The Broken Shield Read online

  The Broken Shield

  The Broken Shield

  Midpoint

  The Broken Shield

  A short story by J. J. Carlson

  Copyright © 2016

  ISAAC

  August 14th, 2003 is a date I'll never forget. I tried to forget it for years, but I'm glad I didn't. What happened that day helped shape me into the man I am, a man I hope my mother would be proud of.

  My name is Isaac Lynch. I am the assistant team leader of a Special Response Team with the Department of Homeland Security. We are the big guns. We handle the dangerous missions that other folks in law enforcement aren't equipped or trained for. We deal with the worst kind of filth that draws breath on this earth. We do drug busts, hostage rescues, or any other high-risk mission you could think of. When police officers call for backup, they get a SWAT team. When SWAT calls for backup, they get us. The job is almost always dangerous, but I'm glad to do it. I know what it's like to be in a bad situation, the kind where you don’t know if you’ll make it out alive. I've been a cop, I did time on SWAT, I wore a Special Agent badge for years. I have seen combat on American soil for over a decade. From what I've seen, this country has become a warzone. But I will proudly carry both shield and sword into battle.

  I don't think anyone can get to where I am without a strong internal drive. You don't get onto SRT by accident, and everyone draws motivation from different places. For me, that place was a shopping center parking lot in 2003. It was a nice day—warm, sunny, and mild. I was twelve years old, about to go into seventh grade. I was going to run track that year, and my mom wanted to buy me some new shoes.

  I still have those shoes. I have never worn them, except to try them on. I had the biggest smile on my face as my mom and I walked out of the store. We were heading back to her car, a rusty old Buick with stickers on the back windows and gum in the seat cushions. As we walked, a crowd of people began to fill the parking lot. Some were carrying signs or waving flags. They were protesting something, but to this day I don't know what it was. I had seen protests before, but only on television. I didn't think much of it. Actually, I thought it was kind of cool. My mom knew better, and she seemed worried. Even though I was nearly a foot taller than her, she grabbed my hand, and led me forward. I was looking around at all of the color and all of the commotion. I didn't feel afraid or out of place one bit. Then, someone nearby started to yell, and people all around us began to chant in response.

  My mom gripped my hand tighter. The crowd was getting really dense, and we had to push our way through. The shouting grew louder and louder. The chants broke down into chaotic, angry shrieks. Then we heard gunfire, and the crowd of protesters became an angry mob. People shoved past us, running toward the street.

  My mother was so small. She tried to fight her way forward, but she couldn't stay on her feet. My hand was wrenched out of her grip and she hit the ground. I screamed for people to stop, but my voice was drowned out in the confusion. All they could hear was the sound of their own shouts, of their own fear and anger. I tried to reach her, but people kept knocking me aside. Finally, I just stayed down on my knees and crawled toward her. People were trampling her like she was garbage. Like she was nothing. I reached her and tried to shield her body. People bumped me. Some kicked me as they skirted around our bodies.

  When the torrent of people subsided, I sat back to look at my mother. Her eyes were open, but she didn't seem to hear me. I shook her gently and stroked her face at first. Then I yelled at her and begged her to get up. When she still didn't respond, I started to yell for help. I screamed louder than I ever had before. I know people heard me. Some of the protesters even made eye contact, but none of them came to help.

  One of the officers in riot gear heard me calling. He left the protection of his team and ran over to me. The protesters saw this as an opportunity. They hurled things at him, hit him with whatever they could find. The punched him in the side and kicked him from behind, but he never fought back. He hunched over me, keeping me safe. He grabbed his radio and called for an ambulance. It must have been twenty minutes before it arrived, but he never left my side.

  My mother was already gone. She was gone before they could help her, probably before I could even crawl to her. She was a beautiful person. She had never hurt anyone in her life, and they trampled her to death. These people who were probably marching for peace, or calling for an end of some injustice. And they couldn't spare one second for the woman they had just killed.

  Some people say we were just "in the wrong place at the wrong time." It takes everything I have not to punch those people in their sympathetic faces. Wrong place at the wrong time? We were there because of me. It was a parking lot in broad daylight. Don't try to tell me this was my fault, or fate, or a sorry coincidence. I know who holds the blame for her death, and I have dedicated my life to fighting back. I stand up for the innocent, like that police officer did for me.

  Even more, I kill the scumbags that would take an innocent life.

  GERALD

  The pain felt at the loss of a loved one does not subside with time, as some may say. Instead, I believe those left to mourn slowly become numb to it. The sufferer does not heal from such a wound, but forsakes a part of himself in order to continue living. He becomes a mere portion of his former being, like an amputee that surrenders a necrotic limb to avoid succumbing to infection. For them, life will never be the same, and will never be complete.

  My name is Gerald Taylor, and I lost my father on August 14th, 2003. Perhaps the term “lost” is too delicate. In truth, my father was murdered that day. He was a kind and peaceful man, and I can only hope to emulate his character in my own life.

