-up some of the messes of various time streams.

In this time stream, there have already been 26 battles trying to get the elected representatives to a safe place to vote on this bill. Needless to say, the bill is controversial. This particular time stream takes politics as seriously as a lot of time streams take sports. The obvious outcome of intense political bickering is this version of Washington D.C., is a war zone.

The NEATO projection is that if we can get the officials together to cast their votes, then, the bill should pass. If the bill of this time stream passes then the positive tremor effects should cause a positive outcome in the neighboring parallel time dimensions. Thus, the positive energy tremors will reach their respective time streams and provide the energy necessary to stabilize the dimension and to stop any negative effects already growing That’s the theory, anyway.

The Gopians and Alkiduh – the villains

I hear the faint whine of vehicles, approaching from the south, through the cover of the shifting, blowing atomic sand. Intel had revealed that Gopians, extremely radical conservative political fanatics, and Alkiduh, the fanatical global religious cult, had joined together their mercenaries to control this part of town for their strategic base of operations. I glance at my wristwatch.

“Linda, are you there ?”

“I hear you, Sarge.”

“Hostiles ? Any Gopians or Alkiduhs on your radar ?”

“Hang on a second, Sarge.”

The headset crackles silence for a few seconds – “Boom !”

“Linda !” I scream into my headset.

“Relax, sarge,” comes the cheerful voice. “The Gopians just experienced a sudden fuel shortage and it looks like the Alkiduh motorpool has been reduced to burnt bicycles. Carry on, my east Texas son !”

I smirk and motion to Betty and Debbie it is time to move. Snatching up the congressman, we high-tail it to a nearby burned out building. Gunfire behind us, acknowledges our move.

I tap the button on my wristwatch to deactivate the camouflage sensor and my tailor-made suit vanishes leaving my comfortable black battle dress uniform. “Sorry, congressman, I’ve never been much for suits.” My two pearl handled .357s are in their respective shoulder holsters. My two .44s are in the holsters on either side of my hips. And, of course, my trademark pearl-handled .38s are in their black leather gun belt that is at my waist and is strapped and tie around my legs.

I come from a long line of citizens, who believe you can never have too much firepower. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Linda “Bull” Pao phase in and take up her position beside Debbie.

Private Linda “Bull” Pao, AESF

Linda “Bull”Pao, is my gungho private. The quick way to describe her is “Hercules with breasts.” A blonde with an upper torso like the bough of an aircraft carrier, my weapons technician, has only two loves in her life – munitions and muscles. If she isn’t working to devise a new weapon for the team, then, she is at a gym somewhere lifting weights or Volkswagens. Her records list her: 55K-33-45 and she stands 6′ 6.”

Born in Bangkok, Thailand to U.S. Air Force parents, in a neighboring time dimension, this military brat, had great grandfathers from Taiwan and mainland China. Both of the great grandfathers had been imported as cheap labor to help build railroads in the United States in the 18th Century.

Since Linda is an “immigrant” from an undeveloped time dimension, the genealogy of her ancestors, especially in the 19th and early part of the 20th Century is somewhat sketchy. It does appear an early grandfather was a janitor for the Los Angeles Police Department and his 12 children choose to follow constructive pursuits that led to the academic and political arenas. One of Linda’s great grandmothers became the United States Ambassador to the Republic of China.

Wham !

A major section of our building disappears into rubble to the right of me. Betty moves the congressman behind what appears to have been at one time an espresso counter. The smoke clears, but I don’t see anything. I motion and the team heads deeper through the ruins of the bombed out building. “Time check,” I yell. “We’ve still got an hour to get the congressman to the building,”remarks Linda.

The Borians – An End To An Economic Means

In the distance, I see the Gopians drafted attackers. Poor disfigured creatures that were created through cut-rate genetics funding and pristine propaganda Primarily, they had been originally designed to be a mindless work force that could be used for manual labor, then, war became more profitable, so these pseudo-mass produced-human creatures had been cross-engineered to be killing machines that could be unleashed like wild dogs on an enemy.

These poor Borians were simply an end to an economic means.

We opened fire and watch them fall. It wasn’t a question of Ethics or Morals; it was a question of Survival: Us or Them.

“Light ’em if you’ve got ’em,” I call out. The wall of smoke clears. The remains of a Borian platoon lies littered, in front of us. We light up our cigarettes.

I hunker down by the congressman. “Can you get me to the building,” asks the congressman ? “If it can be done; we will do it,” I assure him. I hand him the M-560 grenade launcher. “It’s loaded. Just point and squeeze the trigger.” I draw the .357 from the holster under my left arm and check it’s ammunition.

“Anyone got ears on Ruby,” I ask ? I get negative head nods. “Ruby, Sarge, can you hear me ?”

“5 by 5, Sarge,” she answers over my crackling headset. “Speak to me angel. How’s my eye in the sky?”

“I’m hovering over your current location. It’s quite about 5 blocks around you in all directions. Troops have the perimeter nailed down behind a sandbag barricade around the building. Infrared shows no movement on any of the tunnels below. Looks like most of the tunnels are collapsed. The sky is ours. Rooftops are clear. Be careful, there is an area about 10 yards from the barricade entrance of rubble that could hide Gopian or Alkiduh suicide slaves. H-Q says all the congressmen and senators are secured in the building except for our boy.”

