“Best job in the world,” he told anyone who asked. “I absolutely love it.” There was only one thing better in the military dog world than training dogs and teaching students: deploying with a dog—really doing it firsthand—keeping troops from blowing up. And here he was.
But it was hard not to miss Jill, who was now about six months along in her pregnancy.
Willingham used the DSN line at FOB Falcon to talk to Jill. He tried not to phone her while she was on her nursing shift since it was hard for her to get away. During their conversations, he’d give her the big picture of what was going on in their part of Iraq and how Lucca was doing. He always tried to keep it positive, regardless of the danger.
Jill updated him on the latest home news—a barbecue across the street at their good friends’, the Rotenberrys’, how she and their future baby girl were thriving with only three months to go before the due date, her pregnancy cravings for Chipotle salad bowls with a side of guacamole and chips. Like her husband, she tried to keep the conversation upbeat and light. No sense burdening him with day-to-day civilian problems he could do nothing about.
“I love you, babe.”
“I love you, too, babe. Take good care of you and our little girl, ’K?”
“Of course. Be safe out there.”
He finished writing the after-action reports he’d been working on during his short time at Falcon and sent them to Roche via a Secret Internet Protocol Router Network (SIPRNet) on what was referred to as the “secret computer.” Before heading to the tent to get ready for the ride back to Patrol Base Murray, he called Roche to check in and to tell her how happy he was that Wiens was there.
“Those two make anywhere they go a better place,” he told her.
“Very true. You take good care of those boys, OK?”
WIENS STASHED HIS gear next to Willingham’s on the concrete slab of the open stables at Patrol Base Murray. There were dozens of cots now, and it seemed more crowded with soldiers than it had before. Willingham wondered how the dogs were going to be able to sprawl out at night and not trip anyone who needed to get up in the dark.
They claimed a couple of cots and sat down. They got their dogs in some shade behind them, and Lucca and Cooper lay in it, side by side, until the shade shrank into a thin line and disappeared.
“Let’s find these dogs a better place,” Willingham said.
Shade was a rare commodity at midday. But Lucca and Cooper scouted out the potential for some pretty quickly, between a couple of Humvees parked next to each other. There weren’t a lot of Hummers being used in this operation, and Willingham figured they’d probably stay parked there for a while. He and Wiens grabbed their gear and their cots and set up a little home there, stretching some cammy netting from one vehicle to the other for shade. A couple of small woven rugs Willingham had found outside an abandoned compound served as the dog beds. The dogs took advantage of them as soon as they’d had some water.
There was plenty of time before evening ops. While the dogs rested, the soldier and the marine talked about dogs, football, and family.
Willingham wasn’t surprised to learn that Wiens had been working since he was twelve, getting up every day at 2 A.M. with his father and brothers to deliver newspapers. It explained his work ethic. His father, Kevin, had raised his three sons by himself, working full-time as a concrete truck driver and holding down whatever extra gigs he could get in the Independence, Oregon, area to keep his boys fed and clothed. They lived in a few different mobile homes over the years—the last one a double-wide where no one had to sleep in the living room.
Wiens had always loved dogs, but they couldn’t afford to keep one. Plus there was all that moving they were doing. He hoped he’d get a dog when he got a real career going one day, and maybe he could help his dad out, too. He was going to be a civilian cop, just like his older brother, Kevin Jr., wanted to be. His brother had joined the army right after high school and became an MP. He was serving somewhere in Iraq right now. When Wiens joined, he ended up in the world of combat engineers instead. When he heard he’d been recommended to become a specialized search dog handler—something non-MPs didn’t get to do—he couldn’t believe his luck.
“Someone up there likes me,” he told his dad.
The tie to his grandfather struck Wiens at that moment. He knew he was named after his grandfather but had forgotten that his grandfather was a dog handler in the Korean War. It felt as though fate had reached through the generations and settled him into a career that he not only loved, but that ran in his blood.
