On the Freedom Trail

by Samuel P. Fortsch

  “And then find a safe place to hide,” I say.

  “I know just the spot,” says Jet. “It’s called the Green Dragon Tavern, and it was nicknamed the ‘Headquarters of the Revolution’ by historians. The Sons of Liberty, who were a secret organization of American colonists fighting taxation by the British government, met at the Green Dragon Tavern every night and plotted the Boston Tea Party from there!”

  “That’sss absssolutely correct,” Smithers says.

  “Sounds like a great plan. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can get off this ship,” I say.

  I’m hoping the sailors guarding the perimeter will focus all their attention on me and won’t notice the rest of the Pawtriots sneaking off. I’ll only have one shot at this, so I need to make it count.

  * * *

  ★ ★ ★

  Time: 1545 hours

  I make my way into the middle of a group of sailors and start barking as loudly as I can. But with all the commotion, no one really seems to notice.

  I need to up the ante.

  I quickly scan the area to see if there’s something I can knock over that might cause a loud bang—a distraction. Then I see the rottweiler from earlier walking toward Penny and the rest of Alpha team. I worry he might blow Alpha team’s escape, but then I have an idea.

  Without thinking it through, I begin weaving in and out of the crowd through sailors’ legs, making my way right for the rottweiler.

  Once I have a clear path, I gather up a full head of steam and run top speed, my wheel below me spinning as fast as possible.

  Wham!

  I make direct contact with the rottweiler, sending us both off our feet and onto the ground.

  “What is your major malfunction?!” the rottweiler shouts as he staggers to his feet.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going,” I say.

  “It’s too late for apologies, you slime sucker. The damage is already done,” he says, walking right toward me with his chest puffed out.

  With each passing second, I can see the marine is getting angrier and angrier. He brings his snout right up to my snout. My impromptu plan is working just like I hoped. Now I need to send him over the edge.

  “I knew you Army dogs weren’t the brightest,” he says.

  “Coming from a Devil Dog, I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say as the rottweiler shows his teeth and menacing grin.

  “You better not be making any sort of negative inference about my beloved Marine Corps!”

  I can tell he’s about to lose his cool with me. So I open my mouth to show him my teeth and make it clear that I’m not scared or ready to back down. I let out a growl so he knows I’m ready, and he suddenly lunges right for me, sending me crashing down hard onto my side.

  CHAPTER 3

  OVERBOARD

  Location: Deck, USS George Washington

  Time: 1845 hours

  Well, my plan worked—sort of. I created a distraction that allowed Alpha team to escape. But my distraction also caught the attention of the Master-at-Arms—that’s the person in charge of enforcing the law for the Navy.

  The Master-at-Arms wasn’t a huge fan of my little sideshow, so he put the marine and me on leashes and tied us to the railing that runs along the deck of the ship. He even put some sailors in charge of guarding us. We’ve been here for at least three hours or so. I’ve noticed the guards have been taking one-hour shifts watching over us before switching.

  During their shift changes, I’ve been quietly biting, scratching, and clawing through my leash so that when the time comes, I can escape and link up with the rest of the Pawtriots at the Green Dragon Tavern.

  “Give it a rest, would you?” says the marine as I continue gnawing at my leash.

  “Negative, we have to get out of here,” I say.

  “We? There is no we. And besides, I already know Boston like the back of my paw. I got no plans to go sightseeing today,” he says.

  “I don’t want to sightsee, either,” I say to him. “My unit is in trouble, so I need to get off this ship. My name’s Sergeant Rico and my unit is the Pawtriots. What’s your name and rank?”

  “Listen, pal. I’m not in the mood to talk, especially to some Army dog who got me leashed up for insubordination,” the rottweiler says.

  “I already told you, I’m sorry. But I had to do it to help my unit escape. I needed a distraction, and, well, you were the perfect distraction,” I plead with him.

