CalvinDude.com

Interesting article on Iraq.

U.S. troops battled Al Qaeda in west Baghdad after Sunni Arab residents challenged the militants and called for American help to end furious gunfire that kept students from final exams and forced people in the neighborhood to huddle indoors.

Backed by helicopter gunships, U.S. troops on Thursday joined the two-day battle in the Amariyah district, according to a councilman and other residents of the Sunni district.

The fight reflects a trend that U.S. and Iraqi officials have been trumpeting recently to the west in Anbar province, once considered the heartland of the Sunni insurgency. Many Sunni tribes in the province have banded together to fight Al Qaeda, claiming the terrorist group is more dangerous than American forces.

(As an aside, it’d be nice if Democrats would realize that terrorists are more dangerous than American forces too…)

Lt. Col. Dale C. Kuehl, commander of 1st Battalion, 5th Cavalry Regiment, who is responsible for the Amariyah area of the capital, confirmed the U.S. military’s role in the fighting in the Sunni district. He said the battles raged Wednesday and Thursday but died off at night.

Although Al Qaeda is a Sunni organization opposed to the Shiite Muslim-dominated government, its ruthlessness and reliance on foreign fighters have alienated many Sunnis in Iraq.

The U.S. military congratulated Amariyah residents for standing up to Al Qaeda.

“The events of the past two days are promising developments. Sunni citizens of Amariyah that have been previously terrorized by Al Qaeda are now resisting and want them gone. They’re tired of the intimidation that included the murder of women,” Kuehl said.

A U.S. military officer, who agreed to discuss the fight only if not quoted by name because the information was not for release, said the Army was checking reports of a big Al Qaeda enclave in Amariyah housing foreign fighters, including Afghans, doing temporary duty in Iraq.

(Just as another aside…how do you get from Afghanistan to Iraq? Oh yeah…Iran. WHO WOULDA EVER THOUGHT THAT?!?!)

U.S.-funded Alhurra television reported that non-Iraqi Arabs and Afghans were among the fighters over the past two days. Kuehl said he could not confirm those reports.

The heaviest fighting came at 11 a.m. when gunmen — identified by residents as Al Qaeda fighters — began shooting randomly into the air, forcing people to flee into their homes and students from classrooms.

They said the fighters drove through the streets using loudspeakers to claim that Amariyah was under the control of the Islamic State of Iraq, an Al Qaeda front group.

Armed residents were said to have resisted, set some of the Al Qaeda gunmen’s cars on fire and called the Americans for help.

Note that armed residents were able to resist terrorists. 2nd Amendment more meaningful anyone???

Of course, the most shocking thing is that the AP allowed this story to come out, seeing as how it shows our troops doing what they do best: rescuing and defending oppressed peoples. I’d rather have a single soldier by my side than an entire Congress voting whether to “fund” my side or not any day.

FALSE HOPE, NY – General John W. Loftus’s recent confession, “I did it…It was me!” was called into question today during an Article 32 hearing for the general charged with defending False Hope.

Controversy arose after Loftus stated in his confession, “91 percent of us lie regularly.”

“How can we know if Loftus is one of those 91%,” asked Pfc. Joe “Notta” Holman. “He could have lied about his entire confession. He…he could have even lied about the 91% statistic! We’d have no way to know, no way!”

Lawyer DagoodS told reporters, “If it turns out he really didn’t do it, that he in fact lied, then I may soon be out of a job.”

Others speculate that Loftus’s motive might have an even darker, more sinister side. “I think he’s trying to build up credibility for his presidential campaign,” said one advisor to Hillary Clinton, who asked to remain anonymous since he was not authorized to speak in public without her permission. “He’s already had the extra-marital affair, and now he’s lied to everyone—including his own people! He’s certainly ready to fill my shoes now. I mean, fill Bill’s shoes. You’ll edit that quote for me later, right? Haw haw haw. I knew I could count on you, babe. Why don’t we turn this tape recorder off now an—”

Effort to reach Loftus resulted only in a dial tone, although even that has been disputed. “You can never tell if a droning whine is really the dial tone or if Loftus is trying to teach ethics again,” said Pfc. Holman. “Either could be true, but you have a 91% chance of it being false.”

I could quote John Loftus: “I did it…It was me!” But in this case, it’s not accurate. No, our good buddy T-Stone managed to get punk’d by himself using my latest post (the Triablogue version)…which in reality I didn’t even write!

That’s right, T-Stone managed to ignore the constant references to the Debunkers and (despite the fact that T-Stone posts comments on that blog too) he completely forgot the wondrous writing style employed by a specific Debunker. Frankly, I don’t see how it’s possible for someone who’s read the Debunkers (as T-Stone has) to be incapable of reading phrases like “mouthpieces of madness”, “two of the scummiest men on our planet”, or “every dimwitted idealist is right in his own thinking” and not immediately think, That sounds exactly like Joe Holman!

That’s right. My previous post was nothing more than Joe Holman’s post with the subjects, adverbs, and adjectives changed. You see, I entertained a notion of refuting Holman’s post for about 12.8 seconds before I realized that simply turning it back on itself did the job for me. Holman is his own self-parody…he just doesn’t realize it.

That was really my only intention, to put this silliness back on Holman. Little did I know that T-Stone would so willing run into the scene, arms flailing madly about, as he engaged his typical care and consideration in responding, as all Buddhistic-Christians do, to perceived attacks on atheists. Naturally, T-Stone unwittingly was attacking Holman, thinking he was attacking me. It could be that maybe T-Stone didn’t read Holman’s post (indeed, most people who see that the by-line is “Joe E. Holman” immediately ignore the post completely), but even those on the Christian side who hadn’t read Holman’s original post immediately saw it was satirical and a parody. T-Stone was the only one who seemingly missed this.

Naturally, T-Stone might be upset by this, thinking it rather petty that he be punk’d. I agree that it is petty. I think T-Stone should be ashamed of himself for punking himself the way he did. It made him, and (by association) Buddhistic-Christianity, look bad.

If you believe that Debunkers don’t propagate a notably strong sense of bigotry and hatred toward those who believe differently than they, then I have some challenges for you.

First, seek out a member of the Debunkers or any other brand name apostates. Ask that person as plainly as you can, “Why do you hate Peter, Paul, and Steve?” Listen to their answer. I’m willing to bet an airline ticket to the Bahamas that the answer will be something like, “We don’t hate them. We hate what they stand for,” or “Those of us who believe in Debunking supremacy are having our way of life taken from us, and we are fighting to stop that.” Or, if the person you are asking is exceptionally well-versed in their bigotry, you may even get to hear a biblically endarkening discourse on Genesis on how “God himself never claimed to create blogs. Who are we to support them?” Almost never will they say, “I admit it. You got me. I hate those theists because that’s the way I am.”