  That day was like many others for him, but it was new and exciting to me. We were attending a peace march to protest “imperialism,” as my father called it. He was a member of several activist groups, and had been on dozens of marches throughout his life. Sometimes he would find himself in the midst of lawless pandemonium, but violence was not an option for my father. He had never harmed another person, not even to defend himself.

  My father understood that such rallies had the potential to become dangerous, and this was the first time I was allowed to accompany him. I had just turned fifteen, and I thought his concern was completely unwarranted. Everyone at the protest was so friendly.

  We were among the first people there. My father sipped coffee and chatted with one of his friends. They discussed the difficulty of maintaining a well-groomed lawn with the abundance of recent rainfall. Their conversation shifted to a heated debate about the local professional football team’s chances of making the playoffs in the upcoming season. As other members of their activist group showed up, they welcomed them warmly with firm handshakes and bear hugs. I busied myself with creating brightly colored signs. They were far from artistic or clever, but it felt good to be helping. My father and I were a part of something. We were not just sitting around complaining about everything that was wrong with the world. We were doing something about it.

  The crowd continued to swell and I joined my father's side. He put an arm around me and gave me a squeeze. “What do you think?” He asked.

  “It's nice,” I said. “It is a lot less serious than I expected. Everyone seems to be having so much fun.”

  He look offended. “Who ever said you can't stand up for what's right and have fun at the same time?”

  I just shrugged my shoulders. He laughed and ruffled my hair. “The world is a dark enough place, son. It is our job to be a light, and when you are the only light in a dark place, you can't afford to hide under a basket. That's why we are here, where everyone can see us.”

  I thought it was corny. It pains me to this day, but I know I rolled my eyes at him.
r />   I turned my attention to the growing throng of people. Several people were holding bright poster board signs like mine. A few held flags, and almost everyone was smiling. I saw at a cute girl from my school. She was wearing a white tank top and a short denim skirt. I must have stared at her a little too long, because she looked over at me with an annoyed look on her face. I quickly shifted my gaze up at the sky, over to the trees along the street, then down at my feet. My face burned with embarrassment.

  “C'mon, son,” my father said. “Looks like we are moving.”

  The cops had arrived, and formed a menacing line next to a nearby shopping center. We began marching toward them, ready to express our discontent. With everyone moving in one direction, the street became even more crowded. My father and I cut through a parking lot in order to get closer to the front. A man nearby started shouting. Another started jumping up and down and swinging his arms. He reminded me of a boxer getting ready for a title fight. The energy was contagious, and I started to walk faster, pushing against the person in front of me.

  I felt a strong hand gripping my arm. It was my father, and he looked very unhappy. “Settle down. This is not how we do things. We do not follow others if they are walking down a path that leads to violence. You are my son, so you will help me set the example for them to follow.”

  I should have felt ashamed and rightfully chastised. Instead, I felt angry and annoyed. I wore a disgruntled expression as I slowly walked with my father to the front of the crowd. He was polite the entire time, gently pushing past people and excusing himself the whole way. Finally, we joined the wall of protestors that was facing off with the orderly line of riot police. Except for my father and I, the entire line of protestors was in motion. They shouted, waved obscene gestures, and spit toward the police. I wanted to join in with the jeering, but my father would not let me. He had to raise his voice to nearly a shout for me to hear. “We are here to protest, not to fight. We are peacemakers, not warriors.”

  I sighed heavily. I was starting to think that my father was a coward. Everyone around me was ready to fight for what was right, and all he cared about was peace. I felt disdain toward his words.

  The cops remained alarmingly stoic. They were motionless, even when people started hurling garbage at them. Then everything changed.

  A brick was thrown from somewhere behind us. It hit one of the cops in the shoulder, and the response was immediate. The cops in the front row swung their guns up and opened fire. My father was the first person shot, and he dropped to the ground. Something hit me in the chest and I fell backwards. The pain was incredible. I looked down, expecting to see blood pouring from a gaping wound, but there was none. I was later told that the cops had fired “non-lethal,” wooden bullets at us.

  I rolled over to check on my father. Blood covered his face and pooled on the ground behind his head. “Dad!” I cried out. “Dad, are you okay?”

  He didn't respond. I supported his head in my hands, trying to stop the bleeding. “Dad, get up! You're hurt—we have to get you to the hospital. Wake up, Dad!”

  Tears steamed down my face and landed on his forehead. He was too heavy for me to lift and I had no one to help me. I could do nothing but cry out as my father died in my arms.

  ********************

  I transitioned into adulthood without a father, but I never used his absence as an excuse for apathy or mediocrity. I studied hard and worked harder. By the time I was twenty-three, I had a Master's degree in Sociology from Columbia University. A few years after that, I was sitting on the board of more social justice organizations than my father ever had. I taught sociology at a small university for a few years before taking a full-time, salaried position with a large, non-profit organization. My reputation as an outspoken defender of the downtrodden spread quickly. It was clear that I wanted equality for every man and woman at any cost.

  My lectures, opinion papers, and interviews eventually caught the attention of people who were not afraid to use draconian methods to accomplish their goals. One day, a man introduced himself as a representative of an organization called Relentless Autonomy, and asked if I could provide a series of introductory lessons on Neo-Marxism to his organization.

