Caesar the War Dog 2

by Stephen Dando-Collins

  The two sailors nodded in confirmation.

  Thirteen thousand feet above the C-17, at 20,000 feet, the seven Special Forces men of Sky Team were on their feet, Caesar by Ben’s side, and waiting as their Herc’s tail slowly came down. It was bitterly cold at this altitude – well below zero. If they were up at 35,000 feet, like the Wedgetail way above them, it would be minus forty-five degrees Celsius inside the open cargo cabin, and they would have begun to feel the effects of frostbite on their skin within minutes.

  The men had already disconnected from the Hercules’ oxygen supply and switched over to their individual oxygen tanks. Ben had also flicked the switch that changed Caesar’s oxygen intake from ‘rich’ to ‘normal’. Caesar looked out at the night sky from the back of the plane, soaking up the camaraderie of the men around him. He sensed that he and Ben were about to play a really good game.

  Charlie bent down and lifted Caesar up, allowing Ben to attach his EDD to the special harness he was wearing. Caesar, in doggles and oxygen mask, now hung sideways across Ben’s stomach. It wasn’t a pretty sight but it was practical. As no one had yet found a way to teach dogs to open their own parachutes and steer to a designated landing zone, Ben and Caesar would jump as one and use the same parachute.

  Charlie ruffled one of Caesar’s ears, gave Ben a thumbs up with a gloved hand, then moved to the front of the line of jumpers. They all stood watching a red light on the fuselage wall. Ben and Caesar were at the back of the line with Baz directly in front of them.

  Baz had been forced to leave behind his favourite Minimi machinegun. Instead, he was equipped with a lighter MP5 and a flotation bag filled with lead weights. Charlie had given Baz the role of ‘sweeper’ on this op. His task was to clean up after the rest of the team, to ensure no trace was left of their unorthodox arrival at Dragon Lake – an arrival now just minutes away. The plane’s Air Force jumpmaster, also in oxygen gear, raised two fingers to the waiting jumpers, indicating two minutes to go.

  ‘Go! Go! Go!’ the pilot of Cheese Cutter instructed over the intercom.

  In the next moment, the C-17’s four jet engines began to race. As the aircraft’s nose rose sharply, Staff Sergeant Kramer signalled to two subordinates. The men nodded and, each swinging a mallet, dislodged the wooden chocks from either side of the wheels of the mini-submarine’s undercarriage. As the floor of the C-17 began to slope, Renzo and Ellerman took a firm, steadying hold of the webbing beside them.

  The Pencil began to move, rolling on its under­carriage toward the C-17’s rear, slowly at first, then with increasing velocity. The submarine rushed past Renzo, Ellerman and Kramer with a rumble of its wheels on the aircraft’s metal floor. Sliding over the ramp, sub and undercarriage dropped away into the night and dis­appeared from view.

  As Kramer unclipped Renzo’s safety harness, the commander looked at her blankly. She pointed to the black sky. A thousand images flashed through Renzo’s mind of the last time he’d gone down into the watery depths in a mini-sub. It had been another DSRV that had become lodged in the wreckage of a sunken warship, 310 metres below the surface. Renzo had been trapped alone on the seabed for hours and had had to be rescued by another DSRV.

  He’d received a medal for his courage during that episode, but had been plagued with nightmares from his experience ever since. Renzo had never told anyone, preferring to keep his nightmares and his fears to himself. As far as the Navy and the world were concerned, Commander Dave Renzo had come through unscathed by those scary hours trapped at the bottom of the sea and was the bravest DSRV skipper there was.

  When Renzo hesitated, Sergeant Kramer took his arm and guided him along the ramp. They came to a halt on the tip of the open ramp and wavered there until Ellerman came barrelling into Renzo’s right shoulder. The force of their connection knocked Renzo from the ramp. Seconds later, he was falling free. He felt his parachute open with a jerk just as, nearby, Ellerman’s chute was also deploying.

  In the Special Operations HQ, all eyes were glued to the screen. Pictures beamed back from EITS allowed Lieutenant General McAvoy and his team to watch the Pencil slowly descend 4000 feet with the aid of black parachutes that had automatically deployed once the sub was free of the C-17. The sets of wheels that it had been resting on inside the C-17 had long since tumbled into the lake.

  ‘We have touchdown!’ Major Jinko announced with delight, as the Pencil hit the lake nose first with an almighty splash.

