One Man's War

by Thomas J. Wolfenden

  “We’re not sure exactly, Ian,” Izzy said, coming over to comfort the distraught woman. Tim looked into everyone’s faces, and could almost feel their thoughts. He knew at that instant they blamed him, and it shamed him to the core. There was nothing he could do about it now.

  A last few stragglers were coming out of the woods on the other side of the meadow, and the big Australian man who towered over them was bringing up the rear. Tim didn’t hesitate. He straightened up, and marched over to the gaggle of people, ignoring their questions, brushing by them, until he was face to face with his number one suspect.

  “G’day, mate! Any luck?” the man said, and in a blink of an eye, too fast for the man to defend himself, Tim lashed out with a balled fist, punching him as hard as he could right in the throat.

  Colin’s eyes went wide with disbelief and stunned and gagging, he fell to his knees at Tim’s feet. Tim spat on the man, who was now curled up in a fetal position, clutching at his throat and gasping for air.

  Tim made a move to plant a boot into the side of his head, but at the last minute, stopped himself. He looked down at the gagging man for a moment more, then Sam Didinato came up beside him.

  “Sorry I delayed your trek,” Tim said.

  “No problem, Sar’ Major. I was in no rush. What about him?” he asked, pointing at the heap on the ground.

  “He raped and killed April. Get this piece of shit out of my sight before I beat him to death,” Tim whispered to Sam, low enough that no one else heard him. The look in Tim’s eyes told Sam everything else he wanted to know.

  “You got it,” Sam said, reaching down and grabbing the man by the collar. “Okay asshole, you’re coming with me.”

  He dragged the stunned man to his feet, and then pulled a revolver out of a jacket pocket, cocked the hammer, and placed the muzzle at Colin’s head.

  “One wrong move, cocksucker, and your brains will be all over this clearing,” he said.

  The man, still stunned, asked in a raspy voice, “What’s this about?”

  Sam tapped the pistol on the man’s head none too gently. “And shut the fuck up, alright? Open your dick-holster one more fucking time, I’ll make you eat a fucking bullet.” The color drained from the prisoner’s face when he saw the look in Sam’s eyes. “That’s right, asshole. I don’t even want to hear your sweat dripping, capisch? To me, you’re no better than all them Hajjis I sent to see Allah.”

  Jimenez came running up with a roll of duct tape and promptly tore off a piece and unceremoniously slapped it over Colin’s mouth. With that done, he took the man’s arms, pulled them behind his back, and taped his wrists together, using far more tape than necessary. When he was done, he walked around and faced the now frightened man, and smiled.

  “You don’t even want to know what we do to child killers back in the barrio, bro,” he said, taking a guess at what had happened, and winked at the man, then looked over at Tim, who was just now getting his boiling anger under control. “What now, Sar’ Major?”

  “There’s a Sheriff’s Office substation in town. There’s bound to be a few holding cells over there.”

  “You got it, Sar’ Major,” he nodded, and then turned back to the prisoner. “Come on, cumstain.”

  Sam and Jimenez walked the man over to another Hum-Vee and shoved him roughly into the back, where he fell on his side. He was truly terrified, now, and was whimpering like a wounded dog through the tape over his mouth. The two men piled into the vehicle, started it, and pulled away, heading into town.

  Tim stood there with his hands on his hips until they were out of sight. He turned then, and saw everyone looking at him silently. Holly was with Ian and Paula, trying to comfort the distraught woman. He walked over to the threesome, placed his hand on Ian’s shoulder and squeezed. Ian looked at him, and through tear-stained eyes, nodded weakly.

  Tim didn’t say anything, there were no words to be found. He left everyone and plodded up the steps to his porch and entered through the screen door, letting it slam loudly behind him while the crowd watched the dust settle where the Hum-Vee had disappeared into the trees.

  Sam drove with disregard to his passenger in the back. He pressed his foot down on the accelerator and hit every pothole, crack, and bump in the deteriorating road all the way into town.