There was another dog Wiens had almost brought to Iraq, a big German shepherd. He sent his dad photos of both the shepherd and Cooper. His dad was rooting for the shepherd because he looked like he’d take care of his son. But that dog didn’t certify in time for deployment, so Cooper became his partner. Wiens had secretly been pulling for him ever since he met him.
“I loved him right from the start,” Wiens told Willingham. “There’s no son like him!”
“Ha, speak of the devil!” Willingham said.
Wiens turned around and saw Cooper, refreshed from his nap, standing behind him carrying a deflated football and wagging his tail expectantly. It was Cooper’s favorite non-Kong toy from the arsenal of toys Wiens had brought to Iraq for him.
The sun was giving way to late afternoon, and it wasn’t quite as oven hot as it had been when Cooper went to sleep. His dog tried to push past the cot to take his football out for a run, but he couldn’t get by. Wiens adjusted the cot and ran off with Cooper to the open area right next to their little outpost within an outpost. Cooper dropped the flabby football in front of Wiens, and Wiens, the dutiful dad, threw it out for a pass. It didn’t go far, and when Cooper caught it, Wiens whooped it up.
“Coooopaloooooop!”
Lucca perked up from her nap, ears doing their radar pivot action to find out where the sound had come from.
“Lucca, you wanna play some football with your boyfriend?” Willingham asked. She ran to the field and plowed into Cooper.
“Tackle football! That’s my girlll!” Willingham shouted.
Cooper abandoned the ball and for the next few minutes, he and Lucca chased and skidded and played. Wiens and Willingham cheered, proud dads at a football game. The moondust at Murray was so fine that it poofed up in big clouds as the dogs galloped over it. Before the dogs got too tired—they had an evening of work ahead—Willingham and Wiens called them back. Two chalky white apparitions came running, shook at almost the same time, and became Lucca and Cooper again.
Wiens tapped his chest. Cooper jumped up and rested his paws near his handler’s shoulders. They danced together to their own music as Lucca looked and wagged.
“You cut quite the rug there, Kory!”
The afternoon flew by. Willingham and Wiens would be supporting different route-clearing platoons that evening, so they enjoyed the downtime together. They hoped they’d meet up again soon down Route Gnat, or back at Murray. Before heading off on separate missions, they bumped fists and wished each other luck.
“Be safe out there, brother,” Willingham told him. Then he looked at Cooper. “Watch after him, Coopaloop.”
THE “BIRD DOG” led the way. The man’s entire head and face, except for his eyes and a little slit over his mouth, were wrapped in white turban material. The rest of him was covered in army cammies. No one could tell who he was, and that was the point. He was local, and he was helping the Americans. If an al-Qaeda member recognized him, he could be as good as dead. His family, too.
After Operation Marne Torch got under way, there had been a surge of al-Qaeda violence against anyone caught cooperating with the Americans. Days after the Americans arrived, al-Qaeda operatives sent a clear message to the local community. They stopped a bus carrying workers for the coalition, drove it to the Tigris River, shot to death twenty-three workers, including women—all plead
ing for their lives—and dumped the bodies in the river.
“The enemy is very talented out here,” Adgie told The Washington Post about a week into Marne Torch. “It’s going to be a long summer.”
Willingham wasn’t sure exactly how bird dogs got their name. He imagined that, like their canine counterparts, they pointed out things that weren’t obvious to others—IEDs and al-Qaeda members, mostly. In theory, bird dogs are aware of who is planting what, and where, and can spot situations that aren’t normal.
The routine with this bird dog was that he would look down the road, move ahead, and then move back. If he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, Willingham would send Lucca down in their usual manner to sniff out explosives on the sides of the road, and then the Buffalo mine-protected clearance vehicle would roll through, scanning for bombs on the road itself.
Willingham and Lucca had just joined back up with the route-clearance team after spending the morning searching compounds with another platoon. Lucca had searched about forty meters down the road and was coming back. The bird dog had gone off to some side path to have a look or a smoke. This put him behind Willingham.
