by Chris Hechtl
“Enter!” a familiar growl stated.
The sergeant major opened the door, entered, and nodded to the general as he came to stand at attention in front of his desk. “Sir.”
“At ease, Jamey. You get the package?”
“Yes sir. About that ….” The sergeant major frowned and then shrugged. It was best to dive right into it, he thought. “Sir, we don't have anyone who can handle the dog. Not anyone on the books,” the sergeant major said, shaking his head.
The general frowned. He was a bluff man; a shooter who'd risen through the ranks. At some point in his past, he'd mustanged himself up from a noncom to officer. He'd kept his hard-won muscles and battle scars and somehow gotten through the glass ceiling to flag rank. “Then we'll find someone off the books. Someone with experience, or hell, if it comes to it, someone without the training but who had a dog growing up. Someone interested in the role.”
The sergeant major made a face. “That we do have, sir. But he's not going to like it.”
“Oh?”
“He's going to take some work, sir. He just transferred out of K-9 after losing his partner as you remember, sir,” the sergeant major said pointedly. “He has no interest in returning to the fold. It is on record, sir.”
“You're talking about our recent medal of honor corporal? Why the hell is he still a corporal?”
“He re-upped sir and refused to use the medal. He doesn't play that game, sir; he's pretty stubborn. He also has some points against him for insubordination, not following orders, and a couple for some nasty bar fights.”
“And he's liable to pitch three shades of a fit if we do this?”
“And he's in the barracks, sir, not individual quarters. He's not set up to have a K-9 partner.”
“And we can't put the dog in a kennel. General Murtough was firm on that point,” the general replied, rubbing his chin. He tapped at his chin with his index finger for a moment. “Damn it. I'll talk to the man. At least he won't play the medal game if he balks.”
“I don't think he will, sir, but I haven't gotten to know him as well as I should. He's damned good on paper. And you know his record.”
“Pull it up for me. I'll go over it while you whistle him up.”
“Yes sir,” the sergeant major said, pointing to the general's tablet. “It's already in your inbox flagged for your viewing pleasure, sir. There is something else though ….”
“Oh?”
The sergeant major glanced to the door where the dog was sitting outside in the adjoining room. “The dog requested him.”
“The dog did?”
The noncom nodded. “It's what one of the techs said. Something about it was his decision, and he wanted our unit because of Aspin, sir.”
“Get him,” the general said firmly. He turned a questioning look at the door then went back to looking out the window. Finally he turned his attention to the tablet. He pulled up the corporal's bio.
Thomas “Boomer” Aspin had lost his dog in combat during his previous tour and was reluctant to take on another dog. The general frowned. There was something there, a notation about possible PTSD as well as some notes on grief therapy. He thought of the dog as just that, a dog, but handlers who worked with the animals treated them as partners. He grunted. And a partner who died in combat took it right out of a soldier, and under those circumstances …, he scowled.
He used his scarred finger to scroll down, scanning the notations and history. Apparently Aspin had had spent an extensive time in rehab getting back on his feet, then avoided most of the dog and pony show the pentagon usually sicced on medal winners. He had accepted a MOS transfer to ordinance disposal over K-9, even though it had come with a demotion in rank. He had recently graduated from the last training school. According to his scores he was quite good, no problems and very cool under pressure. He'd expected it from the corporal's previous history, but it was a good reassurance that he still could keep his head while under the gun. But then again, that was in a testing scenario.
Thirty minutes later the sergeant major escorted Aspin into the general's office. “Corporal Aspin as requested, sir,” the sergeant major said, stepping to the side. Both men came to attention. Boomer knew it couldn't be good; you never wanted to be seen by the brass. Which meant, his being called out on the carpet meant he was about to go through something nasty he wasn't going to like. And for the life of him, he wasn't sure why. He'd searched his mind on the way over but hadn't found anything he'd done to warrant such treatment. He'd been an angel, or at least tried to be.
“At ease,” General Burk stated, eying the marine. “Aspin, I'm about to screw you.”
“Sir?”