“Roger, that. Keep your eyes open. I’m going to have a look before we move again. I ease around the debris and the rubble.

Private Ruby “Angel” Nenkong, AESF

Private Ruby”Angel” Nenkong is my squad’s “techno-geek.” Born on Korat Air Base in the Kingdom of Thailand to an American-Thai father, who is a diplomat assigned to a consulate, and a mother who immigrated from Tijuana, Mexico, she is the youngest of four children. Her red hair and light skin serves to obscure her Asian and Hispanic ancestry except for her eyes and cheekbones. Her statistics list her as 45K- 36-46 and she stands at 5′ 11.” The shortest member of our team, naturally, we sometimes call her “Shorty.”

The Force respects a woman’s sensitivity about age and weight, so the age and weight of all personnel, male and female, is encrypted and maintained at headquarters.

Ruby is the real political activist in the squad always championing the causes of Amer-Asians.

“Sarge, Angel here. Just a reminder, the troops at the barricades are U.S. Marines. When you make your push to deliver the congressman, you want to be sure that your camouflage generators are working, so they don’t think you guys are Gopian or Alkiduh and blow you guys away by mistake.”

“Message received Ruby,” I reply walking back through the rubble to the team.

“Okay, guys adjust your generators. Time to lose the ‘suits.’ Switch to your Marine mode.” In the blink of an eye, the business blazers, skirts and slacks disappear and the generator briefly reveals our issue black BDUs, which becomes standard U.S. Marine Corps issue uniforms. I walk around my troops and check their chevrons and haircuts. “Debbie, you’ll be at the end of the squad. Your generator isn’t doing a great job of making you look like a woman Marine. You have too much hair hanging down and that’s a glitch that could raise too many questions in this situation.”

“You guys are really from the future,” asks the congressman ? Betty nods. “Once we get you to the building, remember, we were never here. If anyone asks – we were just a squad of Marines sent to guarantee your safety.” The congressman nods.

“Ruby, status update,” I order.

“Give me five minutes. I’m going to light up that covered area and see if there are any rats hiding in the rubble.” The chopper’s zip guns sing out.

The Rush

“Move out !”

Ruby’s aim rings true. Vehicles hidden in the rubble of a nearby building start to explode. Gopian slaves body parts fall around us, while we rush for the barricade.

Burning Alkiduh mercenaries, fight the flames and try to fire on us. Heads down we rush for the opening and head for the door. We bash through the door and the congressman lands on top of me, seconds before Debbie falls on top of him. Linda takes up a position, inside the door. Debbie stays low and crawls around to close the door. I glance over my shoulder to see Linda snatch up the congressman and place him on his feet.

He brushes off his clothes. “Thank you,” he smiles. “Yes, sir, “ I answer. He heads off down the corridor and we watch him walk away.

“Everyone okay,” I ask ?

Linda looks at her BDUs and notices that a bullet had ripped through her right sleeve. “Linda, you okay?”

She smirks, “I will be if the company raises my uniform allowance so I can replace this shirt.”

“Angel, are you still airborne,” I ask into the headset. “Still, soaring with the eagles,” she replies.

My team and I keep an eye on the door, while the gunfire outside becomes sporadic.

“H-Q package delivered. I repeat, package delivered.”

The headset crackles, “Standby Falcon One.”

Phase Out

I motion for the team to follow me to a less public location. Betty moves ahead of me, “This way. If I remember the blueprints of this building I think there is a janitor’s closet down this hallway. I hope the blueprints that we studied are current. Otherwise, it is going to look strange all of us trying to fit into a broom closet . . . or standing out in the middle of a parking lot,” replies Betty. Linda paces back and forth.

“What is taking H-Q so long,” Linda complains. “Everything is automated for those guys. Flip this switch and throw this button; how hard is it after we call in for them to push a button. What are they waiting for ?

“Just relax and keep a low profile. We’ll give H-Q a few more seconds and then we’ll head for the door. If we have to we’ll go back outside and try to blend into this dimension. Remember, we’ve been to this dimension before, so we are familiar with their customs and courtesies,” I remind the team.

Debbie beside me asks, “Will the congressman’s bill really make a difference ?”

I keep my eye on the door. “Let’s hope so. Rumors around the water cooler said if this mission was a failure there is an ongoing debate to time-jump a squad back to Plymouth Rock. Something about lying in wait for pilgrims to come ashore. Honestly, bushwhacking a historical group of new arrivals is not a mission that I want any part of,” I admit.

Betty asks, “We delivered the congressman; why haven’t we been redeployed out of this dimension.”

I smirk. “Ours is not to question or to reason why…”

Our molecules start to ease apart. As we start to vanish from the dimension, the team, in unison, finishes the traditional quote:

“Ours is, but to do or die.”

Copyright 2010 Samuel Warren

Links of Interest

ARCHITECT OF THE CAPITOL http://www.aoc.gov/

NATIONAL WORLD WAR II MEMORIAL http://www.wwiimemorial.com

THE VIETNAM WAR http://www.digitalhistory.uh.edu/modules/vietnam/index.cfm

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Written by samwarren55

January 14, 2010 at 3:45 AM

Posted in Uncategorized

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