  Once the parachutes had settled around the sub and the froth from its landing had subsided, the Pencil appeared to be riding well in the water.

  ‘Thank the Lord it didn’t sink,’ McAvoy remarked. ‘Where’s the sub’s crew?’

  ‘Some distance to the west,’ said Brigadier Quiggly, pointing to an image on another screen. It showed Commander Renzo and Lieutenant Ellerman making contact with the lake, metres apart from one another.

  ‘Good enough,’ said McAvoy. ‘They’re down, that’s what counts. You can give Sky Team the “go”.’

  The lamp above the Hercules’ open ramp changed from red to green. The plane’s jumpmaster looked at the parachutists, and dropped his arm, as if starting a race.

  Without a word, Charlie ran along the ramp and threw himself out into the night. Behind him, Lucky Mertz, Angus Bruce, Chris Banner, Casper Mortenson and Bendigo Baz followed his example and exited the aircraft one after the other. All were carrying their weapons, with equipment bags strapped to them. In addition to his weapon and equipment bag, Lucky Mertz carried a large black package which sagged from his waist – the deflated dinghy they would inflate and use to reach the submarine. With the extra weight of Caesar, Ben couldn’t run, but could only lumber along. In seconds EDD and handler, too, had leapt off the ramp.

  Now began a freefall that would end only when Ben’s altimeter showed that they had reached 4000 feet. Ben fell in the crab position, not quite upright, leaning forward with his arms and legs splayed. Caesar, strapped to Ben’s front, revelled in the rushing slipstream. After a few seconds, Ben reached behind him and yanked his ripcord. There was a flutter of black silk as a small guide chute flew out followed by the main chute, which opened above them with a sudden jerk. Ben and Caesar’s rapid fall abruptly slowed to a gentle descent.

  The black Special Ops chute, once deployed, took a rectangular shape and it was possible to steer it to glide to a desired landing spot with precision. Ben steered toward the splashes of the six men who had gone before him. When he and Caesar hit the water, with the force of their speed and weight, they went under. As they did, Ben held his breath and reached for the tab on his life preserver and pulled hard. Hissssss! The life preserver quickly began to fill.

  When they finally broke the surface of the water, Ben filled his lungs with the crisp night air. He immediately tilted back to get Caesar’s head above water, then reached down and removed Caesar’s oxygen mask and doggles, slipping them both into an empty black canvas pouch attached to his belt. He squeezed a catch on Caesar’s harness and it clicked open.

  Caesar, suddenly freed, paddled beside his master. The water was cold but Ben’s thermals would insulate him, while Caesar had his natural insulation to keep him warm. It helped that there was not a breath of wind.

  Ben began to strip off his gear, his helmet the first item to be discarded. It sank immediately, and for a moment Ben imagined hearing Maddie and Josh scolding him for littering the beautiful, untarnished Dragon Lake. It was littering but it couldn’t be helped. People’s lives were in the balance. Next, Ben struggled out of his parachute harness and began dragging in the black chute, bundling it as it reeled in. He could see and hear other members of the team swimming nearby.

  ‘Over here!’ came the hoarse voice of Lucky Mertz. ‘I’ve got the dinghy inflated.’

  With Caesar swimming beside him, Ben made his way to Lucky, who was kneeling in the black ten-man dinghy and helping others into it. He reached down, took Caesar’s front legs and hauled the labrador in. Ben followed after him. Soon, most of th
e team were in the dinghy. Charlie was one of the last to reach it. As he and Baz hung onto the side of the rubber boat, Casper reached down and offered Charlie a hand.

  Once inside the dinghy, Charlie frowned. ‘Casper, where’s your equipment bag?’

  Mortenson looked away guiltily. ‘Sorry, Charlie, I lost it.’

  ‘Lost it?’ Charlie said, aghast.

  ‘It came off when I hit the water, and sank like a stone.’ Casper shrugged a helpless shrug. ‘What can I say? My harness broke.’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding!’ said Charlie, shaking his head.

  ‘Sorry, Charlie, but these things happen.’

  ‘Was anything vital in Casper’s bag?’ Lucky asked, trying to gauge the damage.

  Charlie looked at the Danish diver. ‘Where’s the homing device? Don’t tell me it was in your bag.’ When Casper didn’t reply, Charlie again shook his head in disbelief. ‘Casper, you’re the most experienced water operative in this group! I gave the homing device to you for safekeeping.’

