by John Brown
“Attention, citizens,” blared loudspeakers on the LAV-300 armored personnel carriers patrolling the streets. “You are hereby directed to remain in your homes until informed otherwise. You will be notified when you are free to leave and resume your normal activities.”
The LAVs parked and discharged the troops and SWAT police riding within. Clad in black assault uniforms, body armor, and helmets with dark face shields, they patrolled the deserted neighborhoods, their M4A1 carbines at the ready.
Surrounding a large, historic house, they went to work. The battering ram pounding the front door cracked the transom windows. The wooden doorframe tore off in places. Inside, a small dog yapped away. A policewoman booted the door open and the team burst into the house. It was expensively furnished, tastefully decorated with valuable works of art.
Pointing shotguns in their faces, the team cornered the parents and their two children, repeatedly yelling, “Don’t move! Down! Down on the floor! On your stomach. Arms out!”
The father of the clan got down on his knees. His wife and kids lay face down on the floor, as ordered, cringing and crying.
“What’s going on?” the father yelled. “What right do you have to barge in here like criminals?”
“Get down on the floor, asshole!” Commander Clancy ordered.
The yapping little dog latched onto one of his pant legs and wouldn’t let go, snarling and biting.
“Tiger, leave it!” the father cried out. “No, Tiger, leave it. Tiger, come! Leave it! Tiger, sit!”
Clancy shot Tiger and went about his business.
The police ransacked the house, going through each room and carefully carting the evidence outside, some of it quite fragile. The process took almost two hours. The whole time, Clancy stood over the suspects, keeping them prone on the floor. His police and military colleagues came over every so often to confer.
“Okay, folks, you can get up now,” Commander Clancy said. “Mr. Seth North, you are a person of interest in connection with the station-wagon bombing.”
“But — but I don’t have a station wagon anymore.”
“That’s not what our records say. You will please come with us. We can discuss it on the way.”
“My friends, we have succeeded in building a shared vision.”
President King spoke to the nation from the Oval Office. He wore a well-tailored black suit with American flag pins on the lapels. His desk was clear but for a small desk flag and a statuette of the destroyed Twin Towers in New York City.
“It’s a vision of keeping America safe and secure, a vision where ordinary people can stroll the sidewalks without getting cut down in cold blood. Where young mothers pushing their babies in strollers can stop for an ice cream and say hello to their neighbors without getting massacred. Where our senior citizens can amble along and not be accosted by the enemies of freedom. Where our young people can grow up to become responsible adults who work hard and pay their taxes and not die a horrible death to satisfy some antigovernment maniac’s version of paradise. Where outraged communities can come together and say, ‘We’re not gonna take this anymore.’”
King shifted to face the cameras on his right.
“This terrible station wagon tragedy, where scores, maybe even hundreds, of decent, law-abiding citizens met a violent death, among them friends and neighbors, small children out on school field trips enjoying the nice spring weather — that’s not part of the shared vision. We don’t yet know how many innocent victims laid down their lives; they’re still trying to identify the gruesome remains. Our hearts go out in prayer to all the dead and the dying and their grieving families.”
He turned in his chair to face the cameras on his left.
“While the nation mourns this dreadful slaughter of its loved ones, you can take heart knowing that your federal government is doing something. Legislation is now making its way through Congress. It is called the Enemy Expatriation Act and it represents a significant step forward in the Global War on Terror. Enemies of freedom will be stripped of their citizenship to face swift military justice under Section 412 of the USA PATRIOT Act. The terrorists will no longer be able to use our freedoms against us. I will sign the EEA into law as soon as it crosses this desk. That is my solemn pledge to you this day.
“Meanwhile, by the authority you have vested in me as your commander-in-chief, I have invoked Executive Order 16058. The neighborhood and surrounding areas where the alleged criminal or criminals are thought to have lived or worked is in total lockdown — ‘shelter in place’ is the term we’re using. Citizens are asked not to leave their homes while our police and military conduct house-to-house searches. The arrests have already begun.”
The black BearCat, with its high road clearance and mammoth tires, drove right onto the front lawn. Paramilitary troopers hung off the side running boards of the massive 16,000-pound armored personnel carrier. An unmarked car screeched to the curb. Pulling down their face shields, the troopers scrambled to take up their positions. It was just after midnight.
The lieutenant exited the car and squatted down behind the open driver’s door.
“Location’s QOA,” he said into his radio. “We’re checkin’ the reg.”
He spotted the aging station wagon parked in the driveway.
“Yeah, maybe the owner’s not a frequent flier, but we got enough to move. What’s that? C’mon, are you freakin’ serious? No way, you’re shittin’ me. C’mon, I got an operation goin’ here! We’re ready to move.”
Lieutenant Millstone threw the radio handset on the car seat. The huddled team waited for his signal.
“Hold off a minute, boys, we gotta wait for the TV guys. I’ll give ’em five minutes and that’s it.”
The COPS crew arrived seconds later.
“Okay boys, cuff and stuff.”