“You are aware of the problems with theft?”
Aspin nodded. “Yes, sir.” There was some scuttlebutt that it was an inside job. Whoever was doing it, they had the patrol schedules down cold. Even changing it up didn't produce results. They ghosted in and out, and it was making everyone involved look like fools, which was not good for their careers.
“We need to get a handle on that ASAP. But to do that we've got to get a bit unconventional. I pulled in some favors, and we're getting another K-9 unit. A special one.”
He watched as Aspin's jaw worked.
“You have special training on these animals according to your file,” the general stated, tossing his tablet onto the desk. “You're getting the dog,” the general said. “That's not negotiable. If you want to pitch a fit, have at it. But just remember, I pulled in a lot of damned favors to get this mutt,” he stated, pointing a thumb to the door. “General Murtough went out on a limb for me. He's even on lease; the dog was not to be considered US property.”
Boomer was clearly put out. The sergeant major eyed him for a long moment. He stood there fuming but knew better than to argue. “Call him in, Sergeant Major,” the general ordered.
“Bumper!” The sergeant major said, going to the door. The door opened before he got there though, so he stepped aside in surprise as it opened and the dog stepped in around it.
It was a Chow mix Boomer saw out of the corner of his eye. Red with saddle markings and a rough-like mane around his neck. He had a big head and odd looking front paws. But he walked with grace into the room, and then sat next to Boomer. His eyes looked down to the dog who looked up to him, cocked his head, then back to the general. His ears were alert.
“Learn to live with each other. No leash, he's a smart dog. He knows verbal and hand signal commands. He is an expert in most of the K-9 fields according to the records they provided,” the sergeant major stated. “And yes, he can go full tactical if the situation warrants it.”
“With this theft case, I doubt it will come to that, but you never know,” the general stated. “Get this sorted out ASAP. We've got an IG inspection coming up in a month, and we need to be squared away.”
“Aye aye, sir,” the sergeant major stated. He glanced slightly to Boomer.
“Aye aye, sir,” the corporal stated.
“Dismissed, Corporal. The sergeant major will set you up with the usual you need for the dog. Make sure he's well cared for; he probably costs more than our entire unit,” the general said with a shake of his head.
“Aye, sir. Come on, dog,” the corporal said roughly, walking out. After a moment the dog turned to him and then sprang into action to follow.
“Think he can handle it?”
“I think if anyone can, he can. A normal K-9 partner wouldn't work. I've heard of these smart dogs, sir,” the sergeant major stated.
“We'll see if he's the edge we need or just a headache.”
“As long as he doesn't screw up bad enough that we have to put him down, we should be fine.”
“Don't even joke about that, James. I wasn't kidding about the dog being borrowed. He's strictly off limits.”
“Oh joy.”
“Yes.”
“Should we let Colonel Smalert know, sir?”
“Let's see how long it takes him to find out the dog is in th
e barracks,” the general said, cracking a slight smile.
The sergeant major winced. “That's mean, sir. Macky's on leave right now. It may be a couple of days. A week maybe with the colonel in that conference Wednesday.”
“Well, wanna run a bet?”
“Not on your life, sir, you've already gotten a C note out of me twice this month.”
“Chicken.”
“Just learning how and when to pick my battles, sir,” the sergeant major replied with a small smile.
“Fine then. Be that way. What's next?”
“Well, now that you've got that headache as squared away as possible, I was thinking we should give the MPs another go. Change their radio frequencies and put them on random patrols. Perhaps with some of the enlisted doing random patrols as well?”
“We'll burn up a lot of fuel that way,” the general stated. “I don't think we have it on the books for that sort of coverage. We'll need to work it carefully.”
“Well, sir, I was thinking foot patrols ….” The sergeant major pulled out a map and pointed.
“With our new K-9 team in the mix?”
“Aspin should be in a hummer, sir, to cover more ground. The dog can sniff from the truck, and if he alerts they can stop.”
“Good point. Keep that. But the others ….”