  By the time he and Jimenez had made it the few miles into the center of the town, Colin had been beat up just as if Tim himself had not been able to control his anger back at the compound. They pulled up in front of a one-story tufa stone block building that looked as if it had been built around the turn of the 20th Century, and there were a few dusty, disused Crown Victoria patrol cars parked out front.

  By the door, was a flagpole with a tattered American flag still flying forlornly in the slight breeze next to a now faded wooden sign that read Coconino County Sheriff’s Office. Jimenez got out of the passenger’s side, taking a M4 Carbine off the rack.

  “Give me a few minutes. I’m going to go and have a look-see,” he told Sam, who nodded and walked over to the tailgate.

  Jimenez was about to smash a pane of glass in the door with the butt of his carbine to open the door, but he reached out and grasped the doorknob first, and found the building was unlocked. He smiled, shook his head, and disappeared inside, leaving Sam alone with their prisoner.

  Sam dropped the tailgate and inspected his cargo, and saw that he was still taped up pretty well, and he now had a fairly good sized gash on the side of his head that was bleeding a little.

  “Okay, princess, time for you to take a walk,” he said, hitting Colin on the foot with his pistol. Colin’s eyes flew open, and he stared at Sam in sheer terror. He sat up with some difficulty, and by the time Sam got him to a sitting position on the rear of the Hum-Vee, Jimenez came back out of the door holding a large key ring and smiling broadly.

  “What happened to him?” he asked Sam.

  “I think he might have cut himself shaving,” Sam said. He grasped Colin’s arm. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”

  They got the man to stand, and on uneasy legs, got him moving towards the building.

  “Are there cells?” Sam asked.

  “Oh yeah,” Jimenez said, his grin widening. “And he’s just going to love what we’ve done to the place!”

  They walked through the doors into a dimly lit room, where a desk was set up, sort of like a reception area, a mummified man, still dressed in a tan Deputy’s uniform, sat at it, deep, dark holes where the eyes once were staring out at them, lips dried and pulled back, exposing yellowed teeth in an obscene grin.

  Colin stopped dead in his tracks, not wanting to move any further. Sam shoved him forward. “Don’t worry about him, he’s on lunch break, choad-smoker,” he said to Colin, and then looked at Jimenez. “Where’s the cells, Taco?”

  “Over this way, I’ve got one all ready for him, special like. I think he’s going to love it.”

  They went through another door, Jimenez in front, Sam shoving Colin none too gently forward down a short corridor to a line of gray-painted steel bar doors. He went halfway down the line and stopped in front of one that he must have opened in preparation, and waved their prisoner in.

  Having resigned himself to his fate, Colin started to walk in the door, but stopped dead at the threshold. He moaned loudly through the duct tape covering his mouth, shaking his head in denial.

  The cell was six foot wide by about eight foot deep, concrete walled, and had the obligatory stainless steel toilet and sink in one corner, and a set of narrow bunk beds along one wall. It was then that Sam saw what made Colin stop dead.

  In the lower bunk there was another mummy dressed in a faded orange jumpsuit, one claw-like hand extended like a talon, mouth agape and the same dead eye sockets as the deputy in the foyer.

  The three men cast a shadow into the cell from the dim sunlight coming through a barred, dusty window to corridor. Sam let out a laugh and rabbit punched Colin in the kidney, making him fall forward into the cell, landing face first on the
floor, his head only a few inches away from his new roommate. When Jimenez saw that his feet were clear of the track for the door, he slammed it closed, and with the large, flat key, locked the door with a menacing clank that echoed in the empty stone building.

  Colin scampered to the far wall, crying now. He placed his back on the wall and shimmed himself to a standing position, looking out in fear at his now smiling captors.

  “What about his hands?” Sam asked.

  “Oh yeah,” Jimenez said. “Guess he’s not going anywhere now. C’mere, asshole,” he beckoned. “Back up to the bars so I can cut the tape.”

  Colin did as he was told, his body now shaking uncontrollably, and Jimenez took out a folding pocket knife and cut the tape binding the man’s hands. He immediately spun around, and clawed at the tape covering his mouth, and when he was able to, he shouted, “For fuck sake, mate, you can’t leave me in here with that!” glancing back over his shoulder at the long dead prisoner. Fear oozed out of every pore, like a malignant disease.

