Don't Order Dog_ 1(170)

The agent next to him reached over and opened the red, fur-lined Santa jacket. Alex immediately recognized the blue Joe’s Last Stand Saloon t-shirt underneath. A small piece of stationary was pinned to the center. He leaned closer and read the shakily scribbled handwriting.

To whom it may concern –

Allow me to introduce myself. I am a terrorist. I say this with complete candor because of the incident that occurred on the clear night of May 21 during my second tour of duty in Afghanistan. It was on that night that I led eight men including myself on a night patrol through the poppy fields of the Arghandab river valley. Normally this would have been a routine patrol. But on this particular night, my patrol and I were attacked by a group of Taliban rebels of superior numbers and firepower. Within less than an hour, my patrol was reduced to just three men – myself and two fellow marines, PFC Grant Matthison and Michael Callahan.

Surrounded and exhausted of ammunition, I told my men that we would have to accept the possibility of capture. Within minutes, that possibility became a reality. Unfortunately, our captors were not kind, and they quickly made it clear that the three of us would be killed if we failed to comply with their demands. After realizing I was the acting commander of the patrol, the rebels singled me out and handed me a loaded handgun. I was then given two options – I could use the handgun kill myself, or I could use it to kill my two fellow marines. Of course, there was a catch. If I killed myself, the rebels would immediately kill the other two soldiers. But if I chose to kill the other two soldiers, I would be set free.

Since you already know the outcome of this story, it would be irrelevant to mention that the rebels kept their word. As for me, well, there are few things I can be certain of or clear about, perhaps with one exception – my definition of a terrorist is any individual who kills or terrorizes for personal or political gain.

And there you have it. By my own definition, and by my own actions, on that May night in Afghanistan I became a terrorist.

Sincerely,

Thomas R. Coleman

“It can’t be,” Alex whispered as he looked again at the covered face of the man in front of him. He reached up and ripped the beard away from his chin.

“Oh fuck – Tom!”

Alex cursed again as he grabbed his radio and switched it to the police channel. “This is Agent Murstead… I need the HAZMAT team and an ambulance at the corner of 66 and Leroux immediately! We’ve got a man down and a duffel bag that may contain an explosive device. Make sure all drivers approach from Aspen Avenue – and tell them to keep their sirens off!”

“Roger that,” came the quick reply.

Alex leaned over and roughly slapped his brother-in-law’s face. “Tom! Wake up Tom! Can you hear me? Why are you here, Tom?” He pulled off his gloves and gently opened Tom’s eyes. His pupil were dilated and fixed. He cursed and turned to the agent next to him. “Keep pressure on that leg wound and hold your position until the ambulance arrives.” He reached down and angrily tore the note from Tom’s chest, shoving it into his vest. Alex then stood up and pointed at the other SOG agent. “You’re coming with me.”

“Yes sir.”

The two men headed quickly back down the street towards the saloon. Halfway there, the radio crackled to life in Alex’s ear.

“Command, this is Team One. We’re picking up sounds from inside the target location.”

Alex gestured for the agent next to him to hold position as he kneeled down and aimed his handgun at the front of the saloon. Further down the street, he could see the two agents from Team One crouched low against a parked car, their assault rifles pointed on the saloon’s entrance.

“This is Command. What are you hearing?”

“Command, it’s too muffled to be certain, but it sounds like a man’s voice.”

“Roger that,” Alex replied. “Team Three, are you seeing or hearing anything from your position?” He waited several seconds for a response before asking again. “Team Three, this is Command. Say again… are you seeing anything back there?”

The radio remained silent.

A cold chill suddenly ran up Alex’s spine as he looked again at the entrance to the saloon. He knew Team Three’s radio silence couldn’t be a glitch. Like every other piece of equipment, radios were checked and rechecked before each mission. And both men had one. The chance of both radios now failing was practically non-existent, which meant only one thing – the old homeless man Team Three had encountered was someone else entirely. It’s fucking Amsterdam all over again he thought angrily. Only instead of simply being misdirected as they were in Amsterdam, Alex realized his highly trained SOG team was now being quietly picked apart.