Next, seek out someone on the other end of the spectrum. Find some no good irreligion-hustlers, like Richard Dawkins or Sam Harris, (in this writer’s opinion, two of the scummiest men on our planet). Ask them if they hate theistic people. They won’t say so. They will emphatically say that they don’t, that they just want equality and reparations for past wrongs, but reading between the lines, one can see the hatred and gut-centered resentment spewing out of their mouths. Men like these have problems; they hold people accountable for things they are not responsible for. So intense is their hatred that it ruined the lives of thousands of innocent Bible readers by means of character assassination when not a bit of evidence incriminated the theists.

Then, find a college atheist, a member or a sympathizer of a terrorist group like the Rational Response Squad. Ask him why he hates the Christians so much. Chances are, you’ll hear, “We don’t hate Christians. We once lived in peace with the Christians. We are fighting them to win back our freedom.” I am amazed how people can be so darn good at putting soft-peddle twists on hate speech to make it sound less objectionable.

Of course, there are those who are honest enough to admit their hatred, like those whose names are missing an opening syllable from their name (i.e. “Holman”), who make headlines all the time, telling Christians how badly atheists hate them and want them to suffer on Earth. These mouthpieces of madness spend their waking hours telling teary-eyed families of fallen soldiers that their death was for nothing, or at most to make Bush’s oil friends rich. They’ll tell you in no uncertain terms that “Bush hates you” – and since Bush hates them, how can they not? If nothing else, one must appreciate the honesty! But honesty or no honesty, all these examples are in a clear-cut caste of irreligion-born hatemongers. The fact that every dimwitted idealist is right in his own thinking does not detract from the message of hate he preaches.

In the case of the Debunkers, the bigotry comes from the top down, from the condescension that arises when “subjective” faith-based non-standards are proclaimed. There’s nothing wrong with employing subjective non-standards of morality. We do it all the time without any help from irreligion. The problem comes from non-believers adding their own brouhaha into the moral mix, creating extraneous laws under the guise of “subjective morality.”

These commandments of bologna they consider to be Loftus’s immutable word, and there is no arguing with them. That’s the disadvantage of bowing the knee to an atheist blogger and counting on one as your ultimate source of morals: it’s his way or the banned-from-posting-comments-way! The reasoning goes a little something like this…

- If Loftus is true and just and right, and cannot be wrong, and…

- If believers in this Loftus are to please him, who is true and just and right, and cannot be wrong, then believers must adopt his ways, opposing what he opposes, while approving what he approves of, and…

- Since Loftus’s truth is absolute, what is true for the believer must also be true for the unbeliever.

~Therefore, if the believer is to please Loftus, he must do all that he can to praise and uphold Lofuts and his Debunkers who fight for his will, and forcefully oppose those who do not align their conduct and message with the divine revelation.

In other words, when someone believes Loftus is on his or her side, they almost invariably bind those beliefs on others and judge their fellow man by the same standards. Failure to comply with said truths results in shunning at least or persecution at worst. Once one begins this walk, there is essentially no going back; if Loftus himself despises Christians, Bush, abstinence, honoring one’s parents, or refraining from lying, then there can be no room on his blog for disagreement on the issues. You have no voice in the matter. The faithful must therefore do all that they can (religiously, politically, or otherwise) to ensure that the “one true way” is followed.

If you happen to work as an atheist blogger, you preach your message to change the thinking of the masses. If you run a store, you refuse to sell products that clash with your faith, and perhaps even refuse service to adherents of other faiths or no faith at all (like the recent occurrences of Loftus refusing to allow CalvinDude to post comments on his site). If you are in a politically influential position, you use your “juice” to make some changes that further your cause; if Lofuts doesn’t want the faithful to pray in school, read their Bibles, or use a certain three letter word (God) that offends the leader they worship, then no one can be allowed to transgress on any point if it is in your power to prevent it.

And herein lies the framework for ages of smothering oppression. Here, you have not only the seedbed for tyranny, but fields ripe for irreligious bloodshed. Were the years of torture under atheocracies not already behind us, we wouldn’t have to wait long for thumbscrews to be brought out and stocks to be put in public squares.

Paying lip service to concepts like “love,” and “tolerance,” and “acceptance” means nothing when your irreligion has no meaning in the first place, and therefore causes you to look down in disgust on people who believe differently than you. Regardless of a non-belief system’s intent, it is easily possible to be a bigot without ever uttering the phrases, “I am holier than you,” or “I am better than you.” And commanding one another to “obey the Golden Rule” does nothing to bring about love. It’s just sound waves, like giving commandments to “have blah blah blah” or “huh?” It is worthless to harp on about love when the principles of acceptance and tolerance can’t exist in the person’s very own belief system, as is the case with every disorganized anti-religion I know of.

In a world where petty differences divide us, it’s hard enough to bridge the gaps of disagreements with acceptance and love just being non-evolved beings. We don’t need notions of an authoritarian blogger making matters worse. Irreligion is to be held responsible, in large part, for producing the hatred, which serves as the central precursor to persecution and death.

“Let me tell you something about me. I have personal problems, okay?” (John Loftus)

That’s right.

While I slave away in a cubicle that has no window (so I can’t see the squirrels…and they were married), my parents have to send me pictures of where they spent the last couple of weeks. Yup: see for yourself!

Tell me this isn’t cruel and unusual punishment….

*sob*

Oh, tan-like psuedo-walls surrounding me
Fall down to flatten all you see!
My soul wastes for naught in cubicles
And wishes for even the diversion of torn cuticles.
To suffix me in this endless workplace.
Oh, tan-like psuedo-walls grant me grace!

With Memorial Day upon us, I thought I would share some excerpts from the latest novel I am working on. Since a portion of the events take place in Iraq, and since we don’t often hear stories of what it is like over there (other than from Michael Yon), I thought this fictional-yet-realistic account might serve some purpose. Remember our troops!

Posting this section does require a few caveats. 1) This is nowhere near a final draft version. 2) This is only a fraction of the opening part of the novel. 3) The full novel will probably not be finished for some time. 4) While a Sgt. from Fort Carson did look over this text for me and told me that it was realistic, any inaccuracies in military tactics, hardware, etc. remain my full responsibility. 5) Finally, this is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any actual persons or events is entirely coincidental.

May God watch over our armed forces!

—

06/04/06 0542h local

Ahmed knew he was about to die.

He sat calmly in the driver’s seat and watched the early morning sun peek out above the small brick buildings that formed the skyline. Ahmed marveled that this would be his last sunrise.

His death did not bother him. It was the will of Allah the Merciful, the Compassionate. The only thing to give him pause was the fact that he would be unable to ceremonially wash before he met Allah since that would give it all away. But it was a necessary sin, one that Allah would forgive, for Allah had Understanding and Wisdom too.

Ahmed turned his car into an alley and parked by one of the thousands of unimpressive mud-brick structures that dotted the capital city of Baghdad. He turned to the back of the vehicle and pressed the spring lever on the package. Then, Ahmed got out of the car and entered the structure he had parked next to.