One of the troopers kicked the front door. It cracked but remained stubbornly closed. Shrieks and wails emerged from the house. A man yelled from inside. Another trooper turned the doorknob, throwing open the door and tossing a flashbang grenade into the hall. The ferocious explosion lit up the front of the house. The troopers stormed in through the thick black fumes and charged up the stairs.
Minutes later, a young man and woman exited their house, dazed, their ears ringing, hands raised over their heads. A phalanx of troopers surrounded them with rifles drawn. The hall carpet was on fire.
“Amber Wong and Wayne Wong!” Millstone shouted at them through a bullhorn, crouching from behind his car. “We need to ask you a few questions. You will please come with us.”
23
Dad Would Be So Proud of Me
“TO BE A REAL SOLDIER, you must possess four things.”
Sergeant Schultz reviewed his men standing at attention, walking up and down the line, yelling in their faces.
“One! The warrior mentality. Two! Extreme endurance.”
He briefly stopped in front of each man and looked him in the eye before moving on.
“Three! Outstanding combat skills. Four! Supreme discipline — full control a’ your mind an’ body.”
No one dared return his fierce gaze.
“Now who here thinks he’s a damn warrior, who’s got some big goddamn balls, move one step in front.”
The men hesitated among themselves, looking at each other.
“American soldiers ain’ automatons. They don’ blindly follow, they lead. All it takes is one courageous sumbitch to take a stand, do the right thing an’ change the world. Now who’s a damn warrior?”
Daniel screwed up his courage and took a step forward.
Schultz circled Daniel, scowling.
“So you think you’re a goddamn warrior, that right, puddin’ head?”
A few of the recruits couldn’t suppress a smirk. The sergeant immediately caught it, glaring at them.
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“A warrior is prepared to engage the enemy at all costs without regard to his own welfare. A warrior’s prepared to fight an’ conquer his
fears. He does this without hesitatin’ so his company’ll survive. He don’ care how big, how strong, how well-equipped the enemy might be. A warrior has a high sense a’ personal honor an’ integrity. He’s determined and strong-willed like a bull. He don’ care what’s in front a’ him, he don’ yield. That’s what makes a real warrior.”
Schultz looked at the men with narrowed eyes.
“Now I hoped everyone here woulda answered ‘yes’ to my question. I see now that I was wrong. I see now that you are not prepared. I see now that you are weak-willed an’ soft. Get on the floor! ’Cept you, puddin’ head. You remain standin’. All the rest a’ you shitbaggers, you will gimme a hundred pushups. At the end a’ each pushup, you cherries will yell at the top a’ your lungs, ‘I am a warrior!’ You will stay on the floor until your hundred are done. When you’re done you will stand at attention. Do not try to fool me — I will be countin’. Am I clear?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“Begin!”
The recruits began yelling, “I am a warrior,” at different times, each according to his strength and stamina, so that the barracks soon became filled with men shouting continuously.
“Louder, I can’ hear you!” bellowed the sergeant.
“I am a warrior! I am a warrior! I am a warrior! I am a warrior!”
After several minutes, the first of them to complete the hundred stood at attention, and then the others, one by one. The last few fought with all their might to finish, collapsing on the floor after each partial pushup completed, furiously sucking air. At last the men all stood at attention.
“Now that was a real sorry spectacle, absolutely pathetic. My old grandma coulda done it in half the time and she wouldn’ be breathin’ hard, neither. You ain’ no warriors, that’s for dang sure.”
The barracks were filled with the sound of men wheezing and coughing.
“Now over here, we have just one goddamn warrior among you.”
Schultz looked at Daniel as he addressed the puffing recruits, for the first time, Daniel imagined, with a faint modicum of respect. He felt proud and scared at the same time.
“This here warrior’s prepared to fight an’ conquer his fears — an’ his fear today is drownin’. Today, he’s gonna conquer his fear a’ drownin’ with his supreme discipline an’ his warrior mentality.”
Daniel was not encouraged by all this talk of drowning, but it was too late; he was already committed.
“Soldier, are you a goddamn warrior?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Everyone follow me outside.”
Daniel felt dread building in the pit of his stomach. “I am a warrior,” he quietly chanted on the way out. He would fight at all costs. He stepped outside, alarmed at the sight of a large barrel suspended overhead. He was directed to stand beneath it and steeled himself for the worst.
“This ain’ no play time; a soldier could be captured and tortured. If he gives up, if he gives in, if he quits, he dies.”
The rush of water streamed onto Daniel’s head, slowly at first and then with gathering force. The torrent was terrifying. He moved his head back and forth, but there was no escaping the deluge.
“Aack!” he blubbered through the waterfall. “S-stop! Can’t — I can’t breathe!” he sputtered through the streaming water, his eyes clenched tight.
“Gimme 10 goddamn seconds!” Schultz roared. “You can do it, Benson, you’re a goddamn warrior! Do not move from that spot!”
And he didn’t.
After rest and rations, the men ran with their gear through rough terrain, up and down small hills. The choppy ground demanded their utmost concentration to avoid a serious tumble. Daniel really felt that he was now a warrior, his feet moving in a steady, coordinated beat over the broken ground. He felt energized, his mind and body now united through mental and physical discipline. If he could conquer his inner fears like that, he could conquer anything.
