“We have, sir. All U.S. dogs serving in Vietnam are supposed to have coding inside their ears,” Travis replied.
“And?”
“Well, there’s nothing, sir. But we’ll check again.”
Frank sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “All right, gentlemen, seeing that you’ve taken an active interest in this dog, what is your recommendation?”
Fletcher, having regained his composure, recognized his opportunity. “I suggest we keep him here until he is fully rehabilitated.”
“And then?”
“Then, sir, let’s see if he has any training. We could use a dog here to patrol the perimeter.”
“We don’t have any facilities to care for dogs here. They need special food, medicine, dips—”
“Sir, we are fortunate enough to have been given the support of a nearby dog unit, who’ve provided us with supplies. We have all that we need at the moment. The men have agreed to personally sponsor whatever else we might require.”
“You’re the senior man in all of this, Lord. What do you make of this?”
“I think the dog has brought the men together and is doing wonders for morale. And, to be honest, I think the base can do with all the good feeling we can muster at the moment, because we’re getting royally fucked over out there.”
Frank turned in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. “I want a plan, Carson. On my desk by the end of today. Where he’s going to sleep, a list of the supplies we still need, a schedule to get him moving again—everything.”
“Yes, sir. Appreciate it, sir.”
“Lord’s right, Carson. It’s about morale at this stage. I’m not blind to what goes on around here. I’ve seen what this dog has done for the men. All right … dismissed.”
As they turned and headed for the door, Frank stopped them. “Carson, wait,” he said, offering a wad of dollar bills. “For your … money wall.”
Twenty-seven
The next six weeks were spent largely rehabilitating Jack. At first, his progress was painstakingly slow. After the first week, they suspected his legs were permanently damaged, as he could barely stand for more than a minute before collapsing. He was eating and drinking better than any dog living in the backyard of American suburbia, but his lack of mobility was a major concern. A few of the men suggested it was cruel to see him suffer and that perhaps he should be put out of his misery, although no one dared say anything directly to Fletcher, who would sooner step on a mine than consider euthanasia. Jack had shown remarkable powers of recovery, and he wasn’t about to lose faith in him now.
That faith was repaid a few days later when Jack tentatively began to take his first steps. After that, his recovery accelerated dramatically. As the circulation in his legs improved, he quickly progressed to a sure-footed trot. A few weeks later, he was able to run freely. The miracle was almost complete. The men each took turns walking, feeding, and looking after him, but mostly only when Fletcher wasn’t able to. The dog may have become the base’s mascot to some degree, but there were no illusions as to whom he belonged. As time passed, Fletcher and the Labrador became virtually inseparable.
Despite further attempts to find out where Jack had come from, their efforts were unsuccessful. Gunther had spent hours tracking down other dog units in the region, but none of them reported a missing dog of Jack’s description. More surprising was the discovery that he was highly trained. It first became apparent when he reacted to basic commands, but even more obvious one morning when he was taken on a patrol of the base’s perimeter. Fletcher noticed a change in him the instant he put on his leash. Using the full length of the restraint, Jack quickly moved ahead of him, sniffing the ground and processing the immediate area. They had been walking for only a few seconds when Jack suddenly dropped down and began to make soft whimpering noises.
“What is it, Jack?” Fletcher asked, moving up alongside him.
A low growl issued from the back of Jack’s throat. It was the first time Fletcher had witnessed any form of aggression from him. Not sure what to do, he gently placed his hand on top of his head to calm him, but the growl only intensified.
Suddenly Fletcher understood. Less than a yard ahead of them, buried halfway in the mud alongside the fence, was a live mortar that had failed to detonate. A remnant of the attack they had suffered several weeks before. “Jesus,” he said. He tugged at Jack’s leash, and the Labrador instantly relented and followed after him.
The mortar was later safely detonated, and the majority of Jack’s detractors, if any remained, were silenced. Every morning after that, Fletcher and Jack patrolled the perimeter as part of their daily duties.
It wasn’t long before Jack’s other talents were discovered. They had received a handwritten booklet of basic dog commands that Squad Leader Wallace had compiled for them. It consisted of typical word and hand commands used out in the field. Jack knew every one of them, without exception. There could no longer be any doubt about his past.
They also discovered his affinity for water. Wherever there was some of it to be found, however meager, he would gravitate toward it. After heavy rains, he would find pools to roll around in. While patrolling the base, he would seek out muddy trails where there were clearly paths of surer footing to take. Their benefactor explained that the dogs were trained to do that to hide their scent. Fletcher had no doubt it was true, but was convinced Jack did it for pure enjoyment.
As the memory of his injuries faded, Jack’s true personality began to emerge. He was surprisingly mischievous. He would steal food out of the men’s rucksacks and chew holes in their boots. It soon became necessary to stow any items of value well out of Jack’s reach. Before long, he was joining the men in the Soup at night, happily lapping up any beer that was offered to him. His relationship with all the men blossomed, and he quickly became an integral part of life on the Strip. In a matter of weeks, he had worked his way into the affections of all on base.
All but one.