  “I can, and I am, asshole,” Jimenez said, devoid now of all emotion.

  “We can work this out, mate!” Colin pled, his face turning a deep purple, veins in his forehead throbbing wildly.

  “I’m in no position to work anything out, and I’m not your fucking mate,” Sam said flatly, backing up to the far wall to escape Colin’s outstretched hands.

  “Ah shit! C’mon! You blokes were Army, right?”

  “Yeah,” Jimenez said, not wanting to elaborate the difference between the Marines and the Army. He was a Marine; Sam was the dogface.

  “I almost joined the Army too, right after year ten in school!”

  “Well fuck me running, Taco. Did you hear that? He almost joined the fucking Army!” Sam said, followed by a loud laugh that echoed eerily through the cells.

  “Yeah, no shit, Sam. That makes us almost bros,” Jimenez cracked.

  “Australia and America are allies!” Colin said pleadingly.

  “You haven’t a fucking clue, do you, you worthless piece of shit?” Sam said, shaking his head in disgust. “We are not fucking bros, allies, or anything to you.”

  “Don’t I have rights?”

  “Oh here we go, Taco. His fucking rights,” Sam said, rolling his eyes.

  Jimenez stepped forward, grabbed the man’s left hand that was sticking through the gray steel bars, took hold of his thumb, and in one twist, folded back his thumb to the point of it breaking, making Colin drop to his knees in agony. Tears were now streaming down his face as he looked up in submission at his two tormentors.

  “Lesson number one, fuckstick. The only right I know of that you have is the right to remain silent, so how about exercising that right, and shut the fuck up. The Sar’ Major is in charge here. This isn’t TV, this is real life, no shit. He’ll follow the Constitution, that I’m sure of,” Jimenez said. That gave Colin a ray of hope, and that showed on his face, which wasn’t lost on the two men. Sam made the decision then to extinguish the dim light at the end of the tunnel.

  “Laws here are a lot different than Australia, dickhead. The Sar’ Major made it perfectly clear that he will follow all of the laws, not just US laws. You committed this crime in Arizona, and for your information, Arizona has the death penalty,” Sam said, grinning.

  “They sure do, Sam,” Jimenez said. “We’ve got the gas chamber, down in Florence. I’m pretty sure the Sar’ Major isn’t going to want to drive all the way down there to gas this fucker. It’ll be a waste of diesel. He’ll find some rope, most likely, and you’ll be hung from a cottonwood tree here in town,” Jimenez said, and then spat on the ground.

  “No! You can’t let him do that!” Colin screamed, now completely terrified.

  “You should have thought about that before you went out and killed that girl, asshole,” Sam said, turning to leave. He’d had enough talk with this piece of shit, and he showed his contempt by walking out without another word.

  Jimenez looked down on Colin, and for a brief moment felt sorry for him. It quickly passed. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a deck of cards he’d found on the desk outside. He tossed them through the bars at the now bawling man.

  “There. Maybe you can talk your cellmate into a game of Spades,” he said, then followed Sam out of the building to the waiting Hum-Vee.

  Sam was standing on the far side of the Hum-Vee urinating when Jimenez came out of the Sheriff’s building. He finished his business, zipped up his Wranglers, and got behind the wheel.

  Jimenez climbed in the passenger’s side, placing the carbine back into the rack. “You know,” he said, glancing at Sam, “in the Marine Corps, they teach us to wash our hands after taking a piss.”

  “Taco, in the Army, they teach us not to piss all over our hands,” Sam replied.

  They could hear Colin screaming his lungs out, even from outside the building and over the running diesel engine of the Hum-Vee. Sam was tired of listening to it already, and put the vehicle in gear and sped away, spraying loose gravel from the parking lot which pelted the building and parked cars like shrapnel, and back towards the compound.

  “So, Taco, were all the cells full?” Sam asked as he made the left turn onto the road back home.

  “Nah, just that one, the rest were empty,” Jimenez said and Sam almost choked with laughter.

