Shakedown

by J. Gunnar Grey

  She could scan and compile the path in chunks, creating those three-dimensional images eighteen inches at a time. That would show whatever was down there, if anything. But it would take all night. Neal’s voice, still repeating the call sign behind her, had risen in tone, and his patience wouldn’t last that long.

  Maybe she could filter images by shape, but that would only work if she knew what to look for. With this hardware-software system, it would take time to determine the shape of an underground rock, especially if it was jammed up against other rocks and tree roots. But if she could guess the composition of a bomb, she could instruct the software to search for that particular shape. That would be simpler and quicker.

  Worth a try.

  Chances were she faced an improvised explosive device, such as a pipe bomb, rather than something manufactured professionally. And some IEDs used explosive materials without a recognizable casing, detonated by a cell phone or remote control. So if she filtered for straight, parallel lines and right angles or right angles with gentle curves, any within the chunk of earth she’d just scanned would be highlighted on the screen. She punched in the parameters of the search and waited while the netbook sorted through the data. Still a jumbled mess. No pipe bomb, no cell, no remote.

  Other IEDs were made from artillery or mortar rounds, rigged as booby traps. Almost all such shells had smooth, rounded curves, and those that didn’t looked like pipe bombs and would have been winnowed out by the parallel-lines filter. She saved the first set of parameters—she’d reuse it later when searching the next chunk of earth—and entered recognition parameters for bullet shapes. Again the filter came up empty.

  “Well?” Neal’s voice. She hadn’t noticed when he’d quit repeating the call-up.

  “Gimme a few minutes, will you?”

  “We’re losing daylight, Bonnie. There’s a cougar out here, and I’d rather go home to my wife for dinner instead of becoming his. Not to mention that down here in the canyon, I can’t reach her.”

  The sun hung less than a fingernail’s width above McKittrick Ridge. The strong sunlight had vanished while she’d concentrated. The air had chilled and dark fingers stretched from every solid surface.

  “There’s a flashlight in my pack. You’ve got a shotgun and I’ve got a rifle. Pojo will let us know if the cougar’s near.”

  “You sure about that?”

  No, she wasn’t. He was trained to sniff out explosive materials, not hungry felines. But if he smelled something big and aggressive heading their way, surely such a smart dog would say something. He still hadn’t moved, sitting beside her waiting for results. If Neal’s patience had limits, Pojo’s didn’t seem to.

  “Just get the flashlight, will you?”

  Okay, so not something with parallel lines or right angles, not something smooth and arched. Rounded, like a disk? Couldn’t hurt to try.

  Bonnie saved the bullet-shaped set of parameters and entered a filter for circles or partial circles. The netbook hummed below the rustling leaves. The jumble on the screen sharpened, smoothed, and there, at the upper edge, the software highlighted a circular arch as big as a man’s palm.

  “Oh, crap.”

  “What?” Gravel scuffled behind her.

  “Keep back, Neal. Better yet, get some distance down the trail, say to the hunter line cabin or the Pratt Lodge.”

  “You’re not saying you found something.”

  The last of the sunlight splashed on his face. Whatever he saw on hers, in the shadows that buried her, wiped the sneer off of his.

  “I think it’s a landmine.”

  Pojo barked, one sharp cracking explosion of sound. Bonnie jumped, her leg’s motion rocking the antenna’s upper edge perilously close to the ground’s surface.

  Where the pressure plate would be.

  It was the first time she’d heard him bark. Seemed they were finally on speaking terms.

  Right when it might be too late.

  ****

  Dusk blanketed the path. Bonnie rested one hand beside Pojo’s hindquarters—his weight was sufficient to trigger a landmine, so she knew that ground was safe—leaned over the path, and brushed away the leaves and thin upper level of dirt. A depressed circle emerged, less than five inches across, its leaf-green plastic dirty but obvious against the pale grey-white of the path. In the plastic’s center, soft black rubber in a smaller circle sported four stubby, flat legs in an X-shape across the mine’s upper plate. The rubber pressure plate rested a millimeter below the surface.