Despite taking responsibility for Jack being brought back to base, Rogan seemed uninterested in the dog, merely tolerating him. Fletcher tried to thank him for what he had done, but Rogan stopped him in midsentence. It appeared that he cared no more for being thanked than he did about whether the dog lived or died. His thoughts were only ever on the war and the role the Fat Lady had to play within it. This, however, was of little consequence to Jack, who continually sought Rogan out, as if he sensed the lieutenant’s indifference toward him. In meetings, he would often sit at his feet or bark at him from across the room, as if trying to chip away at the barrier between them. To the amusement of the platoon, he even offered Rogan his paw during an intense briefing session.
But it had little effect.
Rogan’s mind was totally focused on the war: A war they were losing.
Twenty-eight
“This isn’t a debate,” Frank Wilson declared, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “The dog is clearly highly trained and could save your asses out there.”
“We’re not a dog unit, Frank. This is ridiculous,” Rogan snapped back. “We’re not even sure if he’s ever operated out in the field before. He could give away our position at a vital moment.”
“Listen, the dog follows advanced voice and hand signals to the letter. Yesterday morning, the men gave me a demonstration of what he is capable of, and I’ve got to tell you, I am damn impressed by what I saw. For whatever reason, he seems to share half his brain with Carson.”
“This is madness.”
“No. Madness is being forced to send you up the Chi San trail. You’re going to be moving through some of the most treacherous terrain this war has to offer. I don’t need to tell you how many soldiers we’ve lost on this run.”
“Lord is the best point man we have. You know how good he is. If anyone can get us through it, he can.”
“I know how good Mitchell is. What if you lose him?”
“We won’t.”
“Enough,” Frank said, holding up his hands. “As
it is, this foray is one shade light of a suicide mission. The dog could well make the difference. My decision is made. We have three days before you go. During that time, Carson, Tucker, Lord, and Rex have agreed to do two short patrols with the dog to see how he gets along. If by then there are any concerns, we’ll leave him behind. If not, he’s going with you. Besides, I don’t understand why you’re so against this; you’re the one who rescued him in the first place.”
Rogan massaged his eyes with the tips of his fingers. “This is different. It’s a big risk, Frank.”
“I know,” he sighed. “Look, I’m only doing this because I truly believe the dog can help you. I honestly do. You and your men are the best this base has, and I’m scared to hell of losing more of you on this mission. Lord is brilliant at point. Probably the best I’ve ever seen, but this dog can sense things. I don’t know if he smells them or has fucking ESP, but he is a wonder. I wouldn’t be ordering this if I thought it wouldn’t help.”
“Frank, you know you have the respect of every man on this base, myself included. Half these guys would run through a goddamn minefield if you ordered it. So I’ll take the dog with us on two conditions: One, I want you to know that I think it’s a mistake; and two, if he does anything to threaten our mission, I will kill him.”
“Of course,” Frank agreed. “Just get in and out as quick as you can, and I promise I’ll organize some time off for your platoon.”
Frank held out his hand and Rogan accepted it. “How long?”
“Until what?”
“Until we pull out.”
“Could be as soon as a month or two. At least that’s what I’m hearing.”
A sardonic grin danced across Rogan’s face. “More than enough time to die, then.”
Twenty-nine
“Let me get this straight,” Wayville said, folding his arms. “We’re going to tip and fucking toe our way up the Chi San trail right up into Charlie’s heart and pick off two of his top commanding officers, all without any backup?”
“So you were listening,” Rogan replied evenly.
“And then we quietly sneak out without Charlie seeing us and skip merrily back down the goddamn yellow brick road?”
“How far back will the drop be?” Gunther frowned.
“Thirty … maybe thirty-five clicks.”
“What? On the Chi San trail, that’s a full two-day hike!”
“More like three,” Mitchell corrected him.
“Jesus Christ, lieutenant, we’ve done some crazy shit before, but this is lunacy.”
“There’s something else: Our intelligence tells us this base holds around three hundred Charlie. And—” He paused, then made a point of looking at each of his men before completing his sentence. “—it’s underground.”
“A tunnel complex? Fucking great. Why don’t we just kill ourselves right now?”
Rogan stepped forward and stared at Wayville. “Calm down and let me finish. I don’t like this any more than you do. The bottom line is that we’ve been ordered to go. We have no choice. Now, we can either sit around and whine about it or we can start planning this thing down to the last fucking detail so that we do everything we possibly can to minimize our risk.”
“This is bullshit,” Kingston said under his breath.
“For most of you, the biggest risk will be making it to the complex.”
“How do you figure that? Once underground, we’ll be hunted like rats in a goddamn maze,” Gunther insisted.
“Because you’re not going in. Only Carson, Lord, and myself are. Carson’s going in as our assassin, with Lord and myself as his shadow. Our informant has managed to produce a rough sketch of the complex and has shown us where our two targets will be sleeping. We’ll infiltrate at 0300 and be out within an hour. Carson and Lord were approached with the plan yesterday and volunteered to do this.”