  “And I told you, I don’t care about you or your unit. Today’s my last day in the Corps, and I most certainly didn’t plan on spending it tied up with you. So how about you keep your Army nose out of my Marine Corps business until we’re released? They’ll let us loose in the morning,” he says.

  “I don’t have until the morning. I received this SitRep from a carrier seagull earlier today,” I say as I slide the paper to him.

  He picks it up with his paw. He begins reading the SitRep and I can see his eyes grow wide.

  “You recognize that symbol, don’t you?” I ask him.

  “Roger that. Unfortunately, I do,” he says.

  “So you know my unit’s in serious trouble and we need help, right?” I say.

  “You don’t want my help. I’m not the marine I used to be. I’m getting forced out. ‘Medically discharged’ is what they said. I’m too old and too slow. I can’t keep up anymore,” he says.

  “Trust me, I know exactly what it’s like,” I say, pointing to my leg. “Is there any intel you can give me about them?”

  “Well,” he begins to say, but then stops. I can tell he’s hesitant to share any information with a perfect stranger.

  “I’m former Army and you’re a marine. We might not be in the same unit, but we’re on the same team,” I remind him.

  He takes a deep breath.

  “It wasn’t too long ago—maybe nine months— I was with my unit overseas. We were on a peacekeeping mission, but you can never be too careful. I was in charge of clearing the roads of any booby traps or bad guys.”

  “So what happened?” I ask.

  “Everything was going according to plan. We were marching toward a village to link up with locals to provide them with medical supplies and food. The sun had been beating down on us all day. I was burning up and getting tired, but I didn’t want to quit. I kept pushing and pushing until I collapsed to the ground. My unit kept marching forward without me,” he says.

  He takes another deep breath. I can see this is a hard story for him to tell.

  “And that’s when I saw the explosion. Boom!” he says. “I got up and just started sprinting forward to help my unit. But by the time I got there, it was too late. The Red Hands had set a trap for my unit and me, and I failed to stop it. I’ll never forgive myself,” he says, wiping a single tear off his face with his paw.

  “You can’t blame yourself,” I say. “Look at me: I lost my military bearing chasing what I thought was a piece of bacon. And it cost me my leg. And I never saw my handler, Kris, after the explosion,” I tell him.

  “That must be hard to deal with, too,” the rottweiler says.

  “It is, but you have to keep going. Just know I’ve been exactly where you are. Everyone around you is saying you can’t do anything anymore, but that’s not true. I’ve wanted to give up on myself. And maybe you do, too, right now. But you’re a marine. And once a marine, always a marine. I promise you it gets better. When I lost my leg, I thought that was the end of my journey. But really, it was just the beginning of another. I can tell you’re a warrior. You always have been and always will be. Now, can I count on you, Marine?”

  “I’d do anything for another crack at those barf bag Red Hands. They took my friends from me. They took the Corps from me. I need my payback. Let’s take the fight to them,” he says.

  I step back as the rottweiler
stands up proud and tall. “Staff Sergeant Gunner, United States Marine Corps, at your service!” he says.

  Then Gunner bites down hard on his leash and rips through it with one jerk of his head.

  “You mind freeing an insubordinate Army dog?” I say to Gunner with a smile.

  “Roger, Sergeant,” he says back to me. “But let’s get one thing straight. These Red Hands will be hot on our tails. So we’ll have to move swiftly, strategically, and decisively. Which means once we get off this ship, only one of us is calling the shots, and that would be me.”

  I give Gunner a north south and watch as he clamps his teeth around my leash, freeing me. I quickly scan the deck and the situation.

  “Those guards are about to switch and leave their post. That’ll be our chance. Can you swim?” I ask Gunner.

  “For miles on end,” he says. “It’s about the only thing I’m good at doing these days. Are we—”

  “Jumping off the ship?” I say, interrupting him. “It’s our only option. The Pawtriots are waiting for us at the Green Dragon Tavern. We need to move fast. Do you know where the tavern is?”

  “I could get there blindfolded,” Gunner says.