A few minutes later, he stood on the flat roof overlooking the alley where he had parked. Ahmed walked to the edge of the roof and judged the distance to the ground.

It was more than ten meters, Allah be praised.

Ahmed sat down at the edge of the roof and let his feet hang off into space. Beside him was the promised duffle bag. Ahmed glanced at the sun once more, let the light play on his face in its soothing dance. Then he opened the duffle bag.

Inside, he found the uniform. It was the dreaded swine uniform of the Israeli Defense Force. Next to the IDF uniform was a large blue and white flag that bore the oppressive six-pointed Star of David.

Ahmed had to choke down the bile in his throat. He’d rather have the crescent moon than the cursed six-point star. But at least Allah knew he did not want to defile himself in this manner. Allah the Merciful would forgive this too.

Quickly, Ahmed changed into the uniform. Then he picked up the last items from the bag: an RPG with a single round, four hand grenades, and a fully loaded Uzi with three spare clips.

Ahmed was ready to meet Allah.

Four miles away, Mas’ud ibn Akilah climbed into the back of the Toyota 4-Runner. He held a newspaper in his hand, a copy of the current edition of The Wall Street Journal. Mas’ud always made sure he knew what was happening in the world. Knowledge was power; ignorance, death.

Mas’ud knew this more than anyone in his government. A Shiite cleric, he had preached for three years against the United States’ occupation. At first, many of his fellow brothers had been fooled into believing Iraq was better without the dictator, but Mas’ud showed them the truth. The dictator had been replaced by a dictator of a different sort.

Iraq used to be the cradle of civilization. It had been Arabs who had invented algebra. They had been the forefront of the world. Baghdad herself was queen and envied by all.

Now she lay occupied by forces from beyond the sea, enslaved to Democratic ideals unknown before. Now that the elections had been held, people were waking up to the truth. Voting hadn’t ended the occupation. The puppet government was groveling in fear, like a woman.

Mas’ud’s message was getting more popular by the hour. That was why he kept abreast on news from America, because knowledge was power.

Mas’ud didn’t notice when his driver took a different route than normal.

It was already hot on the roof. Ahmed cursed the heat, wished he wasn’t in the IDF uniform. The heat was bad enough without the added Zionist insult.

But it would be over soon. Soon he would be in Paradise with 72 virgins waiting for him. All he had to do was to complete his fate.

The rumble of an engine reached his ears. He climbed to his feet and readied the RPG.

Nasir stopped the Toyota and glanced into the rearview mirror. Mas’ud was still engrossed in the American paper. The fool had not noticed the vehicle had stopped.

Nasir glanced out the window toward the roof where Ahmed would be hidden.

Why hadn’t he fired yet?

Nasir’s earpiece suddenly crackled. “Why have you stopped?”

Nasir paused for a second. He had hoped he wouldn’t need to respond, but Ahmed still had not acted. Behind him in a second Toyota were Mas’ud’s bodyguards, and they were getting anxious.

“There’s a dog in the road,” Nasir finally said. He kept an eye in the mirror, but Mas’ud did not appear to care about the one side of the conversation he could hear.

The contempt in the response was palpable: “Run it over! We can’t be late.”

Nasir swallowed. Where was Ahmed? “I’m not going to kill this dog! It’s some child’s—”

His voice was cut off by the explosion.

The RPG had been a dud. Ahmed tried to fire it twice with no success. And there below him was the perfect target, idling and waiting.

He was forced to implement Plan B.

Ahmed took two of his hand grenades, pulled the pins, and let them drop from the roof. They both rolled under the Toyota and came to a stop. Ahmed waited in tense anticipation.

The explosion lifted the 4-Runner several feet into the air. Ahmed instantly leapt to his feet and began to pour down fire from his Uzi into the ceiling of the smoking Toyota. He heard the stunned shouts from the cleric’s bodyguards. Then, seconds later, the patter of bullets across the face of the brick building he stood on.

Ahmed ignored the bullets and reloaded his Uzi. He fired again and watched the windows of the vehicle burst into thousands of white crystals.

Sudden pain erupted in his shoulder. Ahmed spun to the left on impact. Even before he stopped moving, a second bullet struck him below the ribs. Ahmed dropped his Uzi and pitched forward. He landed against the edge of the roof. He exhaled painfully and looked out into space. He only had one last thing to do.

Ahmed rolled to the side and pitched off the roof. As he fell, the flag attached to his belt unfurled behind him. Ahmed saw the ground rushing up at him.

Allahu akbar, he thought. Then he struck the ground by the smoking Toyota.

The guards rushed toward the vehicle. Even though the Israeli terrorist was obviously dead, they shot the corpse repeatedly. One of the guards turned to the smoking 4-Runner. He saw Nasir slumped in the driver’s seat.

“You were in on this!” the guard spat. He jerked the door open and shot Nasir in the head to make sure he was dead.

There was a moan from the back seat. Mas’ud was still alive!

The guard pulled the door open. Mas’ud had been severely hurt, but he was still conscious. “Come on, sir,” the guard said. “We need to get off this street. There could be more assassins.”

The guard helped Mas’ud out. The cleric stood on wobbly feet then fell against a car parked there in the alley. He felt a trickle of blood sting his eye. He reached up and rubbed it carefully. Suddenly, he noticed the package in the seat of the car holding him up. It had a digital clock.

It was at 0:02.

Mas’ud didn’t even have a chance to warn anyone before it exploded.

06/04/06 0934h local

Lt. Jamison Orion stirred in his cot. He had only gotten two hours of sleep, and already Sgt. Travis Vincent was waking him.

“What is it?” Jamie asked.

“Sorry, sir. Col. Harrison needs you ASAP.”

Jamie nodded and sat up. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Five hours ago, he had been with his squad outside the villa of Ghalib Talib. Talib was quite the arms dealer. He supplied the militia with RPGs, AK47s, and an assortment of electronics that could be used to make IEDs.

He was also known to pay children five dollars to throw live grenades at US troops.

Jamie’s unit had tracked him down last night. Unfortunately, Talib didn’t feel like talking and had opened fire on them.

He only ceased when one of his own grenades blew a chunk of brick into his forehead. Jamie had spent several hours at the hospital, but Talib was out cold. The doctors had told him to rest so he’d be fresh to interrogate Talib when the insurgent came to.

Apparently, Col. Harrison had other ideas. Jamie had a sinking feeling it had to do with Talib. He had been plotting something big, and if they couldn’t interrogate him soon, the plotters could escape.

Jamie followed Sgt. Vincent into the large warehouse that held Operation Paladin’s headquarters. Due to the sensitivity of the electronic equipment inside, the warehouse was abundantly air conditioned, making it a popular spot.

For those with the clearance to get in, anyway.

Jamie had clearance. He was the point man for the infantry squad that did the grunt work in Operation Paladin, which meant he could get into the conference and briefing room. Even though it wasn’t high clearance, it was still better than sitting outside in a tent.