  Landmines were almost always found in herds. She stretched out further and to each side, leaning against Pojo’s unmoving, sturdy bulk for balance. Another one. And another. At least four of them, arranged in a diamond pattern in the trail’s center and only a step beyond the little red-pawed path Pojo had paced. He’d protected all of them.

  And she’d nearly allowed Neal to shoot him.

  No wonder her dad had told her to never have kids. Stupid people shouldn’t breed.

  Neal’s voice hammered away again in the background, this time with real urgency. He hadn’t gone far, not nearly as far as she’d ordered, but of course it was his park and she really shouldn’t be ordering him around. Suddenly the monotonous crackle of static was broken. Terri replied. No honeyed Southern tone now, but shrill words, intense in the gathering night and interspersed with loud, staticky bursts. Whatever was wrong was really wrong. Bonnie shook her head and shook it off. She’d hear about it later.

  With the wooden kris dagger, she dug beneath the first mine and levered it from the path. The green plastic circle was about two inches deep and weighed maybe a pound: a Soviet-era PMN-2, one of the worst, most destructive anti-personnel mines ever made. It contained enough Composition B explosive, similar to the bang-stuff within World War II artillery shells, to blow off a soldier’s leg. Not a comforting thought, considering how close she held it to her body.

  When the USSR collapsed, more than one weapons stockpile had simply vanished. Some hopeful, indiscriminate murderer or terrorist had found such a stockpile on the black market. She snorted. Probably an auction website.

  She couldn’t afford to lose her temper or her nerve. It had been a year since she’d practiced clearing minefields. But she’d hung out with Theresa, her friend the explosives expert, long enough for the basics to remain clear in her mind. She had to pry out the fuse without triggering the little button in the center of that black rubber X. And to do that, she had to take the mine apart.

  Risking setting it off.

  She had to do this. The dog sitting beside her didn’t.

  “Pojo, go.”

  He looked at her, eyes glittering in the deepening twilight. He’d seen his previous handler cut in half, and he knew what explosives were, what they could do. Smart as he’d shown himself to be, she’d expected to see him frightened, or if he hadn’t made the causal connection, wearing a normal blank doggy expression.

  He astonished her.

  He looked happy.

  Pojo finally moved. With a yawn, he lay down beside her and began licking his cut front paw, a steady slurping in the forest’s hush.

  Stupid stubborn idiotic fragging frogging mutt. “Pojo, GO.”

  Slurp. Slurp. Slurp. A blatant case of determined civil disobedience. Civil rights for working dogs.

  He’d seen one handler cut in half. He’d rather risk it himself than see another one go the same way and be left alone again.

  And as a fellow vet, she had to respect that.

  Deep breath. Calm. She could do this.

  For both their sakes, she had to.

  Carefully keeping her palm arched away from the pressure plate, Bonnie flipped the landmine over in her left hand. Two socket screws were inset into the bottom plate, in the nine o’clock and noon positions. The largest Allen wrench in her collection fit well enough, although it wasn’t the proper tool for the job. Hard turning pressure, one good jerk, and she tumbled the first socket screw to the path. A startling spot of color, a brigh
t hot pink, flashed beneath it, with equally bright orange beneath the second one. First step successfully done.

  Slurp. Slurp. Slurp. Steady, comforting. A calming rhythm for her dance with their deaths.

  The hardwood kris wasn’t sharp enough to saw through the rubber surrounding the pressure plate, but the edge on her bayonet opened each leg of the X by a good inch and she ripped the black stuff off in shredded pieces. A copper disc in the X’s center, hinged to the plastic, fell aside and exposed the tiny steel nubbin of the trigger. Don’t touch it. Don’t think. The pressure plate itself, also copper and in the same X-shape as the rubber, was held in place with little plastic strips. She pried each aside without letting the plate push against the trigger, and it fell off into her hand, trigger and all.

  The worst was over. And they were still alive, she and Pojo. Slurp. Slurp.