  We wait quietly together. Like clockwork, the guards leave the post.

  * * *

  ★ ★ ★

  Location: Streets of Boston

  Time: 1930 hours

  “This way, Rico!” Gunner says, pointing “That’s the tavern up ahead.”

  I follow Gunner through a dirty alley filled with overflowing trash cans, old tires, and broken wooden pallets. It’s hard to see through the dark shadows, but that doesn’t stop Gunner. I bet he could navigate the city with his eyes closed.

  As we get closer to the tavern, I see a green light hanging outside it. Penny is peeking out from behind a dumpster, waving for us to approach her and the rest of the Pawtriots.

  “What took you so long?” Penny says to me. She does the “tilt” again as she looks at Gunner, not knowing who he is.

  “Long story short,” I say, “I got tied up and detained by the Master-at-Arms. But this marine saved me. His name is Staff Sergeant Gunner. He’s a tactical asset and has offered to help us. He knows the streets of Boston. And he knows the Red Hands.”

  “You know the Red Handsss?” asks Smithers.

  “Roger, I know them. That’s why I’m here, to help take them down. I’ve got a bone to pick with them, anyway,” Gunner says.

  “Oi!” Brick hollers. “What do these Red Hands want with us?”

  “That I’m not sure of. But whatever they want, they usually get. And they’re dangerous, so we’ll need to be careful,” Gunner says.

  As everyone is talking, I take a quick mental roll call and realize that all the Pawtriots aren’t present and accounted for.

  “Penny, where are Jag and Jet?” I ask.

  “I sent them to look for you. It was getting late and I was worried. I’m sorry, Rico,” Penny says.

  “No need for apologies. I put you in charge,” I say as I bring Penny in for a hug. “You made a decision, that’s all I can ask any leader to do.”

  “Thanks, Rico,” Penny says.

  I take a moment to think about what to do next. Every mission has its setbacks, but I can’t let that stop me. We’ve got fellow Pawtriots who are MIA—that’s Army-talk for “missing in action”—and the Soldier’s Creed reminds me, I will never leave a fallen comrade. In the Army, we always said, “adapt and overcome.” And that’s just what I plan on doing.

  I turn to Lindy. “I want you to take Daisy, her puppies, Simon, and Franny,” I say.

  “Tracking. What is our objective?” Lindy says.

  “Head south to the TOC as quickly as you can. Your mission is simple: Once you get to DC, I want you to do recon on the Red Hands at the TOC.”

  “What in the dickens is recon?” Daisy asks me.

  “It means I want you all to observe what the Red Hands are doing, but from a distance. Tracking?” I say to Daisy, who nods.

  “And, Lindy, I repeat: Do not engage,” I say. “We’ll link up with you as soon as we find Jet and Jag.”

  “Understood, Rico. Be safe. We’ll see you all soon,” Lindy says as he motions to Daisy, her pups, Simon, and Franny to follow him.

  We all watch as Lindy and his team run off, beginning their trek to Washington, DC.

  I turn to the rest of the Pawtriots before me to give them their orders. “We need to find Jet and Jag. And the sooner, the better. The more time we spend in Boston, the worse things will get back at the TOC. Can I get a north south?”

  The Pawtriots all nod.

  “Follow me. We’ll double back the way we came,” I say.

  “Negative,” says Gunner. “We need some high ground to search for Jet and Jag.”

  “Where should we go then?” I ask him.

  “We’ll go to Faneuil Hall Marketplace,” Gunner says. “It’s a stop on the Freedom Trail, and I know a tall building there. We can climb up the fire escape and use the roof. I’ll lead the way.”

  “Oi! Who put you in charge of where we’re going?” Brick shouts.

  I understand where Brick is coming from. This is our fourth mission as a unit, and at every instance, I’ve been the leader—the one calling the shots. But a good leader knows when to empower other members of the team to achieve success. We need to find Jet and Jag while avoiding an entire battalion of corgis, so I’ll do whatever it takes.