---
Boomer exited the HQ with a stiff gate. It wasn't that he was sore. Modern military medicine had seen to that; no, it was he was pissed. Pissed with no form of outlet to vent too. Pissed and stuck with a shit detail that was most likely going to give him nightmares.
He stopped at the door and held it open. The familiar click of claws followed him out into the sunlight. “Now what? No one told me if you've been fed. I can take a wild guess at what you eat,” Boomer said, sizing his new unwanted partner up. From the dog's gaze, he knew he was getting much the same treatment.
“Don't expect me to like this, mutt; I'm not happy. This wasn't my idea. I didn't want it. Not now, not ever again,” he said, closing his eyes in pain.
His chest worked as did his nostrils as he breathed in and out for a few moments. Finally his eyes opened, and he looked at the dog as the dog danced out of an enlisted man's way. “But apparently the universe doesn't give a shit what I think or want. Back up on the horse they say. It's bullshit, but here we are. Fine. I don't believe in deliberately screwing up. It's not the marine way, so we'll make it work. Just don't expect me to like it,” he stated with a growl. The dog's ears went flat.
“You are as big as a bumper. No wonder the name. You look like you could rip one off and use it as a chew toy.”
The dog looked at him, and then growled softly. His ears were still back. There was no sign of teeth, just a low rumble.
“Don't growl at me, boy, or I'll shave you bald and call you pinky,” Boomer stated, looking the dog in the eye. He knew about dominance and knew he had to show the dog who was boss. But staring down a 150-pound, 4-legged animal with canines nearly two inches long wasn't for the faint of heart. The big dog growled again. “Wanna try high and tight?” Boomer warned, running his right hand through his stubble.
The dog dropped to the deck and shut up. "Yeah, I thought not," the marine replied with a snort. The dog panted and looked away.
“Come on. I've got fire watch tonight. We can go over the hand and verbal signals after we get fed.” The dog wagged his tail. “To the galley it is then,” Boomer said moving out. The dog cocked his head and then followed.
---
When they went on their first patrol, the dog took off to his right into the darkness. “Patrol six this is two, going off my track to chase the damned dog,” Boomer growled, shutting off his hummer. He cut the lights and got out. When he heard the dog growl, he pulled the radio out. “Patrol, two beta is on to something …,” he turned in place and found a hole in the fence. “Two, we have a situation. We have a breach,” he stated, turning to track the dog by the shuffle of his moving feet.
He coordinated with the MPs and caught a pair of thieves trying to make off with some copper from a building that had been shut down on the outskirts of the base. Boomer and the MPs he called in cornered them neatly, though Bumper's single growl had been enough to get them quivering and falling all over themselves to surrender instead of splitting up and running for the bush.
The MPs told him he had a hell of a dog after they cuffed the suspects and brought them back to security for questioning.
Boomer shook his head, looking at the dog who was sitting there quietly looking at them and then to the two suspects. "Beginner's luck. These yahoos were making enough noise for anyone to hear them."
"Yeah, well, your partner …."
"He's not my partner," Boomer barked, glaring at them.
"Okay, your buddy is tinkling on the general's ride. Better set him straight," the MP said, pointing to Bumper. The marine turned and then made a loud awe shit before slapping his thigh and going to the dog. The MPs snickered.
---
Boomer was a marine veteran new to the 7th. He was proud of his basic EOD engineering tabs but very much aware that he was on a long scary haul upwards to get the next two badges. But he'd gotten his jump quals and others, so it didn't faze him.
The ordinance detection section of his unit was a tight unit; he wasn't certain how the dog would fit into the mix. Come to think of it, did the dog have any skills? He frowned, glancing at him. “Damn it, they didn't tell me much, did they? I have no idea if you can sniff out a bomb or just bacon,” he growled. The dog cocked his head then went back to looking around.
Here he was, assigned a new partner in Bumper without a clue on how to use him. Bumper was an experimental gene-engineered dog; he was pretty sure of that. He frowned, fighting the internal pain that realization caused. Old memories of his former partner rose to the surface of his mind. He turned away with a scowl. “I didn't want this,” he said roughly after a moment. “Not again,” he murmured. He closed his eyes. “Never again if I'd had my way. I went to EOD, all that damned training, took a demotion …,” he snorted then opened his eyes. “All a monumental waste of time,” he growled.