  And then his head came up. His lips lifted, showing those huge gleaming teeth, pale in the night. A bass rumbling spilled from his open jaws, echoed from the Grotto’s cave, shot through her like straight, chilled vodka. He’d changed his mind about dying with her. Now, when the trigger was naked in her hand.

  “Hang on there, Bonnie.” Neal’s voice. Tense but not afraid.

  The flashlight beam swept past her, down the slope and into the stand of young maples surrounding the Grotto’s clearing, beyond where she worked. Buried within their low-hanging cover, something big moved. Something really big. The light stopped, steadied, and two huge eyes, level and unblinking, glittered in the beam. Pojo’s snarling rose an octave.

  “I’m gonna fire. Don’t jump.”

  Good thing Neal hadn’t gone far. “Sounds like a plan.”

  The Mossberg cracked like a metallic whip. Behind her but not over her shoulder, aiming off to the side. The eyes blinked, vanished. The motion behind the saplings stilled. Of course Neal wouldn’t kill the cougar, only drive it away. She sucked in air. At some point she’d quit breathing, and her throat ached as if she’d been throttled.

  Pojo hadn’t flinched at the shot. Hands shaking, she set the green plastic in her lap and stroked his big head. Soft fur under her palm, gritty with dust. “Good dog. Good soldier-dog.”

  The rumbling snarl eased. He stared off into the night. Then he twisted his head, slurped that sloppy tongue across her trouser leg, and returned to washing his front paw.

  “I want you to know that was disgusting.” But at least it hadn’t been across her face.

  “You okay, Bonnie?”

  “I’m good. One more minute here, okay?”

  The kris dagger had been a gift from her commanding officer and was not something she wanted to lose. But bayonets were cheap. The steel point bent at the pressure, but it levered up the mine’s bottom plastic plate, and she ripped the two halves apart. The spring from the pressure plate tumbled aside, and there beneath it was the fuse, looking like an innocent square-headed bolt. The yellow half-ring of Composite B, which was molded around the center components, gleamed briefly in the flashlight’s beam.

  She tugged out the bolt, and it was done.

  “So that’s what a landmine looks like.” Neal squatted beside her. “Little bitty thing, ain’t it?”

  “Told you to keep back.”

  “Not good at following orders. Which is why I’m the ranger boss.”

  “Yeah, as much as Terri lets you.” Bonnie opened the last bottle of sports drink, poured half into the bowl for Pojo, and drained the rest. “What was she upset about earlier? It sounded nasty.”

  Neal shot her a glance, quick and unhappy, then he swung aside and slumped on the rock by the path. “Seems they weren’t lucky enough to have a bomb-sniffing dog at Carlsbad Caverns or on the logging trails up in the Lincoln National Forest. A hiker died before they could get him to the hospital, and a park ranger lost a leg.” His voice dropped to a mumble. “A man I know.” He sat still, as if lost in thought. Finally he leaned over and ruffled Pojo’s ears. The Shepherd didn’t glance up. Slurp. Slurp. “Stubborn brute. So what do we do now?”

  “If you’ll hold the flashlight, I’ll take care of these other three mines.” Better not mention she hadn’t done this since the war. If he didn’t want to be scared away, she wouldn’t try harder. That cougar was still out there. “Then we’ll get back to the contact station and you can call Fort Bliss for an EOD team. You’ll have to close the park until they’re done demining the place.”

  “Terri’s already called them and a team’s on the way. Homeland Security’s saying we’ve got a home-grown terrorist cell attacking national parks, so we’ll close until they sort it out and make some arrests.” His hand moved toward Pojo’s head again. Amber eyes glowed in the darkness, one swift glance, and Neal scratched his own face instead. “And you? What will you do?”

  Surely he knew that without asking. She huffed. “I gotta take care of my dog.”

  ****

  She wanted to carry him back down the trail and save his poor cut paw. But she desisted at the deep rumble in his chest. Instead, Bonnie tugged off her socks and fashioned booties for him, cutting the soft material with the battered bayonet, doubling it over for thickness, and tying them around his lower legs. Pojo sniffed at them, gave her that narrow, amber-eyed look she’d come to appreciate, but tolerated them as an acceptable compromise.