He took a seat at the table in the conference room. He only had a minute to wait before Col. Harrison entered.

“Hello, Lt. Orion,” the Colonel, an affable man with bulging muscles and a tight buzz-cut, said.

“Sir,” Jamie said, standing and giving the man a salute.

“We have a problem.”

Jamie nodded. “The doctors said he’ll recover.”

“What?”

“Talib. The doctors say he’ll wake soon and we can interrogate him.”

Col. Harrison waved his hand dismissively. “Forget Talib. He’s small potatoes. No, this morning at about oh-seven hundred, Mas’ud ibn Akilah was assassinated by someone carrying an Israeli flag and wearing an IDF uniform.”

Jamie’s blood turned cold. Col. Harrison continued: “Al-Haqq Television is airing video of the attack. You still have a friend working there?”

Jamie nodded. “Yes, Rafiq still works there.”

“Good. See if you can get a copy of the entire video. Supposedly, it was shot by someone at a birthday party for his daughter. But for some reason, I think I’ll stay skeptical.”

“Yes, sir,” Jamie said. The Colonel had good reason to be suspicious. If the Israelis had been behind the attack they hardly would have used their own uniforms. Of course it was always possible that a radical Jewish fringe element was involved. Jamie knew he had to keep an open mind and not make assumptions.

“Very well, then. Make the call.” Col. Harrison left the room. Jamie picked up the phone that was there in the conference room and dialed the number for Al-Haqq Television. After a short wait, he was put through to Rafiq.

“Salaam, Rafiq.”

“Salaam, my good friend Yeshua.” Ever since Rafiq had heard Jamie was a Christian, he referred to the Lieutenant as Yeshua, the Semitic name for Jesus. Jamie still wasn’t sure if it was meant as a friendly banter or a term of derision.

“Rafiq, I need to speak with you.”

There was laughter on the other end of the line. “You will not persuade me to abandon Allah that easily, Yeshua.”

Jamie smiled despite himself. “No, this is business.”

“Whatever could you mean?”

“I hear you’ve been airing the assassination of Mas’ud.”

“Ah, the video. This time, my Christian friend, you can’t excuse the Jews for what they did. Mas’ud was a very popular cleric and the Jews slaughtered him like a dog.”

“Well, that remains to be seen. Listen, my government would like to verify the tape.”

“You mean refute it.”

“No, we want to know the truth.”

Rafiq laughed. “You are so…what’s the word? Knave?”

“I think you mean naive.”

“Thank you, Yeshua. Yes, you are naive, and…innocent. You actually believe that your government is interested in the truth.”

Jamie sighed. He didn’t want to get into that particular debate with the Arab. “Look, can we have a copy of the tape?”

“We are airing it. You’ve already recorded that, I’m sure.”

“Yes, but we need to see the whole thing.”

Rafiq was silent for a moment. “Perhaps if it is the will of Allah I can do this for you. If it is His will, He will show me.”

Jamie recognized Rafiq’s ploy. “Five hundred dollars.”

“Fine,” he said. “Stop by in a half hour.”

“Thank you, Rafiq.”

“Only for you I do this, Yeshua. Allah knows I deserve something for helping another one of the People of the Book.”

“You’ll get it,” Jamie said. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“If it is Allah’s will, who am I to stand in the way?”

“Okay, here’s the whole tape,” Jamie said as he re-entered the conference room. “It’s got five minutes of video before the attack.”

Jamie put the cassette into the VCR that would also feed into a computer to make a digital copy. Then he sat at the table. Beside him, a young Iraqi woman named Tahirah listened intently to the tape. “They are discussing Zahrah’s birth celebration,” she said. “Zahrah is the little one there.”

The screen showed a small girl, about eight years old. She was smiling exuberantly in the typical fashion that children did at birthday parties. It was a universal, worldwide event.

“They are speaking of food,” Tahirah said, her face wrinkled in concentration.

The tape suddenly cut. Now it showed an alley. There was a car parked there but it was otherwise bare. The camera panned over and the entire group could be seen. There were six total, one boy, two girls and three women. Adding the cameraman in, seven people were there. They were chattering excitedly, and Tahirah could not keep up with an instant translation.

Behind them, a car pulled into the alley and came to a stop. The camera panned back to the young girl. The commotion continued with lots of cross-talk before the camera focused on Zahrah.

“‘Mother, mother, do you really think I’ll get my own horse?’” Tahirah translated, now that she had a specific voice she could focus on. “‘I want—’”

The explosion cut off dialogue. It was followed by wordless terror as the group took cover. The camera panned out to the alley and zoomed up to the figure on the roof shooting an Uzi at the stricken vehicle.

The camera was jumpy, but the action was clear. The shooter took a couple of hits then fell off the roof. The Israeli flag was captured perfectly in the frame.

There was a chaotic flurry of activity around the car, a sudden gun shot as one of the guards fired into the vehicle, and then Mas’ud was pulled out of the stricken vehicle.

Seconds later, the car that had been parked in the alley exploded. The cameraman dropped the camera in shock and the video turned to snow.

“Well, that’s interesting,” Col. Harrison said. “Al-Haqq is only airing up to when the killer fell off the roof. I had assumed Mas’ud was killed by the shooting, but he obviously survived until the car bomb.”

“Who did the guard shoot before he pulled Mas’ud out?” Sgt. Vincent asked.

“I’m not sure,” Jamie responded. He looked at the digital copy they had recorded in the computer and slid the progress bar back. Then, he moved it forward frame by frame.

“He shot the driver,” Sgt. Vincent said. “He must have been in on the assassination!”

“That makes it less likely this was an Israeli action,” Col. Harrison said.

“Unless it was a rogue Mossad sleeper cell,” Jamie pointed out.

“Always the spoil-sport, Lieutenant,” the Colonel responded.

“No sir. Just a realist. We can’t assume anything.”

“Alright, let’s see if we can ID the shooter then. Any shots of his face?”

“No, I watched for that,” Sgt. Vincent replied. “We only got a profile.”

Jamie suddenly looked up. “Wait a second. When did the car show up? The one carrying Mas’ud?”

He scrolled back until he got it in frame. “Okay, the shooter is on this building,” Jamie continued. “Let’s see if he accidentally recorded anything in the peripherals.” Jamie started the video again. They watched as the camera moved, the roof of the building swinging into frame.

“There!” Sgt. Vincent exclaimed. The shooter had just dropped an RPG and was pulling out a grenade. While he was seen for less than a second as the camera continued its pan, he had turned and his face was caught.

“Zoom in,” Col. Harrison ordered. Jamie was already on it. In seconds, the face appeared.

“Recognize him?” Col. Harrison asked. The other two men shook their heads. “Okay, well let’s get that into the facial recognition program and see if we get a hit.”

Jamie typed in a command and the picture was emailed to the processing department. Jamie reset the zoom to normal, pressed Play again, and they watched the assassination unfold a second time.