  “I did,” I tell Brick. “Gunner has full directional authority.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say that?” Brick says with a wink to me.

  “Pawtriots, can I get a Hooah?” I say to the unit.

  “Hooah!” the Pawtriots holler back to me as we make our way through the alley toward Faneuil Hall.

  CHAPTER 4

  ON THE FREEDOM TRAIL

  Location: Faneuil Hall

  Time: 1945 hours

  As we arrive at Faneuil Hall, I take a quick scan of the area. The cobblestone streets are as old as the buildings. Each street is lined with historic sites and restaurants. And there are plenty of people out and about, which we can use to our advantage.

  I call the Pawtriots in for a quick huddle.

  “Let’s stick together and blend into the crowd. We don’t want the Red Hands spotting us while we search for Jet and Jag. Stay close and keep an eye on the Pawtriot in front of you,” I say.

  “And if you lose contact, just follow the Freedom Trail,” says Gunner.

  “Oi! What’s that?” asks Brick.

  “A two-point-five-mile-long trail marked throughout Bossston that leads to significant hisstorical locations of the American Revolution,” says Smithers.

  “Sounds easy enough. Good idea, Gunner,” says Penny.

  I can tell Gunner is starting to feel like he’s part of the team as he finally cracks a smile of confidence.

  * * *

  ★ ★ ★

  Time: 2015 hours

  We all follow Gunner on the trail, weaving in and out of the foot traffic. Then he leads us down a back alley past trash cans and dumpsters.

  “This way,” Gunner says, pointing to a fire escape.

  He jumps and begins making his way up the fire escape. Brick is next. Then Penny and Smithers. I’m up next, but I can tell that getting up this ladder with my wheel is going to be difficult.

  “Come on, Rico!” Penny calls out from the first landing of the fire escape. “You can do it.”

  I get a running start and make a jump for it, but I can’t get a good grip on the ladder.

  Then Gunner leans down and extends his paw. “Grab ahold,” he says.

  I get another running start and make another jump. I wrap my front paw around a rung of the ladder and let Gunner grab ahold of my wheel.

  “Hang tight,” Gunner says
as he starts pulling me up.

  And as I’m hanging there, I feel something whiz past my ears.

  Whoosh!

  “What was that?” Penny hollers.

  “Looksss like an—” Smithers begins to say.

  Whoosh!

  Another one rushes past me, and then suddenly—

  Crack!

  Something hits me right on the snout and I can feel the sting of tears in my eyes.

  “Oi! Rico, hurry up,” Brick howls.

  I muster all my strength and pull up as hard as I can to get my back legs up on the rung below me for support. I make it to the first landing and pause to catch my breath.

  I quickly duck back behind what little cover I have as projectiles whiz over my head. I look down at the ground and notice an intact projectile.

  “What is it, Rico?” Penny asks me.

  “Acorns,” I say, and then—

  Whoosh! Whoosh! Crack! Crack!

  “It’s an ambush!” Gunner hollers. “To the roof!”

  I carefully peek out from behind cover. Through my tears, I look down the alley about one hundred yards in the direction from where the acorns are coming. I can see two massive red eyes glowing in the distance. I carefully lift my head up to get a better look, and just as I expose my head—

  Whoosh! Whoosh! Crack! Crack!

  “Let’s move, Sergeant!” howls Gunner.

  * * *

  ★ ★ ★

  Time: 2020 hours

  We made our way up the fire escape to the roof to get to safety. I huddle the group up close to make an impromptu plan.

  “Are you okay, Rico?” Penny asks. “You’re bleeding.”

  “Don’t worry; I’ll be fine,” I tell her. “It just nicked me.”

  “What was it? And what’s going to happen when it’s a direct hit?” she asks.

  “Acornsss. And I’m ssscared to think about the ssserious damage a direct hit will caussse,” Smithers says. “That mussst be the sssecret weapon Jet and Jag were talking about.”