  ‘Sorry, Charlie,’ Casper said again, unable to look him in the eye.

  ‘Jeez!’ Bendigo Baz exclaimed. ‘How are we going to find the sub now?’

  In the pitch-black it was impossible to even see the shore, let alone the lowlying black shape of the Pencil.

  ‘We can’t be in this lake when the sun rises!’ Charlie exclaimed, half to himself. He turned to the others. ‘If we are, locals could tip off the Taliban and the hostages will be as good as dead. Anybody got any bright ideas about how we locate the Pencil now?’

  Using their GPS devices, the US Navy’s Renzo and Ellerman located the Pencil drifting on the silky-smooth lake. Kneeling in their little one-man dinghies, the two US Navy officers used their hands as oars to make their way to the floating mini-submarine. Once there, they stabbed holes in their craft to sink them. Then, with backs aching from rowing, they clambered up onto the Pencil’s narrow, metre-wide deck.

  After opening the forward hatch without difficulty, Renzo headed below to check that all was intact. Ellerman, on his knees on the deck, began cutting away the lines leading to the deflated parachutes that had given the craft a reasonably soft landing. Before long, Renzo re-emerged from the circular hatchway and, leaving the hatch open, joined his subordinate on deck.

  ‘All shipshape below, as far as I can see,’ Renzo said, as he drew his knife and joined Ellerman in slashing the parachute ropes. ‘Seems the Pencil survived the drop without any damage.’

  ‘We’ll only really know once we submerge,’ Ellerman commented as he continued cutting. ‘Fingers crossed.’

  ‘Fingers and toes crossed,’ Renzo responded. He paused to gaze out into the darkness. ‘So, where are our passengers?’

  A breeze had begun to pick up, making the surface of the lake increasingly choppy. As water lapped around them, Charlie looked at the blackened faces of his companions in the rubber dinghy. ‘Any ideas?’ he asked. ‘Without the homing device, how the heck do we find that sub now?’

  ‘Apart from rowing blindly around Dragon Lake, hoping to bump into it before sunrise,’ added Lucky.

  ‘I might have a solution,’ Ben spoke up. ‘Caesar.’

  Caesar had been lying with his head resting on the edge of the dinghy. At the mention of his name, his head immediately came up and he looked at Ben attentively.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Charlie responded. ‘I don’t think Caesar’s got a GPS homing device on him.’

  ‘Caesar is a GPS homing device,’ said Ben.

  Charlie frowned. ‘Say again?’

  ‘Didn’t you say the sub’s been fitted with explosive charges to destroy it if things go wrong?’

  ‘Yeah, but –’

  ‘If the sub’s crew is onboard and have left a hatch open, there’s a good possibility Caesar could pick up the scent of the explosives from the sub – if we’re close enough and if the wind’s blowing in the right direction.’

  ‘A lot of “ifs” there!’ Casper remarked.

  Baz, still in the water and busy dragging all their parachutes into a large waterlogged bundle, declared confidently, ‘Caesar will do it. That dog’s worth his weight in gold, mate.’

  ‘Well, it’s worth a try, Ben,’ said Charlie. ‘Go for it.’

  Ben bent and whispered to Caesar. ‘You’re going to have to do some more swimming, boy.’ He clipped on a long leash, gave Caesar a vigorous pat, then lifted the labrador up and eased him over the side, back into the water. ‘Seek on, Caesar. Seek on!’

  Caesar didn’t hesitate. He began to paddle, keeping his nose high out of the water as he sniffed the crisp early morning breeze.

  ‘Nice one, super-sniffer,’ said Lucky.

  The men in the dinghy, unclipping small paddles from its sides, knelt and began to paddle after the labrador, leaving Baz behind.

  ‘It’s all up to Caesar now,’ said Charlie, half to himself, as he rowed.

  Baz was left treading water in their wake as seven black parachutes wafted about him like seaweed. Methodically, Baz tied the parachute harnesses to the floating lead-filled device he’d been carrying. He then pulled a tab and the air quickly escaped from the device. It sank rapidly, taking the parachutes down with it. In an instant all evidence of their drop vanished. With the job done, Baz swam after the dinghy, and was pulled aboard.

  One of the two bearded Taliban insurgents on guard atop a hill nudged his companion, who was almost asleep.

  ‘What is it?’ the second sentry asked with a yawn.