“Wait! Go back!”

Jamie was startled by the command. He looked at Tahirah. “What did you see?”

“No,” she said. “Not see. Listen. To the little boy, just before the explosion.”

Jamie played it. Tahirah shook her head in frustration. “I can’t make it all out.”

Col. Harrison looked at Jamie. “Can you filter the sounds, get it clearer?”

Jamie pulled up the EQ. Then, he looped the film for ten seconds and began to fiddle with the settings.

“There! The boy says, ‘Why are we here? It’s not.’”

“Not what?”

“That’s where it repeats back.”

Jamie expanded the range of the loop.

“‘It’s not Zahrah’s birthday’! Keep it playing.”

Jamie did so as Tahirah listened and continued to translate. “A woman says, ‘Get back behind the metal! It will happen soon. You must stay—’ Then there is the explosion.”

Jamie looked at Tahirah, then Col. Harrison. “The people who filmed this knew what would happen. This was staged.”

Col. Harrison nodded. “I told you it wasn’t Israel. Call Rafiq back and see if he’ll divulge who gave the tape.”

06/04/06 1327h local

The Humvee pulled to a stop outside the television studio and Lt. Jamison Orion exited the vehicle. He entered the main office and said, “I need to see Rafiq.”

He was ushered into a conference room. Moments later, Rafiq appeared. “I did not expect to see you again so soon, Yeshua. Come to evangelize me now?”

“I’m pressed for time,” Jamie responded. “I need to know who the cameraman was.”

Rafiq shook his head. “No, I cannot tell you that. I would already lose my job for giving you the tape. This would get me in even more trouble if an innocent man was harassed because I gave you his name.”

“Rafiq, the people who made that tape are behind the assassination.”

“You come in here and lie to me?” Rafiq stood abruptly in offense.

“It’s not a lie. Listen closely to the audio just before the assassination. The woman talking to her son knows there’s about to be an explosion.”

Rafiq snorted. “Woman? Bah, you can’t trust a woman.”

“Rafiq, I need the name of who gave you the tape.”

“Allah knows such a thing is very dangerous.”

Jack pulled out the envelope. “Another five hundred.”

“I don’t know,” Rafiq muttered. “It is not a question of money.”

“What is it then?”

Rafiq turned away from Jamie. “Yeshua,” he said after a moment, “I cannot tell you what you need. They will kill me.”

“Who? Who will kill you?” Jamie frowned at his friend. “You are the one who told me, ‘I will die when Allah wills.’ Why are you suddenly afraid of death?”

Rafiq didn’t answer. Instead, he started out of the conference room. He touched the door knob, and then turned back. “Yeshua, if I tell you this, you will be killed.”

So that was it. “I can take care of myself.”

“No, you will act on this information. They will kill you.”

Jamie said nothing. Rafiq was in deep deliberation. Then, he finally sighed and said, “The man who filmed the attack is named Hadi. He is part of the militia and will kill you if you try to speak to him. His favorite wife was killed by a US soldier, and he hates all of you now.”

Jamie nodded. “Where does he live?”

Rafiq stared at Jamie for a moment. “Why are you so eager to die?”

“I will die if it is God’s will, yes?”

Rafiq stared for a moment then laughed. “Very well. He lives two kilometers south of the bridge outside. I will get you his address. And Yeshua?”

“Yes, Rafiq?”

“May we meet once more in Paradise. Because I don’t think we shall ever meet here again.”

Rafiq turned and exited the room.

It was a stark and desolate neighborhood. Sgt. Travis Vincent drove the Humvee through the winding streets until he came to a stop outside a low brick structure.

“Alright, gentlemen, stay alert,” Jamie warned. He glanced to the backseat where the two Privates and the Corporal sat. Cpl. Logan Dyer and Pfc. Frank Jeter had been with Jamie through several ops. But between them, straight off the LoDo streets of Denver, was a greenie, Pvt. Alistair Conway.

Conway was a piece of work. His first day in, he asked everyone why it was so hot in the desert.

“Because it’s a desert,” Sgt. Vincent had snapped.

Conway already had a nickname, one that would stick: Alice. It was based off his first name and their complete lack of respect for the eighteen-year-old.

Nicknames were commonly used among the men—sometimes even more so than their real names. Dyer was Killroy; Jeter was Yankee; Vincent was Chrome Dome due to his shaved head; and Jamie, coming from Alaska, was Snowman.

“Sure thing, L.T.” Conway responded. “Hey, that’s cool. You’re a Lieutenant—L.T.—and a Team Leader—T.L.”

Jamie managed not to roll his eyes.

The four exited their vehicle. Conway and Jeter were each armed with M16s. Dyer carried the M249 Squad Automatic Weapon (SAW), and Vincent, always a fan of big explosions, had the M203 grenade launcher. Jamie himself carried an MP5, which just felt way too comfortable in his hands.

After them, Abu al Khayr, their unarmed translator, followed. Despite being unarmed, he was still dressed in body armor.

“Killroy, watch the flank,” Vincent ordered, and Dyer immediately turned with his SAW. The others each took a forward sector while al Khayr walked next to Jamie and they proceeded to the door. There, they stacked up to the right. Jamie knocked on the door.

“Hadi, are you in there?”

Al Khayr repeated the question in Arabic.

There was silence. Jamie and al Khayr repeated the question again.

They could hear movement from inside. Then, the door slowly opened. It was one of the women from the tape. She quickly said something in Arabic.

“She says, ‘There is no Hadi here. You must be mistaken.’”

Jamie replied, “We know Hadi made the tape. We need to speak to him.” Al Khayr quickly translated.

The woman shook her head quickly, said something, and slammed the door.

“She said, ‘There is no tape.’”

Jamie knocked on the door again. “Open the door or we will break it down.”

There was silence from inside. Jamie turned to the others. “Okay, get ready for full breach.”

Jamie stepped back. “Hey, Tango!” Dyer suddenly cried out. The others quickly turned. An Iraqi man walked forward, arms raised. “You seek Hadi?”

“Yes,” Jamie said quickly. “Does he live here?”

“Hadi will not speak with you. But perhaps I can help.”

“I doubt that,” Jamie said. He turned to the others. “Full breach.”

“You said something about a tape? You mean the one on TV, with the Zionist. I know things about this tape.”

Jamie turned back to the Iraqi. “Like what?”

“Like how Hadi was paid $10,000 for it.”

“By the TV station, right?”

The Iraqi laughed. “No. He was paid a week ago. In cash.”

Jamie looked at the others. Perhaps this could be a good lead.

“I’m listening.”

“It is not so simple,” the Iraqi said. “If I tell you, I am in trouble with Hadi. He has an extra $10,000 now too. What do I have? Just my robe. How can I survive?”

Jamie sighed. “What do you want?”

“One thousand.”

“Forget it,” Jamie said.

“It is a pittance for you Americans. And you will want my information.”