Kingston was the first to comment. “Chief, you know I normally keep out of these sorts of things, but I can’t stay quiet on this one. This can only end badly for us—you know that.”
“Not if we plan it properly. If we do our homework and maintain our concentration, chances are we will get through this.”
Kingston, like the rest of the platoon, remained unconvinced.
“One last thing. Most of you are aware that we’ve been testing the dog to see how he behaves out in the field. Our commander feels that we might need his tracking abilities. I’ve been told the dog has done very well, but be that as it may, I will consider taking him with us only if every man is in agreement. If one of you feels that the dog might in any way compromise us, speak now.”
The soldiers exchanged glances with one another, but said nothing.
“All right, then. Fletcher will be his handler, and they’ll hike at point with Lord. Gentlemen, we leave in forty-eight hours. As of now, there is no more drinking. Not today and definitely not tomorrow. We’re going to be right under Charlie’s nose, and trust me, he’ll be able to smell the booze on you a mile away.”
Thirty
Another week, another tense flight over Vietnam, Fletcher thought as they hovered above the Strip. He knew that if he ever did make it back to the outside world, he would never again set foot in another helicopter.
Holding Jack’s leash, he looked down at the Labrador, who was sitting quietly between his legs. He appeared relaxed and at home on board the Huey.
“Where did you come from?” Fletcher whispered in his ear.
Despite the loud drone of the rotors, Jack picked up on the inflection in Fletcher’s voice. He swallowed excitedly, turned, and licked him on the cheek.
“You know Jack doesn’t belong here. He should be in a painting above a fireplace somewhere. He’s too good for this shithole,” Travis said, witnessing their exchange.
“That may be, but he sure as hell smells like he belongs here.”
Travis smirked, but meant what he said. “There’s something about him, Fletcher. He’s different. I don’t know how or why, but he just is.”
“I know. I feel it, too.”
“Do you think he’s going to cope over the next few days?”
“I do. I mean, you’ve seen it, Trav—he can smell traps from fifty yards away. He can do it.”
The helicopter swooped steeply over a column of tall trees, clearing the top branches by only a few feet. The jungle—a rich palette of earthy tones—stretched between the horizons. It seemed absurd that a war was being waged on such a breathtaking landscape.
“All right, men,” Rogan called out, competing with the chopper’s engines. “Ten minutes to put down. Time to get real. Get your minds on the game.”
The game, Fletcher thought. He had seen men hacked to death, their limbs blown off, and even burnt alive. He had witnessed all manner of depravity, but the description somehow still seemed appropriate. It was a game; only defeat in this context carried a higher price. Just playing it could cost you your sanity.
“I have a real bad feeling about this run,” Travis remarked, looking at Fletcher.
“What’s to feel bad about? A little hike through the woods, and we’ll be on our way home in no time.”
“You’ve chosen a strange time to get positive. Jack must be changing the way you see shit.”
“Anything’s possible, I suppose.”
“Well, this is something.”
“I just hope Jack brings us some luck,” Gunther chipped in. “We could do with one or two of his nine lives.”
“A cat has nine lives, you dumb fuck,” Wayville said, clicking his tongue. “Jesus, it’s a wonder you can tie your own shoelaces.”
“You know, for some time now, I’ve been seriously contemplating sticking my boot—laced or otherwise—up your ass. But I can’t figure out which end it is.”
The group all laughed; even Wayville smirked at the comeback.
“All right,” Rogan said, raising an arm. “Enough with the jokes. It’s time to go to work.”
Thirty-one
Over the next thre
e days, the Fat Lady’s pace was painstakingly slow, as they were forced to hide from numerous NVA patrols in the area. Their movement was further hampered by the constant threat of traps along the trail. Mitchell had so far uncovered more than a dozen that were designed primarily to maim. Jack had already repaid the faith that had been shown in him by sniffing out almost half as many traps, particularly those that involved explosives or still carried human scent.
As nightfall approached, after yet another late afternoon deluge, they were still almost two kilometers away from the tunnel complex. “Lord, Carson … we need to get a move on. There’s not much light left,” Rogan said, marching up behind them.
The rims of Mitchell’s eyes were red and swollen from the demands of a long day. “We’re moving as fast as we can. I can’t afford to go any quicker. The closer we get to the place, the more traps we’re likely to come across.”
“I understand that, but if we don’t make it to the complex in the next twenty minutes, we lose another day. We definitely can’t afford that.”
“We’ll try to shift it up a notch,” Fletcher offered.
“You do that.”
Mitchell shook his head. “It’s pretty fucking risky.”
For fifteen minutes, the platoon increased its pace marginally, but the light was rapidly dwindling over the horizon. Already, telltale streaks of pink and purple stretched across the sky.
Again Rogan pulled up behind them. “Time is not our friend. We need to move faster.”
“Lieutenant we can’t g—”
“Fall back. I’ll take over point.”
“With respect, Rogan—” Mitchell began.
“This isn’t a request, Lord! I’m not asking you to fucking dance. Now fall back. Both of you.” With that, he pushed past them and began to run.
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