Suddenly the bird dog let out a frightened shriek, followed by several more in rapid succession. Willingham spun around and saw wires from a partly buried cylindrical IED. He’d later learn that the bird dog had come in from the side path—one Lucca had not yet checked—kicking the ground as he walked. His foot caught the IED just right. Willingham stopped Lucca where she was and looked in disbelief at what was going on behind him.
Closest to him was the IED. A few feet back from the IED, the bird dog had gone from screams to petrified-sounding Arabic, maybe prayers. And twenty yards beyond him was the hulking Buffalo mine-protected vehicle. Behind it, the rest of the patrol.
He and Lucca were now separated from his entire team by an IED. Ahead lay who knows what kind of danger. And he stood there with no cover. A sniper could take him out easy. Or the IED could go off. He called Lucca back to him along the side of the road she’d already inspected. He needed to have her ready at his side for whatever action he’d take next. As she trotted back to him, he walked toward her and assessed the situation. It took only seconds, and he knew what he had to do.
On the left side of the dirt road was thick vegetation, which would make a good place for a sniper to hide and aim at a clearing about twenty yards down the road. About forty yards to the left of the road, the Tigris River flowed by, and Willingham could see ample areas where snipers could take cover on the other side of it. A mound of sand here, a clump of weeds there—it was textbook sniper strategy. On the right side of the road, a palm grove, also perfect for snipers.
Just past where the vegetation cleared stood a small mud shed with three walls; its front wall was nonexistent, so it opened to the north, facing his supporting unit. It would be good cover for him and Lucca. The choice was to head there or go back toward the IED, which could have a companion. He opted for the shed. Lucca had already searched this strip the first time around, so Willingham was more concerned with snipers than IEDs.
“Come on, Lucca,” he said, and poised his rifle along his chest as his eyes swept his surroundings. She walked swiftly at his side, and within ten seconds they came to the shed. “Lucca, seek.” He had her do a quick search along the open north side, and they entered. He stood close to a sidewall. “Lie down, Lucca; take a rest.” She obliged, panting, at his feet.
They were now protected on three sides, and he was able to see his army guys at work. He watched the EOD techs as they approached the IED and checked it out. In about seven minutes, his team rolled up to the shed.
He got the postmortem. After careful examination, the techs had determined that when the bird dog kicked the IED, the wires connected. By some fateful sleight of hand, the battery was faulty. “You guys would have been a pink mist if the battery was good,” one of the techs told him, shaking his head.
“WE’VE GOT SOME intel about al-Qaeda down here. Tell Lucca to be on her toes,” the platoon sergeant told Willingham.
“Absolutely.”
“Mama Lucca,” he said to her quietly, “you’re always on your toes, aren’t you? He doesn’t know you well enough to know that yet.”
Willingham was heartened to see how quickly intel was coming in. They’d been making their way down Route Gnat for more than a week, and residents were opening up to them as they realized that their chance—possibly their only chance—to rid themselves of life under al-Qaeda had arrived.
After the first big find, Lucca had some small discoveries—a weapons cache here, some det cord there. “Nothing earthshaking lately, eh?” one young soldier said to Willingham over MRE dinners one night. “Ha-ha-ha!”
Word about Lucca had spread, and Willingham was fielding requests every day to walk point for one squad or another from the Alpha and Bravo companies. They often asked for her by name. Instead of “We need a dog, and there’s a dog,” it was, “We need to get Lucca on this mission.” He and Lucca were keeping soldiers out of harm’s way. Willingham felt good that they were getting them back to their girlfriends, wives, parents, and children in one piece.
Up ahead about a hundred meters, on the left side of the road, Willingham saw a small, crumbling shack. Its roof was made of long twigs that had seen better days. A rusty bathtub sat to its side, and beside it were two cars. They looked in decent shape and seemed out of place next to the dilapidated shack. It reminded him of people back home who lived in humble conditions but drove flashy cars they couldn’t afford. Since the Triangle of Death wasn’t populated with car dealerships offering low-cost financing, they caught his attention. The platoon sergeant caught up with Willingham and confirmed his suspicion.