Jamie looked at the man. “We don’t have any money with us. Besides, I’ll need to get approval to deal with you.”

The man smiled. “Is no problem. You get money and come back here, to that house. I wait for you there.”

The man turned and ran off. Jamie looked at his men for a moment. “Okay, let’s talk to Harrison.”

06/04/06 1411h local

“Do you think he’s reliable?” Col. Harrison asked.

“I don’t know,” Jamie responded. “But he did know about the tape.”

“Although we mentioned tape in the first place,” Sgt. Vincent pointed out. “He could be conning us.”

“And a thousand dollars seems a little steep, too,” Jamie continued. “Which is why, as I said, I’m not sure if we can trust him.”

Harrison rubbed his chin. “We need more info. Go back and tell him if he wants anything from us, he has to prove his value.”

“Yes, sir,” Jamie said. He turned to Vincent. “Get the team and mount up.”

“And Lieutenant?” Harrison continued.

“Sir?”

“I have a bad feeling about this. Be careful.”

“Yes sir,” Jamie said with a salute.

“Okay, here’s the street,” Vincent said. He turned the Humvee and pulled into the small road.

“Stay alert,” Jamie cautioned the others. He scanned the houses as the Humvee moved toward their destination. Thus far, there was nothing out of the ordinary.

“Here we are,” Vincent said. They stopped at the house the Iraqi had told them earlier.

“Watch your sectors.”

The men quickly got out of the vehicle and started to the house, weapons at the ready.

Jamie knocked on the door. After a few seconds, it opened. The Iraqi man smiled at them and motioned them in.

“You have the money then?”

“Not so fast,” Jamie said. “We need to verify the information you have is accurate. Start talking.”

“Not before you pay.”

“Give me a reason to pay you,” Jamie replied, his hands folded across his chest.

The Iraqi looked wounded. “I can tell you things.”

“My grandma can tell me things,” Vincent put in.

Jamie said, “You’re not getting anything until we know you have something worth paying a thousand dollars for.”

The Iraqi sighed. “Okay, I know where Hadi lives.”

“We know that too. He lives right next door.”

“No,” the Iraqi said. “That is his brother’s wife. Hadi lives in a different place.”

Jamie looked at his Sergeant. “I don’t know. Do you think that’s worth a thousand dollars?”

Vincent shook his head. “It’s a waste of time.”

“I know who killed Mas’ud! His name is Ahmed!”

Jamie looked back at the Iraqi. “Is this him?” He showed a picture of the shooter they had isolated from the video frames.

“I don’t know what he looks like. I only know Hadi said he would pay ten thousand dollars to his brother’s wife if her friend Ahmed killed Mas’ud.”

“We’ll need to verify that.”

“Go ask her then! She lives there, across the street!”

Jamie looked at Vincent again. “Okay. If this is true, you call this number and Col. Harrison will give you a thousand dollars,” Jamie said, handing the man a business card. “Let’s go, Chrome Dome.”

They stepped out of the house and into the street.

Seconds later, a gunshot sounded.

06/04/06 1519h local

The gunshot had come from the house they had first though was Hadi’s, but which the Iraqi informant had said was Hadi’s sister-in-law’s.

“Cover!” Jamie shouted even before the gunshot died out. He and Vincent took cover behind a dusty wagon in the alley. Dyer jumped into a doorway. Conway, al Khayr, and Jeter ducked behind a rubble pile near the Humvee.

There was silence. Jamie looked through the space between the wagon and the wall of the house. He could see nothing. The street was silent, still.

Jamie turned and motioned for Dyer. Using hand signals, he told the twenty-year-old to cover the end of the alley with the SAW. Then he signaled to the others behind the rubble pile. Only al Khayr didn’t understand the command: bound to the rear of the house.

Conway and Jeter began to move. Al Khayr looked at Jamie, fear in his eyes. He was a translator, not a soldier. Jamie waved for him to stay put.

Conway and Jeter had reached the corner at the rear of the house. Jeter took a quick glance around the edge then signaled it was all clear. The two soldiers turned to cover the others.

Jamie started down the alley with Vincent. He waved for al Khayr to join him and the Iraqi quickly ran over. Together, they reached Conway and Jeter before they covered Dyer’s approach.

When they were all together, Jamie whispered, “We’re gonna go in the back door. Keep it stealthy unless you have contact.”

The others nodded. Jamie grabbed al Khayr’s shoulder, “Stay here until we secure the building.”

Al Khayr nodded, his face pale and sweaty. Jamie glanced around the corner, and then moved around it. Vincent followed with the M203. Finally, Jeter moved after Chrome Dome. Conway and Dyer hung back to provide cover.

There still hadn’t been a sound since the gunshot. Jamie felt a bead of sweat trickle near his eye. He blinked and kept glancing around the alley.

The three stopped just past the back door of the house. They divided into sectors and covered Conway and Dyer as they made their way to the doorway too.

When they were ready, Jamie tried the door. It swung open and they could hear a young child crying. Slowly, the soldiers filed in, checking corners and securing the rooms.

The body was in the front room. It was the woman who had answered the door when they had knocked earlier. A blood trail led back down a hall, where the young girl from the video, Zahrah, sat sobbing uncontrollably.

The soldiers quickly checked the remaining rooms. They were all clear. Jamie turned to Dyer: “Killroy, you and Yankee go get al Khayr.” Jeter and Dyer rushed to go get the translator.

Jamie knelt by the young Iraqi girl. “It’s okay,” he whispered gently. She just continued to cry.

Seconds later, Dyer and Jeter returned with al Khayr. The Iraqi man looked somewhat shaken. Jamie couldn’t blame him.

“We need you to translate with her,” Jamie said, pointing at Zahrah. “Ask her if she saw what happened to the woman.”

Al Khayr did so, and the girl responded. “She says that’s her mother, and Uncle Hadi shot her.”

“Hadi? So he was here. Did she see where he went?”

The girl pointed down the street. Jamie picked up his radio: “Black Raven, Black Raven, this is Red Robin.”

After a pause: “Red Robin, this is Black Raven.”

“Black Raven, we have a murder here, and it was apparently done by Night Stalker, over.”

“Copy. Did you say ‘Night Stalker’ or did you mean ‘Night Hawk’?”

Jamie rolled his eyes. Keeping track of all the codes was hard enough without some Pfc. correcting him. “Roger, that’s Night Hawk. He has reportedly gone south from here.”

“Copy.”

“Hey, Snowman! We got a portrait of Ben Franklin here! Make that two!”

Jamie turned and walked to the kitchen where Jeter had called out. Two one hundred dollar bills lay on the floor under the edge of the refrigerator. That was a lot of money, especially in U.S. funds, to find in an Iraqi home.

“We got more than that,” Vincent replied. He had opened the cabinet and taken down a jar. “I’d say there’s at least two grand here.”

Jamie rubbed his chin, then called it in to Black Raven. They were going to confiscate it for evidence; it could be funds paid for making the video.