  When he regained his composure, he said. “Oh fuck, Taco. That’s classic!”

  “Serves the maricón right. I say we just leave him there to rot.”

  “Hey, I’m all for that, but you know the Sar’ Major better than almost anyone. I figure he’s got plans for him,” Sam said, shaking his head.

  “Yeah, he’s one hombre you don’t want to cross, I’ll tell you that,” Jimenez agreed.

  “Yep. Oh, and it’s ‘hanged’,” Sam said with a sideways glance.

  “What is hanged?” Jimenez asked.

  “Typical Jarhead, you gotta retrain em’ after every meal break,” Sam said, shaking his head. “You told him he’d be ‘hung’ from a cottonwood tree. The corrected term is ‘hanged’ from a cottonwood tree.”

  “Well I’ll be dipped in dogshit. A dogface and a fucking grammar Nazi,” Jimenez said, and they both laughed loud and hard.

  Chapter 8: Pieces of the Puzzle

  The general had been sitting on a stiff-backed wooden chair in the hallway outside the Oval Office for what felt like hours waiting to be seen. The hallway was dimly lit, and the only light was coming through a window at the far end of it.

  Even the president doesn’t have power now, he thought. Well, at least winter is over.

  He fingered the manila folder that was lying on his lap for the hundredth time, wondering again if it was the right thing to do, to give this man in the office the information it contained.

  He looked at his watch, and saw that he’d been kept waiting for over an hour. His anger started to build, but he suppressed it. As that thought passed, the door opened, and an attractive black woman came out and smiled at him. She straightened out her clothes, which were in some disarray, and said, “The president will see you now, General.”

  He stood with a smile that was as phony as a three dollar bill, and followed her through the open door. The president was seated behind the massive desk, his jacket off and tie askew. He made a show of rearranging some papers on the desktop, and looked up.

  “Good morning, General. Please come in.”

  “Good morning, Mr. President, I came over as soon as you called for me,” he said. He stopped a few feet in front of the desk, but the man seated behind it neither stood, nor offered him a seat, so he just stood there.

  “That will be all, Alicia. Please close the door behind you,” the president said, and the woman dutifully turned and departed the room. He then turned his attention back to the general, finally motioning for him to take a seat. The officer sat on the more comfortable chair, and thumbed the folder yet again, trying to form words in his head, which had been lost as soon as he entered the room.


  “So, General, tell me. Have you found out anything more?”

  “Yes we have, sir,” he said, feeling sick.

  “Get on with your brief.”

  “We’ve been able to decipher most of the Ham Radio transmissions and the pieces of the puzzle are falling into place. Because they’re using the Ham bands, it’s hard to tell exactly where they are, but things that were said point to at least three locations now.”

  “How so?”

  “None of it is voice traffic, it’s all Morse code, and a few of their operators are pretty goddamn quick on the key, especially the one in Arizona,” the general said.

  “Arizona? I thought you just said you couldn’t tell where they were?”

  “We can’t, not with a hundred percent certainty. However, it certainly fits. We have three distinct transmitters, one we believe is on Oahu, one that’s mobile, somewhere on the West Coast, and another station in northern Arizona.”

  “What are they saying?”

  “Not a whole lot, at the moment. There are several other stations they talk to all along the Pacific Rim, but the main traffic is between Hawaii and Arizona.”

  “Do you know who has the codes?” the president asked, sitting up in his chair and leaning forward.

  “Sir, the station in Hawaii referred to the station in Arizona as the ‘National Command Authority’ and ‘The President’ on several occasions,” the general said, bracing himself for the coming explosion, and he wasn’t disappointed.

  “National Command Authority? The National GODDAMN Command Authority?! I’m the goddamn National Command Authority!” the president exploded, pounding both fists onto the desktop, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth. “Do you know who this person is?”

  “We think we do, sir.”

  “Then who the fuck is he?” the man demanded, rage building up, his eyes of fire.

  “Mr. President, you must realize we don’t have the resources we once had. We’re going on a lot of assumptions and conjecture at the moment.”

  “As you keep telling me, General. Please, tell me what it is you do know!”