Don't Order Dog (47 page)

“Get his attention.”

The agent nodded and raised his assault rifle, painting the shimmering red dot of the gun’s laser site on the suspended utility worker’s arm. Thirty feet above them, the man glanced curiously at his arm before looking around. He visibly recoiled in surprise at the sight of the three armed, plainly-clothed men beneath him. Alex gestured for the man to come down.

“Keep your gun on him,” Alex said to his agent as the utility worker quickly descended in front of them. It wasn’t until the man stepped from the utility pole onto the sidewalk that Alex got a true sense of the worker’s size. The man was enormous, standing at least a few inches taller than Alex. Even though he was wearing heavy coveralls, it was clear his broad frame was well-fitted with muscle. As he stepped forward, the two men exchanged tense looks and briefly sized each other up before Alex flashed his CIA credentials. 

“Can I help you gentlemen?” the worker asked guardedly.

Alex reached out and removed the ID badge that was clipped to the man’s coveralls. “Your name is George Bissinger?” he asked, reading the ID badge.

“Yes.”

“You don’t notice much around you when you’re working, do you George?” Alex asked matter-of-factly, watching the man’s expression closely. “Like the policemen that were clearing this area about twenty minutes ago.”

The worker glanced nervously at the agent holding the assault rifle and shook his head. “No sir, I guess I don’t. There’s enough high voltage in those lines up there to kill a man a couple of hundred times over. I tend to stay focused when I’m working on ‘em.”

Alex held his stare for a moment before glancing up at the power lines.
“What seems to be the problem?”

The large man removed his hard hat and scratched at his short blonde hair.
“Pretty odd actually. Looks like someone tampered with the line and killed the power in this area. A bunch of lines were torn out of the transformer.”

“Kind of hard to do something like that without the r
ight tools, wouldn’t you agree?” Alex asked suspiciously.

“Nah, not really.
You’d be surprised. People screw with this stuff all the time. Mostly teenagers. Luckily, most of the time they don’t kill themselves in the process.”

“Is it fixed?”

“Almost,” the man replied. “I was just about to repair the last line when you guys pointed your guns at me.”

Alex nodded his head slowly. Despite the man’s enormous size, his instincts told him to believe the thick-headed utility worker standing in front of him. And yet something about the situation made him uneasy. He glanced over at the service van parked next to them. The back door of the van was open.

Alex gestured to the other SOG agent as he spoke.

“Mr. Bissinger, my agent is going to briefly search you and your vehicle as a precaution. Would you mind placing your hands on top of your head?” 

The man shrugged and complied with Alex’s request as the agent quickly patted him down. A moment later the agent looked up and gave Alex a passing nod.

“Is there anything dangerous or illegal in the van that we need to know about before we begin our search?” Alex asked impatiently.

“No sir.”

“Very well.”
Alex walked over to the vehicle with his agent while their colleague kept his assault rifle trained on the man. He clicked on his radio and spoke quietly into his headset. “This is Murstead. Lieutenant Mason, I have a question for you.”

“Yes sir,” the lieutenant replied earnestly.

“You said you called to confirm that a serviceman had been sent to this location.”

“Affirmative sir.”

“Did you get the serviceman’s name?”

“I…uh, no sir.”

“Lieutenant, you have exactly one minute to get me a name and physical description of the man who was sent down here,” Alex hissed. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes sir,” the lieutenant replied sharply. “Right away, sir.”

Alex walked over to the service van and poked his head inside. A narrow channel of open space ran through the center of the cramped interior, flanked on both sides by spools of wire and large toolboxes. His agent was crouched inside, carefully opening one of the toolboxes.

“Anything?” Alex asked.

“No sir,” the agent replied. “But with all this equipment and wiring, he could have ten bombs in here and I might miss them.”

Alex nodded his head. He glanced at the floor of the van and noticed a long compartment that ran the length of the back. He was just about to ask the agent if he’d checked it when his radio crackled to life.

“Agent Murstead, this is Lieutenant Mason.”

“What did you find out?” Alex asked as he stepped around the van and stared at the massive man standing on the sidewalk, his hands still resting on his head. The man stared back at him nervously.

“His name should be George Bissinger, sir. He should be a large man, approximately six-foot seven inches tall, with hazel eyes and short, blonde hair.” 

“Very good. Thank you lieutenant.” Alex ordered his agent to exit the van and the two walked back over to the detained
utility worker.