  ‘Listen,’ said the first insurgent, cocking his head. ‘Can you not hear that? Jet engines. An aircraft.’

  The other man listened. ‘Yes, I hear it. What of it? We hear aircraft flying overhead all the time.’

  ‘But here in these remote mountains? At this time of the morning?’ said the first man suspiciously. ‘Could it be bringing devil soldiers?’

  What they could hear was the sound of the engines of the C-17 that had just dropped the Pencil and its two-man crew into Dragon Lake, as it now climbed away into the distance, bound for a refuelling stop in Kuwait before returning to California. As for the Hercules that had dropped Sky Team, and the circling Wedgetail above it, they were flying too high to be heard from the ground.

  ‘It is probably nothing,’ said the second insurgent, ‘but you had better report it to Commander Baradar.’

  The first man took up his walkie-talkie, but as he opened his mouth to speak he was hit from behind by a flying Duke Hazard. In the same instant the second Taliban fighter was tackled by Sergeant Tim McHenry. The walkie-talkie spiralled from the first man’s hands. Within seconds the two surprised Taliban fighters had been wrestled to the ground and disarmed. Members of Land Team, who had silently climbed the hill to where the pair had been on guard, then bound and gagged them.

  Hazard called to his radio operator, ‘Cisco, advise the general that the sentry post has been neutralised and that we’re moving up to the cheese factory door.’

  ‘Copy that,’ Cisco acknowledged, unhitching his radio.

  Caesar had been swimming through the waters of Dragon Lake for fifteen minutes, with Sky Team rowing slowly behind him. Charlie and Lucky had put their night-vision goggles back on and were scanning the vicinity for signs of the Pencil.

  ‘Poor wee Caesar,’ said Sergeant Bruce. ‘How long can he keep this up, Ben?’

  ‘Caesar would swim all day if I let him,’ Ben answered. ‘He never gives up.’ Just the same, Ben was worried about exhausting his dog and he could tell that Caesar hadn’t yet picked up a scent.

  ‘If anyone could lead us to the sub, it’d be Caesar,’ Baz said confidently.

  ‘Yes, but it is a long shot, after all,’ said Mortenson. ‘I don’t think a dog could –’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Ben. ‘Look.’ He pointed ahead of them. ‘Caesar’s heading off in a new direction and he’s swimming harder. I think he might be on to something, boys.’

  ‘Follow that dog!’ ordered Charlie, and they all rowed a
little harder.

  After Caesar had been swimming in this new direction for several minutes, Baz pointed into the night. ‘There it is! There’s the sub, dead ahead!’

  ‘Caesar the super-sniffer does it again!’ said Lucky.

  They rowed on until the dinghy bumped against the side of the sub. Caesar hadn’t allowed Ben or the others to haul him back into the dinghy. Squirming from their grasp, he’d been obsessively determined to swim to the sub and locate the explosives that he’d picked up with his amazing sense of smell.

  With Commander Renzo below deck, Lieutenant Ellerman was on hand to help the troops. Reaching down from the narrow deck, he took the mooring rope handed up to him by Corporal Banner.

  ‘Morning, guys,’ Ellerman said in a hushed voice, clearly relieved. ‘We were worried you weren’t going to make it.’

  ‘Held up by a small hitch, sir,’ Charlie replied, ‘but our EDD saved the day.’

  Caesar came swimming up, and only now would he allow Ben to pull him into the dinghy. Once aboard, he stood and shook himself from head to tail, showering those around him with water.

  ‘Steady on there, Caesar, boy,’ laughed Sergeant Bruce as he got a face full of spray.

  ‘Well done, mate,’ said Ben, giving Caesar a cuddle and a vigorous pat. ‘Good job, Caesar. Good boy!’

  ‘Yes, well done, Caesar,’ Charlie agreed, and his sentiments were echoed by the others.

  Caesar’s dripping tail wagged with delight. But his nose pointed toward the open hatch, via which the smell of explosives was reaching his nostrils.

  ‘Everyone on board the sub, quick as you can,’ Charlie urged. ‘I’ll deal with the dinghy.’

  The other members of Sky Team tossed their black equipment bags up onto the sub’s deck then scrambled after them. With Lucky leading the way, the men then entered the sub’s interior through the open forward hatch. Ben waited with Charlie and Lieutenant Ellerman. Then, grasping Caesar under his front legs, Ben lowered his EDD through the hatchway to Baz, below, then climbed down after him.