Jamie returned to al Khayr and Zahrah. “She saying much?”

“No,” al Khayr replied. “Just that her uncle made her get up early and pretend today is her birthday. Then he killed her mother.”

“Okay, we’re gonna take her back to base. Make sure she understands we won’t hurt her.”

Al Khayr began to whisper in her ear. Jamie’s radio suddenly flared to life. It was Blue Jay, the men in Bravo Team for this mission. They had set up a perimeter three blocks around the house.

“Red Robin, this is Blue Jay. We’ve got a guy out for a stroll with an AK two blocks west of your position. Moving to intercept.”

“Copy. We’re leaving now anyway. We’ve got a civilian with us.” Jamie released the radio lever. “Come on, ladies. Let’s pack it up.”

Jamie looked down at Zahrah. The young girl still had tears making their dreadful way down her cheeks. Suddenly, the girl broke away from al Khayr and raced over to Jamie. She fell to the floor and wrapped her arms around his left leg.

“It’s okay,” Jamie said. He helped her to her feet as he motioned toward the others to leave. Zahrah kept a grip on Jamie’s arm, and he led her to the front door.

06/04/06 1602h local

Hadi was a patient man.

When the Americans had murdered his wife of six years earlier last year, he had not exacted revenge then. Not in the heat of the moment when passions made a man foolish.

But he knew sometime he would strike. And it showed the wisdom of Allah that it was actually an American who had provided the way for him to strike back, all by asking him to do one job and to make sure it was filmed.

Hadi knew that the American government would be suspicious of the tape. That was why he had used his real name when he gave the tape to Al-Haqq. He knew the Americans would come to investigate.

So he had set his little trap. And to make sure the Americans would come, he had shot his sister-in-law in the head.

As he thought about it now, he realized he could have just fired the gun into the ceiling and the soldiers would still have come running.

But Allah was in control. It was His will that Hadi kill the woman, otherwise it wouldn’t have happened.

Now it was almost time. Hadi had seen the Americans three blocks away setting up their surveillance. He had sent Ibrahim running down the road with his AK47 as a diversion. Now, he just had to wait.

And Hadi was a patient man.

Jamie watched his men file out in front of him. Then he stepped out with Zahrah still holding on to his hand. The girl smiled up at him and suddenly stumbled.

It saved his life.

Jamie reached for the girl and felt the sudden fire erupt in his left bicep. An instant later, he heard the shot. At the same moment, Vincent cried out: “Sniper!”

The men looked for cover, but there was precious little there in front of the house. “Fall back,” Jamie ordered, and in the confusion raced back into the house without Zahrah. The others followed as a second shot struck the wall near the door.

“Where was he shooting from?” Jamie snapped.

“Southwest building, near the roof, sir,” Jeter responded.

“Did you get a visual?”

“Negative. Based on sound.”

“Okay.”

“Tango!” Dyer cried out. “Corner window on the southwest building.”

Dyer ducked back down behind the window sill.

“Yankee, can you get a shot?” Jamie asked. Jeter had gotten the highest marks on the shooting course—even higher than Jamie’s score.

“I can try.”

“Alright, Killroy, head down the hall and put that SAW in that window. Prepare to cover if Yankee misses.”

Jeter edged forward. He crouched by the window sill in the living room and took aim.

Hadi had waited until he saw Zahrah. She had picked the leader, just like she was supposed to. Unfortunately, she fell right as he took his shot.

But not all was lost. The Americans had run back into the house, just like they should have. Hadi simply picked up his cell phone and waited to see someone standing by the window sill.

Jeter took aim. The Tango still hadn’t popped back up. Jeter was getting nervous. All the glass above his head did nothing to stop a bullet. Instead, it became flying glass shards to join the party. If the Tango didn’t pop up soon, Jeter was getting to some place with more cover.

He saw movement. The sniper had relocated to a different window toward the center of the building. Jeter would have to be quick. With the butt of his M16, he broke the glass window and still moving fast, got the Tango in his sites.

But it didn’t matter, because at that instant Hadi hit the Send button on his cell phone.

The explosion obliterated the front of the house where Jeter had stood.

06/04/06 1619h local

“Give me suppression fire on that building!” Jamie screamed. The others hesitated for a moment, slightly shocked by the explosion, and then opened fire.

Jamie rushed over to Jeter. The man was out cold, and the pool of blood left no doubt he was badly injured. The bomb had been beside his right leg; the explosion had severed it just above the knee. Shrapnel ran up his other leg.

Jamie grabbed him under the shoulders and dragged him deeper into the house. “Cease fire,” he ordered his men. It was deathly quiet. He took the radio: “Black Raven, this is Red Robin, we—”

Machine gun fire suddenly erupted from across the road. “We’re under fire and need a med-evac ASAP!”

Jamie released the radio. The house was far too open now that the entire front face had been blown away. “We’ve got to get out of here, find some cover.”

“Sir, what about Yankee?” Dyer shouted. “Look at his leg!”

“I know! Get a tourniquet on him.”

Vincent was already on it. “What’s that yellow powder?” Dyer continued. “WMD?”

“Rat poison. It’s an anti-coagulant to make him bleed to death. Let’s go!”

The soldiers rushed out the back of the house, Vincent carrying Jeter.

Gunfire erupted from both directions down the alley. Jamie turned and kicked open the door of a nearby stone storehouse. They rushed in to take defensive positions. Outside, the insurgents moved too.

“Blue, we are pinned down! Can you get to us? We need a medic!” Jamie shouted into the radio. There was silence for a moment.

“Negative, Red. We’ve got four Tangos barricaded here overlooking the road. We have to neutralize them before we’re clear.”

“Copy.” Jamie turned to Vincent. “We’ve got to stabilize him here.”

Vincent nodded. Jamie turned to the others. “Killroy, keep your SAW on that doorway. The rest of you, watch the windows.”

Dyer’s SAW erupted with a roar. “Tango down,” he called out.

Jamie ducked down by the window. “Blue, we’ve got two—make that three Tangos on the roof of the building across from us. Let me know when you’re coming so we can suppress.”

Jamie leaned back and checked his MP5. Bullets slammed into the wall over his head. Jamie fired a few rounds toward the men on the roof. He saw movement in the house they had just evacuated.

“Alistair! Toss a frag in there,” Jamie ordered.

There was no response.

“Alistair?” Jamie prodded. “Alice, toss a frag now!”

But Conway had gone rabbit on them. His eyes were open but he saw nothing. His face was slack, drool on his lips. The front of his pants were wet with urine.

“Alistair!” Jamie snapped.

“I’ve got it, sir,” Vincent said. He pulled out a grenade and stood up to throw it.

“Tango! Tango! Tango!” Dyer cried out. His voice was cut off by the shotgun blast. Sgt. Vincent grunted and fell back, his grenade falling to the floor.