“Sorry to take your time, Mr. Bissinger,” Alex replied as he handed
back the man’s ID. “My men and I have some other business to attend to here. For your safety, I’m going to need you to get into your vehicle and drive to the police officer parked just a few blocks west of here. He’ll have further instructions for you.” 

The large man clipped his ID back onto his chest and picked up his bag of tools. He gave Alex a brief nod before silently getting into the van. As the vehicle pulled away, Alex clicked on his radio. “Attention, all units, this is Agent Murstead. I’m routing a utility van west on the 66 from the target location. I want the first officer this vehicle arrives at to detain the driver until he’s been officially cleared. Is that understood?”

A baritone voice responded. “Agent Murstead, this is Officer Parker. Subject is heading towards me now. I’ll take care of him, sir.”

Alex nodded and looked up at his Team Two agents. “Okay guys, you
know what to do.” As his men moved into position, Alex turned and paced a half block west before making his way across the street. A minute later, positioned inside the empty café opposite the saloon, he sat and watched patiently.
 

∞

The officer stepped out of his patrol car and raised his hand commandingly at the approaching service vehicle. He leveled his stare on the driver as the van slowed and stopped just inches from where he stood. The officer then moved cautiously towards the driver’s door, his hand resting noticeably on the handle of his holstered weapon. A few feet from the driver’s door, he stopped and gestured for the large man to lower his window.

The two men stared silently at each other for a moment before the officer’s stern expression s
lowly eased into a smile. 

“How’d it go, Max?”

The driver smiled back at him. “Just fine, Officer
Chilly
.”

“Are our new friends in a pleasant mood today?”

“As pleasant as I expected.”

“Good,” Chilly replied. He glanced down the empty stretch of old Route 66 that led to the saloon before leaning towards the van with a mischievous grin. “Now let’s see how they like act two.”

Alex broke his stare on the front entrance of Joe’s Last Stand Saloon and anxiously glanced at his watch. It was 2:23pm. He and his men had been in position around the target area for nearly fifteen minutes, quietly waiting for activity.
So far, nothing around them had moved.

He looked again at Teams Two and Three positioned on the empty street in front of him before clicking on the radio. “Team three, are you seeing anything back there?”

From their position in the alley behind the saloon, Team Three radioed in. “Not really sir.” 

Alex furrowed his brow. “Say again?”

“No activity, sir,” the team leader answered. “All we’ve got is an old homeless guy passed out in the alley.”

“How old?” Alex asked. 

“Hard to say, sir. Subject’s probably in his mid-sixties.”

Alex thought for a moment before responding. “Okay… Team Three, pull him out and question him.”

“Command, would you repeat?” The team leader asked. 

“You heard me,” Alex replied. “Pull him out and question him. And re
port in when you’re done.” He’d barely finished speaking when the radio crackled to life.

“Command, this is Team Two. Be advised, we have movement at the front door.”

Alex immediately raised his binoculars and focused on the front door of the saloon. As he watched, the dark wooden door slowly eased open. “Team Two, this is Command,” he said firmly. “Hold position and do not engage until subject has been identified.”

“Roger that.”

The front door of the bar was half open when a stout, white-bearded man suddenly stepped out into view. Alex zoomed in on the unknown subject and groaned. “Jesus Christ… are you fucking kidding me?” he mumbled to himself, watching the subject through his binoculars. The man stood stiffly in the entryway of the saloon, seemingly oblivious to the two SOG teams in position nearby. Alex watched him for a few more seconds before speaking into his headset.

“All teams, be advised, we have a lone unidentified subject exiting through the front door of the target location. Subject is wearing sunglasses and a white beard.” He paused for a moment, dismayed by what he was about to say next. “Subject is also dressed in a Santa costume.”

“Command, be advised,” Team Two replied. “Subject’s also carrying a large duffel bag. Possibly an explosive device.”

The man suddenly stepped out onto the sidewalk and began walking west
towards Alex in a slow, uneven gate.

“
Command, subject is on the move,” the Team Two leader announced.

“Copy that,” Alex replied as he studied the man intently through his binoculars. Despite his ridiculous disguise, there was something strangely familiar about the man. Nevertheless, there was protocol to follow. Alex followed the subject’s movements for a few more seconds before acknowledging what he had to do next.

“Team Two, on my command, I want a non-lethal drop of the subject,” he said firmly into the radio. “I repeat– a
non-lethal
drop of the subject. Team One, hold your current position on the northwest corner until the subject is down.”

“Roger that.”