“Keep movin’!” Schultz yelled out, running in the middle of the pack.
Daniel marveled at his seemingly unlimited stamina, his toughness, his strength of character.
“Don’ give up, don’ ever quit!”
They headed for camp. It was 1600 hours, time to hit the showers and then prepare for inspection. Peeling off their sweaty uniforms, the men ran for the cool water. The feeling of relief was immense. Daniel luxuriated in the invigorating spray until he was the last one left.
A couple of recruits were lying in wait as he stepped out of the showers and toweled off. Sneaking up, they each emptied a bucket of freezing water on him. Daniel stood there speechless, rigid with shock, the icy water splashing off his body.
“You bastards!”
“Man-up, Benson! You can do it — you’re a goddamn warrior!”
They ran away, laughing.
But for BearCat armored personnel carriers and huge Bulldog X SWAT trucks rumbling by, kicking up dust on the unpaved road, all was quiet. Troops hung off the side running boards of the BearCats, on the lookout for an ambush. Tucked inside the Bulldog armored trucks, troops manned the gun ports. Brilliant red, white, and blue lights flashed as a warning. It all made for an impressive show of force in an urban operations zone, intimidating whatever enemy combatants remained here.
The rest of the company patrolled the battered urban street on foot. They were told that this sector had not been swept recently by armored bulldozers, and so they were to exercise extreme caution. Insurgents might be in the area, traveling undetected through underground tunnels from which they could emerge to spring an ambush. The rubble-filled streets would be ideal for planting booby traps. The buildings could provide cover for hidden sniping posts.
Daniel huddled against a dilapidated house by the front door, holding his M4A1 carbine with M320 grenade launcher mounted under the barrel. His heart pounded fiercely. Two other soldiers covered the entrance. Taking a deep breath, Daniel burst into the house, firing away into the shadows, followed by his comrades. They were met with a hail of gunfire from somewhere inside. Falling hard on his back, Daniel’s rifle went off into the ceiling. A shower of plaster rained down on him. His face was caked with white dust. Yelling and turmoil filled the murky building.
Daniel peered up from the floor at one of the senior instructors, mortified.
“You’re lucky this was a simulation,” the instructor said, sadly. “You’d be dead, son.”
Drill Sergeant Schultz counted them off. After 30 pushups Daniel was still going strong, his dog tags clanging on the floor with each repetition. No longer a skinny kid, he was muscled and tough. His arms filled the sleeves of his T-shirt and his back flared as he moved up and down. Balancing himself against a post, Shultz stood on Daniel’s shoulders with both feet. With great effort, Daniel was able to knock out yet more pushups, and the two of them went slowly up and down. Schultz looked out at the company, absolutely glowing. He almost smiled. No one had ever spotted him in any state of happiness, or even — as far as they could tell — remotely proud of anything his recruits had ever accomplished. Nevertheless, Schultz was undeniably impressed now, riding up and down on Daniel’s back.
“Listen up, you worthless cherries!” he bellowed. “This is how you do pushups!”
The marching band played a number of stirring military standards, including “Stars and Stripes Forever,” “Anchors Aweigh,” and “Seventy-six Trombones.” The reviewing stands were packed with spectators; parents, aunts and uncles, siblings, cousins, and grandparents. Some wore formal attire — jackets and ties, dresses and heels — while others wore outfits more at home on the beach, including halter and tank tops, souvenir T-shirts and hats from the gift shop, flip-flop sandals, and oversized basketball shorts.
The soldiers lined up in eight square blocks of 20 by 20 on the field, the men and women separated. The spacing between each block of soldiers, altogether four blocks long and two blocks deep, was precisely equal.
The commanding general ceremoniously made his way to the podium. He gathered his notes
and contemplated the scene. Assembled before him were 3,200 of the best and brightest. It had taken these young men and women some seven or eight months to negotiate their way through Basic Combat Training and Advanced Individual Training, depending on their specialty.
“Ten-hut! Spectators and honored guests,” said the adjutant general, “you will please remove your hats and stand for the playing of our national anthem.”
Most of the audience covered their hearts with their right hands, the others dutifully following suit. After the moving performance the crowd erupted in cheers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests, it is my privilege to introduce to you today our CG, Major General Arthur K. Pippin, Jr.”
“At ease,” Pippin said. “Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests, please be seated.”
This was one of many such speeches that General Pippin had delivered that autumn. A slideshow began playing on the giant screens arrayed around the stadium. In his high, thin voice, Pippin narrated a long history of the corps and its triumphs in perfect time with the unfolding scenes on the slides, which often featured archived video of battles savagely fought to a narrow win.
“I have felt the call to serve,” narrated a recorded male voiceover from a current television spot trying to gin up recruitment, “and I will commit to carry that feeling close to my heart until my country feels safe and the cry of those less fortunate has been silenced.”
The parents in the audience squirmed, the show evoking images of possibly harrowing prospects in store for their sons and daughters.