  I was hesitant at first, but I eventually agreed to help. Over the next several weekends I provided lectures in the seediest, filthiest, and most unprofessional venues I had ever seen. Far removed from the demur audiences of academia, those in attendance appeared to be criminals of the worst sort. Yet, to my surprise, many of them were very articulate and well-educated. They were, without exception, incredibly enthusiastic and engaging. I began to have lively discussions with them that would last well into the night and sometimes until the sun came up.

  I slowly began to distance myself from less radical groups so that I could spend more time with Relentless Autonomy. I was gaining their trust, and they indisputably had mine. Late one evening I was asked if I wanted to join the fight against tyranny in a more literal sense. I immediately agreed. It was my first taste of criminal activity, and something my father never would have approved of. Still, it was nothing drastic. We merely vandalized a State Senator's car, sending a message that we would not tolerate his authoritarian rhetoric.

  It wasn't long after that when I was approached with another “mission.” I accepted it as well, and many more to follow. The nature of the crimes I was involved in became more and more insidious. But were they really crimes? After all, the laws that we were breaking were simply methods of the bourgeois to dominate the common man. Rebellious activities against the State were to be commended, not regretted. Eventually, my conscience became increasingly quiet and compliant to my new lifestyle.

  When I was asked to plan a violent ambush, I was initially hesitant. Orchestrating a gunfight, kidnapping, and execution was beyond what I thought I could stomach. I blamed my reluctance on cognitive dissonance. Long held beliefs from my childhood were simply interfering with my ability to make the right decision. The others reminded me of how important our work was. They argued that real change could never occur without true dedication and purposeful action. Everything leading up to this point was just a partial treatment to the sickness we sought to cure, and would mean nothing if we could not gain national attention.

  I knew they were right. We could never hope to unite the proletariat without decisive communication. We needed to send a message that would reach every like-minded person in the country, and many more around the world. True liberation would never be won without sacrifice.

  Many of us were involved in creating the plan, and many more would be responsible for carrying it out. A few of our most loyal members would take hostages in an easily defensible part of town. The hostages would actually be our own people, also ready to take up arms as needed. We would place an anonymous call to law enforcement about the situation. Ideally, the crisis would escalate without bloodshed, leading the police to call for help from their most brutish associates. As their backup approached, we would detonate an explosive device and attack their vehicle. This assault itself would send a rallying shout to those sympathetic to our cause. The next step could only be carried out if we could secure a living hostage. We would execute this representative of the tyrannical state in a live broadcast. The world would witness the veracity of our determination and the rectitude of our cause. We would show the common man that he does not have to fear the praetorian guard. The elitist heads of state would realize that the days of their oppressive dynasty were numbered.

  ISAAC

  No one on the team was surprised when the call came in. The initial response to a hostage situation had gone out hours ago, and things weren't going well. The perps were well armed and well organized. I was standing by in the break room when we got word from dispatch that it was our turn to roll out. Everyone was dressed in full battle rattle—body armor, elbow and knee pads, modular Kevlar helmets, night optical devices, the works. The diesel engine on our mine-resistant vehicle was already running outside.

&n
bsp; This was what I lived for.

  We hurried out to the truck, weapons in hand. I slapped the spare magazines on the front of my plate-carrier, touched the breaching axe that was slung over my shoulder, tapped my eye-protection, and ran my thumb down the cross necklace my wife had given me. I never really bought into religion, but it reminded me of her, and I thought of it as a kind of good-luck charm. I hopped into the truck and sat down behind the team leader. He was riding shotgun for better visibility, and my seat was close enough to his for me to hear him over the roar of the engine. I discussed our route with him one more time. Getting down to Ninth Street would take about ten minutes at full speed with our lights on.

  The whole situation was pretty routine. Bad guys take hostages, local law enforcement can't handle it, we come in and kill the bad guys. There was just one aspect of the mission that worried me. Road construction on Eighth Street and Tenth Street was severely limiting our route selection. Basically, we only had one way to get to where we were going. We would be driving in a funnel for nearly twelve blocks. That is never a good thing. I preferred to have options if something were to go wrong. In the end, we decided it was an acceptable risk. Our truck was built with a v-shape hull to deflect the blast of mines or improvised explosive devices. The windows were thick and bullet-proof. The body surrounding the cab and troop transport area was solid steel. Even rocket-propelled-grenades wouldn't scratch this thing.

  Maybe overconfidence was our undoing. Shortly after we passed onto Ninth Street, the hair started to stand up on the back of my neck. A man on the corner was watching the area. When he saw us, he turned away and put his cell phone up to his ear. Our vehicle was outfitted with radio and cell phone jammers that would screw up the signal of anyone nearby. This would hinder enemies that were trying to communicate or remotely detonate a bomb. The man looked at his phone for a moment, and then waved at someone farther down the block. I started scanning the buildings surrounding us, expecting the see signs of an ambush. I tried to see into windows, and checked the rooftops looming over our heads. But the attack didn't come from above.