Curious pedestrians stopped at a respectful distance and stared.

Friscker handed the card to Benson, rather more gently this time. Attached to it was a green paper slip.

“I’m not scared a’ no mutt,” Officer Friscker said quietly, glaring defiantly at Petey.

Petey reared on his hind legs, barking furiously. Benson restrained him just out of reach of the officer.

“Oh, this is no mutt.” Benson looked at his dog with undisguised pride. “He’s an excellent guard dog — for our own protection, you know. What’s this green thing?”

“That there is an Anti-Social Behavior Order, sir. That ASBO requires you to be off the streets by 2200 hours.”

He smirked and walked away.

“You have a nice day, sir.”

“Hey, what the f—” Benson began, but Jane yanked on his arm and mumbled into his jacket.

“Do — not — say — anything.”

3

Just Say No

A PRISONER IN A BLACK SHROUD covering his head and torso balanced precariously on a stool. He lost his footing and struck the concrete floor with his elbow.

On all fours, a male prisoner wearing a dog collar and leash was led around, naked, by a female soldier. She even rode on his back and swatted his bare butt.

A German shepherd barked ferociously at a cringing prisoner trying to protect his face, the lunging, snarling dog barely held back at the end of a long chain by his master. The piercing, explosive barks ricocheted off the bare concrete walls.

The news reports portrayed all these scenes and more from the overseas detention centers as if they were somehow monstrous and criminal. Perhaps for the average person, far removed from the reality of fighting a hard war, they were indeed upsetting or offensive to contemplate. The public wanted its wars to be cleansed of any visible brutality. They preferred not to see innocent terror victims blown up by the side of some remote road. They didn’t want to witness their soldiers torn apart in battle and suffering in unspeakable pain, or dead, stacked like firewood in body bags. That would be too personal, too upsetting. Too real.

Benson wasn’t much impressed with these deliberately provocative reports from the war front. If certain techniques yielded valuable intelligence that saved even one soldier from harm, it would be worth it, wouldn’t it? It isn’t torture; it’s humiliation, he reasoned. It helps break them down. There’s no lasting harm.

Benson recalled a truly grisly incident that had also made the news. Hooded terrorists had sawed off a captured soldier’s leg as he shrieked away in agony. They held up the severed leg for the camera as if they were showing off a prize fish they’d caught, singing praises to their God. Benson had felt infuriated and sickened.

Amputation, burning, electrocution — now that’s real torture. Our enemies have no qualms about inflicting the worst torture imaginable. Not since the Dark Ages have we seen anything like this.

Benson knew the trauma of war. He’d seen men’s limbs blown off, their insides spilling out onto the dirt, choking on their own blood. He’d seen screaming villagers fleeing the searing flames, chemical sprays and napalm explosions chasing after them, their flowing white robes and scarves flapping in the wind as they scattered wildly. He’d heard a soldier screaming in unbearable agony for his best friend to kill him quickly and end it.

Special Ops, Task Force 88.

In two tours of duty he’d been in the middle of hell. He had stood firing into the void, unable to see through the fog and smoke, his brothers cut down by machine gun fire; yelling and crying in pure panic, shells screeching overhead, a pandemonium and terror that couldn’t be conquered by any amount of bravery or sheer force of will. Real war wasn’t anything like those movies in which the hero would walk off into the sunset and everything would be set right. He saw things no human being should ever see. When he returned, he was not the same man who left.