The man slowly continued west towards the intersection where the Team One SOG agents were concealed. When he finally reached the corner, Alex took a quick breath and spoke calmly into his headset. 

“Okay, drop him.
”

A moment later, Alex watched anxiously through his binoculars as
the muted report of an assault rifle echoed down the street. At the same instant, their unidentified subject cried out in pain and fell forward onto the sidewalk, dropping the duffel bag that was slung over his shoulder.

“Team One, take him!”

As ordered, Alex’s Team One agents immediately rushed forward and pressed the wounded man hard against the concrete, securing his wrists in handcuffs before rolling him onto his back. They then grabbed his arms and quickly dragged him around the corner and out of view of the saloon. Through his headset, Alex could hear the man’s loud moans as he lay sprawled out on the sidewalk.

“Team One, report in,” he said impatiently.

“Command, subject is secured,” Team One replied.

“Weapons?”

“Negative, Command… no weapons on him. Be advised, we have not checked the bag the subject was carrying.”

“R
oger that. Do not touch the bag,” Alex replied, his stare shifting from the saloon to the nearby corner where his team had the unknown man secured. “Any identification on the subject?”

“Negative, no formal identification,” the agent responded. “But there’s a note pinned to his chest under his coat.”

Alex furrowed his brow as he spoke into the radio. “What does it say?”

A
long pause followed before the agent replied. “It appears to be a confession, sir.”

Alex
glanced curiously at the entrance to the saloon.
What the fuck are you up to?
he wondered as he clicked on his microphone. “Alright. All teams, hold positions. Team Two, I’m coming to you.”

Alex holstered his gun and jogged quickly down the sidewalk
towards Team Two. When he arrived at the corner, he moved cautiously around the large duffel bag still lying on the sidewalk before shaking his head at the strangeness of the scene. Kneeling next to their wounded Santa-masked subject, both agents looked up and gave him a brief nod.

“He’s unconscious,” the nearest agent said as Alex kneeled down beside him. “Probably passed out from the pain.”

Alex knelt down and quickly inspected the man’s leg. A steady of blood was oozing from the bullet’s exit wound a few inches above the knee, but nothing appeared immediately serious or life-threatening. He glanced at the man’s face. Even though he could barely see any features past the thick white beard and sunglasses, there was something oddly familiar about him.

“Where’s the
note?” he demanded.

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.

He stared down the street at Team One and spoke into his headset. “Team One, this is Command. Be advised, Team Three may to be down. I am now leading Team Two and approaching your position from the west.”

“Roger that.”

Alex switched his radio once again to the police channel. “This is Agent Murstead. Be advised, we may have a target on-foot that’s dressed as a homeless man. Possibly senior-aged or appearing to be older. Anyone that even remotely matches that description needs to be communicated to me immediately.”

A chorus of affirmatives crackled over the radio. Alex started to switch the channel but paused as another thought came to mind. He glanced over his shoulder in the direction the utility worker had been ordered to drive a few minutes earlier. Neither the service van nor a police unit was in site. He clicked on his radio. “This is Murstead. Can the officer in charge of detaining the service van hear me?”

“Roger that,” a baritone male voice replied a moment later.

“What’s your status?” Alex demanded.

“I’m at the North corner of Humphreys and the 66. The service van is parked in front of my vehicle and I am standing next to the driver’s door with a visual on the subject.”

“Very good. Now listen, I’m beginning to believe the driver of that van may be involved in this after all. Do not under any circumstances let that man out of his vehicle… is that understood?”

“Absolutely,” the officer replied calmly. “You can be sure I won’t let him out of my si
ght, Agent Murstead.”

“If
your detainee attempts to start his vehicle or open the door, shoot him. That’s an order, officer. And make sure you shoot to kill.”

“That sounds a bit extreme, wouldn’t you agree, sir?” the officer asked.

“Say again?” Alex replied sharply.

“My apologies
, sir. I guess I’m just not used to dealing with terrorists.”

“That’s why you leave the goddamn orders to me, officer. Now stand by that fucking van with your gun
cocked and make sure that man doesn’t move!”

“Understood.
Like I said, I won’t let him out of my sight.”

Alex switched channels and shook his head.
What kind of local idiots am I working with?
he thought as he stood and motioned for his Team Two agent to follow him. The two moved quickly along the row of empty storefronts until they reached the corner of Joe’s Last Stand Saloon. Once there, Alex crouched low and pressed himself against the brick facade beneath the saloon’s arched window. He looked at the two men across from him and whispered into the radio.