  They plodded down the trail to the contact station together. Neal would drive them to the Willys MB, parked on her service road, and she’d drive them home.

  Whenever they paused on the trail, Pojo leaned against her and washed her trouser leg. Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

  The soldier-dog had come home.

  - 30 -

  Afterword

  Like most of my favorite stories, Shakedown is a blend of fact and fiction. Guadalupe Mountains National Park, McKittrick Canyon, Frijole Ridge, and the Grotto are all real places, rising from the rugged Chihuahua Desert and butting up against the Texas–New Mexico border south of Carlsbad Caverns. The canyon contains a magnificent riparian forest along an intermittent stream, and hikers, both well-behaved and otherwise, come from all over the world to see the autumn colors. Of course, you can’t really live in a national park, but this is the story’s fictional part. And I can dream.

  As well, you really can adopt retiring war dogs from Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas, home of the adoption program. About three hundred of these magnificent animals find homes every year. First consideration is given to the dog’s handler, second to police departments that have need of a working dog, and third to the general public. Most of these canine heroes are over ten years old and have health issues. While there’s no charge for the adoption, civilians are expected to pay for the dog’s transport home. Visit Lackland's website for more information.

  Roughly four thousand people were killed by old minefields in 2010 and about ten thousand injured or maimed. Every year, forgotten landmines resurface. Volunteer organizations around the world are working to clear these leftover war zones in Africa, Asia, Eastern Europe, and South America. One such organization, the HALO Trust, offers more information at this website.

  .

  About the Author

  Hi, I’m Gunnar Grey. I write books. I’m a historian, political junkie, target shooter, and retired adventurer and equestrian. I read avidly and post reviews or at least ratings for most of the books I read. Occasionally my poor husband surfaces from beneath a pile of paperbacks gasping for air… but I shouldn’t bore you with personal issues.

  I live in Humble, Texas, just north of Houston, with four parakeets, the aforementioned husband (who’s even more entertaining than the birds), an orange betta fish with no manners, a fig tree, the lawn from the bad place, three armloads of potted plants, and a coffee maker that’s likely the most important item we own.

  If you enjoyed this little story, or even if you didn't, would you please post a review? Writers need feedback, too. And thanks for your thoughts!

  Also by J. Gunnar Grey

  Prologue

  2
8 May 1940

  seven kilometers east of the Aa Canal, France

  Fear squeezed the prisoners in an iron and icy grip. Clarke could smell it, more pungent than stale uniforms and fresh sweat, taste it in the dust caking his face and lips. The other British officers sitting in a huddle around him stared at the dry turf between their knees or off into some unknowable vacuum. None would meet his gaze.

  “How many of us are there?”

  Beside him, Brownell shrugged and swiped at his brow with one sleeve. With his hands bound it looked as if he shielded his face from a blow. It grated on Clarke’s nerves, revved his rumbling temper.

  “Does it matter?” Brownell asked.

  “It does to me.”

  Brownell shot him a look, not so much baffled as vexed. Good; a fight was better than collapse. They’d argued often in the last weeks, as their steady school-age friendship underwent some sort of relational twist while the British Expeditionary Force retreated across France. But Brownell held his peace. He half-rose, dark eyes scanning the small crowd and lips moving. Clarke’s temper twisted, bitterness rising at the sight. Brownell had a well-deserved Oxford first in mathematics, but he still counted like a five-year-old.

  He didn’t deserve to be murdered.

  Not far from Brownell, in the midst of a small emptiness left by the lower ranks, a light colonel with tired eyes slumped over his lap, epaulettes drooping to match his mustaches. He was the senior officer in the group. He should take command, organize a fight. All they had to do was get one man outside the guards’ field of fire, and they’d have a chance. A suicidal chance, but better than being murdered without a struggle.

  But he just sat there, staring into space. Around him, none of the many second lieutenants lifted their chins. One young subaltern wept. All huddled together, as if needing warmth even in the direct sunlight.