The dog looked at him then snorted softly.
“What're you looking at,” he said, looking at the dog, then looking away.
“Hey, what'cha got there, Boom man?”
“A dog.”
“Really! I didn't know,” Ellis said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
“Then why'd you ask?” Boomer asked, headed to his rack. He took a seat and looked at the dog.
“You know you aren't supposed to have a dog, right? Is he a stray?”
“No. The brass sicced him on me,” Boomer said gruffly.
“What? Don't he need a leash or something? Are you going over to IED detection or something?”
“Not that I know of,” Boomer said, shaking his head. “He doesn't need a leash,” he said absently. “He's some sort of smart dog. Keyed to me,” he said.
“You don't say,” Ellis said, looking the dog over. “He doesn't look so smart.”
“Yeah, well, you don't either, but we don't hold that against you,” Myers quipped. That got a chuckle from the group. “Seriously, Boomer, the dog ….”
“Allergies?”
“Just to trouble. And he's trouble with a capital T.”
“What can go wrong? The general ordered it, so I'm covered,” Boomer replied with a shrug.
Boomer was not sure about the entire thing, but Bumper seemed okay with the situation. He flopped down at the edge of the rack. Boomer got the 1001 questions from the other guys and gals in his unit. Unfortunately, he didn't have much of a clue and said so. And what he did know, he wasn't sure he should tell them. They eventually got tired of asking and settled down.
Everyone loved the dog; well, everyone who was a dog person. A few of the cat people were a bit put out, but that was their problem. Bumper made the rounds, and it was apparent to his partner that he was sizing people up
, seeing who he could mix with and who to avoid. He was also getting a sniff of each person, probably for his own personal IFF. Boomer nodded in approval. He took some time to size up his new unwanted partner.
Bumper was a Chow/shepherd mix, or at least he'd started out as one. He was a reddish color with a broad face and enlarged head. He also had odd front paws and some changes to his hind quarters and spine. He was pretty sure the dog had been grown in a lab at Lagroose Industries somewhere in outer space.
Boomer frowned thoughtfully. The first generation of designer dogs had been around to fix some of their medical problems and to increase their performance skills. He wasn't certain what this dog had under his coat.
What he was certain of was that Bumper looked vaguely like Boomer's first dog, Wizard. Were they related? He frowned thoughtfully. No, again, a damned test tube, he reminded himself with a scowl. He hated the idea of people playing God like that; they didn't stop to think if they should, just slapped themselves on the back if they got it right.
Admittedly though, Wizard had been a wonder; he'd saved millions of lives when a terrorist had tried to detonate a dirty nuke. Wizard had lost his life in the process, but thousands, possibly millions of people had survived unscathed. And Boomer had made damn certain the bastards who'd been responsible hadn't lived to enjoy their long life behind bars.
The usual terrorist attacks were in the media. There were some odd activities as well, stuff attributed to terrorists or hackers, but no one could pin down a culprit. And no one was stepping up to say they did it either. That was odd. He shook his head. You could barely believe what was in the media, some stuff they sanitized, some shit they spun or whatever. Bullshit.
Recently there had been some odd rumors of robots going amuck. Jokes on the net and in social media about the AI gaining conciseness. He didn't know what to make of it. If they did wake up and suddenly want to join the world, whatever. But if they went all terminator, mankind was thoroughly screwed. The net was slow though. He shook his head and shut off his link.
He didn't have a cybernetic implant. Just the basic ident implant, a rice grain sized thing they'd stuck in him. Well, more than one, there was another in his torso in case his arm ever got lost. They were supposed to serve as dog tags. They did let him in to certain areas. He'd never bothered to learn how to link his credit card to them; he'd heard some shit about RF tags getting stolen by hackers with the right commo equipment. Fuck that.