“Grenade!” Jamie screamed. Dyer’s SAW had walked into the insurgent and Jamie wasn’t sure he had been heard. He was already moving though, and he picked up Vincent’s grenade and threw it side-arm out the door. It went off before it hit the ground.

Jamie jumped back as bullets kicked up dust in the doorway. He ran over to Vincent.

The sergeant rolled on the ground in agony. Jamie knelt by him, looked for the wound.

It was under Vincent’s body armor. The metal plate had ridden up as Vincent stood to toss the grenade, and he had been hit in the lower abdomen.

Jamie tore Vincent’s shirt open and pulled the metal plate off. There was a six inch long gash an inch wide on his abdomen.

Even worse, Jamie could see Vincent’s pulse. He had nicked an artery.

Jamie moved quickly, thrusting his hand into the wound. He pinched the artery.

“Red, thus is Blue. We’re pinned down. Can you evac toward us?”

Jamie spat and grabbed his radio with his free hand. “Negative! We have two criticals here. If we move, they die.”

“Red, are you positive you can’t move?”

“I’m holding Sgt. Vincent’s artery closed with my fingers,” Jamie shouted. “We cannot move!”

“Roger that.”

“Black Raven,” Jamie continued, “we need a med-evac now!”

“Red Robin, we are coming as fast as we can. It won’t be more than fifteen minutes.”

He doesn’t have fifteen minutes, Jamie thought. Oh, Lord, help me. Please God, save him.

Outside, the AK47s roared.

Hadi moved through the building toward the storage shed. He met Zahrah on the ground floor.

“Well done, my daughter.”

Zahrah beamed a smile at him.

“You run home now,” Hadi said, running his hand through her hair. Then, he chambered a round and left the girl.

Across the street he could hear the roar of the big gun the soldiers had—the one they called the SAW—but that was it. The other guns had fallen silent. Three men lay dead near the entrance to the small stone building the Americans had foolishly entered. Now they were trapped.

Hadi rushed across the street and into the house by the storehouse. He waited for a minute, and then ran out, keeping near the wall, out of view from the Americans.

He paused under the window. Then, he slowly stood, peeking in.

The soldier he had shot in the arm had his back to Hadi. He was tending to a fallen comrade.

Hadi aimed his rifle. Zahrah’s stumble had caused him to miss the leader the first time.

She wasn’t here to spoil this shot.

Jamie had never been so scared. He had always assumed his fear would be for himself, but that wasn’t the case.

Jamie had made his peace with God. But he knew Vincent had not. So as he crouched there over Vincent’s body, his fingers plugging the man’s artery, he continued to pray, not knowing what else to do.

Behind him, the shadow rose. There was a gunshot, and Jamie jerked in shock.

“Tango down!” Alistair Conway said, his trembling hands pointing his M16 toward the window.

Jamie turned back to Vincent. “Hang on, Chrome Dome. Hang on.”

“Red, this is Blue. We’re on our way. Are there still Tangos on the roof?”

Jamie heard his radio, called out to Dyer: “How many Tangos left?”

“Two, sir.”

Jamie repeated it into the radio.

“We’re right behind you now. Can you suppress so we can flank?”

Dyer called out, “I’m on my last box.”

“We’ll do it,” Jamie said. He kicked his MP5 over to Dyer. “Use that and save the SAW. Alistair, suppress with him.”

The two men opened fire toward the Tangos on the roof to make them duck down. A second later, Jamie’s radio flared: “We’re in position.”

“Cease fire,” Jamie ordered. The Tangos on the roof popped back up. An instant later, Blue Jay opened fire from the building on their flank.

“Both Tangos down!” they heard a voice call out. Then Jamie’s radio: “Red, hold fire. We’re coming from the south.”

“Roger,” Jamie said. To the others, he said, “Hold fire to the south.”

Outside there were some footsteps, then a man in fatigues.

It was the medic. He rushed over to Jamie’s side. “Okay, pull your hand out.”

Jamie did. A spurt of blood followed. The medic moved quickly to clamp the artery. Then he started an IV. “Hold this,” he said, giving the bag to Jamie. Then the medic moved over to Jeter and started an IV there too.

Overhead, they heard the sound of propellers. Then a Black Hawk appeared low over the rooftops. There were a couple of gunshots, and one of the Blue Jay team called out, “Tango down!”

“Let’s get these men to the chopper,” the medic said as the Black Hawk settled at the end of the alley.

“Can you cover us while we get the Humvee?” Jamie shouted as they rushed toward the Black Hawk with Jeter and Vincent.

“We’ll get it for you,” one of the soldiers from Blue Jay said. “You just evac!”

Jamie nodded and followed the stretcher with Sgt. Vincent. After the unconscious man was loaded in the chopper next to Jeter, Jamie motioned Dyer and Conway in, and then followed. The engine revved even louder and he felt the ground suddenly lurch away beneath them.

They were finally safe. Jamie leaned back and couldn’t stop shaking.

The medic looked up from Jeter. “Let me see your arm,” he ordered.

“What?”

“Your arm. You’re hit.”

Only then did Jamie feel the dull throb in his bicep once more.

Yes, it’s a picture of me as…Johnny Cash or something. Actually, I was a member of the New Ashmolian Marching Society Band. We practiced for 0 minutes before our performance. We didn’t even tune! It was great. The best atonal music you’ll ever hear. (Click to see almost the entire band, which consisted of a guitar, a piccolo, a trumpet, a snare drum, and a bass drum…Tchiakovsky, eat your heart out!)

In the end, our noise to talent ratio approached infinity. My guitar sounded a bit like I was playing Wild Thing in the key of out-of-tune G. Dave, on trumpet, performed “Call of the Mastadon”, and Michal on piccolo played…whatever, you couldn’t hear it over the trumpet anyway. But at least Eddie and Pam kept the drums on beat. Oh, and that’s the other Dave with the toilet plunger to direct us all.

For people who still think that the war in Iraq is unrelated to the war on terrorism in general, that Al Qaeda isn’t really that big of a deal, or that the United States is really the source of the problem, reality says otherwise. (Warning: graphic pictures from an Al Qaeda torture book recently declassified. Click at your own risk.)

First… Stupid Global Warming. It’s going to cause snow on the ground for Memorial Day. Sheesh.

Secondly, when the power went out yesterday (see previous post)…it was because the tree in the parking lot got hit by lightning! Yup, it’s got a big jagged gash in it now. Bark and branches flew everywhere. Pretty cool.

Finally, I’ve just listened to Linkin Park’s new album, Minutes To Midnight. They finally did an album that didn’t sound like all their other albums. In this new album, they have some different styles and it’s a little heavier. They also apparently discovered the “F word” and lots of untapped anger, as they use it repeatedly. On the whole, despite the new “style” the album is weak. I give it maybe a C. It might grow on me later, but I’m glad this was on sale for $9.49 because it’s sooo not worth ten bucks.

Having a power failure at work due to a storm outside used to be fun. This was before overtime struck. Now, they’re just annoying.

Grrrrr.