“Hey, the bird dog tells us the men who own those cars are probably al-Qaeda,” the platoon sergeant told him. “Can you send Lucca in?”
“Sure thing. Lucca, forward.”
She trotted ahead, and he followed a little closer than usual, so he could direct her if need be. There were two cars—a green model with some obvious mileage and a silver BMW. The green car was closest, and when Lucca got near, her tail set to wagging as if the car were a giant Kong. She needed no direction from Willingham. She had practiced vehicle inspections so much that she was on autopilot. She sniffed the front bumper, then walked quickly to the driver’s side and sniffed the seam of the door, then the back door, and back and forth between the doors a couple more times. Her tail wagged harder now as she stared at the back door. She glanced at Willingham, and he read the message in her look.
We got something here. Send in EOD.
He called her back, praised her up, and gave her a Kong. She lay down in the shade and enjoyed her reward. Willingham told his security guy that Lucca had responded—something he figured was pretty obvious, but he had to make sure; not everyone spoke Lucca language. His spotter radioed the platoon leader. EOD was there quickly. The techs saw a white sack on the rear floor of the car. After making sure the door wasn’t booby-trapped, they opened it and checked the contents. It was full of IED components. The BMW contained a similar payload.
The techs carefully removed the rice sacks and placed them next to each other. They weren’t going to move them any farther. They didn’t know how unstable the stuff was, and it wasn’t worth losing body parts, or more.
By now, everyone had retreated to a position of safety at least forty meters away. The soldiers sat in their vehicles—Bradleys, mostly—and waited. Willingham and Lucca were sitting in the Humvee that had become their mode of transportation. Bradleys were too hot for this dog. Lucca stretched out on a bench seat and fell asleep in air-conditioned bliss.
A loud boom, a big cloud of smoke, and it was done. Lucca opened her eyes and fell right back to sleep.
The stuff that was going to become bombs or turn the cars into vehicle-borne IEDs that could have killed dozens of innocent people rained down in
fine ashes.
Willingham laughed. “Look what you did, Lucca!” he said.
EOD gave the all clear. Willingham and the soldiers left their vehicles. He headed down to look closely at the damage. There wasn’t much left of the sacks, but the cars hadn’t been harmed.
“Hey, K-9, you want to destroy a vehicle?” the platoon leader asked him.
“Hell yeah!”
The squad leader handed him an incendiary grenade and told him what to do. Willingham shot out the back window of the green car. The squad leader did the same to the BMW. Willingham pulled the pin, walked up, and tossed in the grenade, and within seconds, there was a spattering hiss or two, and black smoke poured out of the cars. Part of him wanted to stay and watch, but it wasn’t an option. A gas tank or who knows what else could blow up. He and the squad leader walked quickly away, up the road, toward the waiting vehicles. But before they were out of sight, he turned around and could see orange-white flames mixing with the black smoke. The intense heat of the grenades was consuming everything it touched.
“Oh damn, look at those things go!” Willingham shouted.
Soldiers wooted and cheered again from their vehicles. It had been quite a day of pyrotechnics. He got into the Humvee where Lucca was waiting, and they drove on to the afternoon’s next objective.
They came back the next day to check out the damage. Tires were gone. Windows had disappeared. It was impossible for him to see if they’d melted, shattered, or both. The exteriors were charred beyond recognition, with the formerly green (now ash gray) car suffering significant structural melting.
“No insurgents gonna be driving these cars anymore,” he said. “Good job, girl.”
He wondered for a moment how many lives Lucca had saved. Could be dozens. Could be just one. It didn’t matter. They were putting it to the enemy.
YOU HAVE TO think like a terrorist to outsmart one. It was something Willingham had been telling his students for years. And out here, after a couple of weeks in 120-degree heat, carrying eighty pounds of gear, it was becoming easier to plumb the thought processes of the bad guy.
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