Let Slip the Pups of War: Spot and Smudge - Book Three

by Robert Udulutch

  The eldest cousin, Mu, bowed and gave Tian’s shoulder a warm squeeze. He said, “Dalao wants to see you, alone.”

  Chapter 21

  Fisho held his son’s shoulders, keeping him in his seat. Fulfort had tried several times to turn away and flee but his father made him sit still and stay quiet. The father knew he and his son were being watched.

  They were in the midst of a boisterous crowd, seated on rusty folding chairs spread out in three rows around a rope boxing ring. The ring was little more than four tree trunks that had been cut off at a meter and a half and strung with anchor rope. The ring floor was a mixture of hardened dung, straw, mud, and blood.

  Two woman were in the ring, crouched and facing each other with arms raised to protect their faces. They were kicking each other mercilessly. Devastating shin strikes smacked loudly off their opponent’s knees, thighs, and torso. The exchange was constant and the women hopped and kicked, huffing with each painful hit. Their forearms crashed together and every so often one woman would fake a kick and drive her elbow into the side of the other’s head.

  Fisho pretended to enthusiastically appreciate the fight and jostled playfully with the sweaty men standing next to him. They were holding out money, pumping their fists and shouting obscenities at the ring.

  He scanned the crowd and saw the man he had been waiting for appear at the far side of the ring.

  Fisho and Fulfort had travelled from their village to Lusaka, the capital of Zambia. The trip had taken them two days, and they had good fortune on the journey. The weather had been cool and they caught a ride on an ox cart all the way to Mumbwa. The rest of the hundred and fifty kilometers were a series of hitch hikes on the backs of trucks.

  Fisho’s faith in his countrymen had been bolstered on the trip as they only encountered kind faces along the road. The people who pulled over to let them hop in the back had also often shared a little food and drink.

  Fisho saw flashes of guilt roll across his son’s face from time to time. The young husband had put his foot down with his wife and left as Jewel and his children were crying. Still, Fulfort was enjoying being on the road with his father and away from the toil of the farm. He had not seen the countryside away from their valley and he was loving the adventure. The further they travelled away from the farm the more the young man smiled broadly at his father.

  That all changed when they reached the Misisi shanty town on the southern outskirts of the capital city.

  The rolling hills and quiet countryside was quickly swallowed by an endless sea of corrugated shacks, colorful concrete walls, and bodies. The heat and crush of people was immediately oppressive to Fulfort. He’d never been in a city. The smells, noise, and unnatural surfaces assaulted his senses.

  Fisho took his hand and guided his son through the close, twisting streets. They walked on narrow planks over open sewers and ducked under rows of hanging laundry. Fulfort wondered why someone would hang dirty laundry and Fisho had to quietly explain the garments were as clean as they were going to get.

  It hadn’t taken Fisho long to find out what they needed to know. After avoiding one obvious attempt to lure them into a ‘thump house’ to be robbed, Fisho got directions to the market he was looking for.

  As the sun fell the temperature in the bowels of the choked slum rose even higher, as did the stench. The market closed up and a few of the shops converted into bars and brothels. Fisho’s old contacts were gone but their names were enough to get him shaking hands with the right people. Eventually they were directed to the fighting ring.

  The fight ended with one of the women collapsing from a crushing blow to her midsection. As the crowd erupted and fighting broke out over bets, Fisho grabbed his son and joined the man who had nodded to him from across the ring.

  They followed him through a kitchen where women were cooking bread in small mud floor ovens. The women didn’t look up as they passed, and most of them were topless and had little ones suckling in their laps.

  The man took them through a used clothing shop and back onto a mud street. They turned a corner and he led them into the first structure they’d seen in the shanty town that could be called a proper building.

  It was a loud, packed tavern with wooden plank walls and a high thatch roof. The rear wall was an open bar with stools made from stacked and welded truck tire rims. Past the bar was a large stagnant lagoon, with low curved boats tied to a pier. There were drinking, chatting people covering almost every inch of the room and they spilled out onto the small dock.

  The man pointed to an opening in the crowd where there was a narrow plank nailed to the wall. It served as a drink rail and was cluttered with empty cans and bottles. The father directed his son to the opening as the man left them and pushed his way to the bar. He spoke to the bar man and then pointed to the father and son.

  A moment later the bar man came over with plastic cups filled with a cloudy beer. He held up five fingers and Fisho gave him some coins from the small cloth bag slung over his shoulder. The man leaned in and said something to Fisho before he went back to the bar.

  Fulfort took a drink, immediately made a sour face, and quickly put the cup down on the railing.

  After taking a long pull from his own cup, Fisho clapped his son on the shoulder and smiled at him. He saw Fulfort was fascinated by the shifting knots of drunk patrons talking loudly all around him. Tinny music blared from a little speaker hung above the bar and the center of the room was a mass of hopping people spilling their drinks. The men mostly wore sweat soaked t-shirts and shorts. Women were either dressed in loose tops and the common wrap dress, or they were prostitutes and wore skimpy halters and tight shorts. Most stomped around the muddy floor bare footed, but some wore hand woven sandals or the same second hand tennis shoes Fisho and his son had.

  The bar man returned and leaned in close to Fisho so he could hear him over the music and the chattering crowd.

  As the older men talked Fulfort tried another sip of his beer. His face pinched again and he shook his head.

  An ugly woman in a bright pink tube top saw his grimace and stepped up close to him. She smiled a wide, picket-fenced teeth smile. She slurred something up at him, and as Fulfort leaned forward to ask what she’d said someone behind him jostled his arm. A large glug of his beer went right down her top.

  The woman took a step back and immediately went volcanic. She threw back her hand to slap Fulfort and ended up backhanding the full drink of a tall, thin man with a scraggly beard and a colorful Rastafarian hat. The man’s cup upended and covered him, her, and the short dark man he had been talking to.

  The bar man and Fisho were oblivious to the fray. They were still huddled and talking, and the man pointed to a door on the opposite wall of the bar. Fisho nodded and turned to finish his beer as the bar man left.

  Fulfort watched wide-eyed as the tall Rasta man spun and punched the woman without hesitation. As one of her few remaining teeth flew out she dropped to the dirty floor like a sack of grain.

  The weathered brow of the man Rasta had been talking with furrowed, and he hauled back and threw an ill-aimed fist.

  Seemingly from thin air Rasta pulled a knife and dove at the man. The man’s own knife appeared and the slashing men disappeared into the shouting crowd.

  Fulfort stepped towards the fallen woman as Fisho finally took notice, and grabbed his son’s arm.

  “No, son,” Fisho whispered in his ear, “Best leave drunk women you don’t know on the floor.” He turned his stunned son away, leading him towards the side door of the tavern. As they stepped into an alley someone behind them let out a blood chilling scream.

  Chapter 22

  “Yep,” Kelcy said, “You’re both knocked up. Congratulations.”

  She held up the canine test strips for the circle of humans to see.

  Ben pulled One Ear and the lead female to him, gave them a hug, and gently patted their tummies. “Hello,” he said to their sides, “Little coyote puppies, can you hear me? Keep cooking in
there and we’ll see you in March.”

  Mimi looked down at the pair of wagging wild dogs. She pointed a finger at them and said, “You two listen while I tell you something. Just so you lot know, I’m done being a den mother. I’ve raised enough wee pups and bairns. You’re on your own with this batch.”

  Aila smiled at Hamish. She’d heard her mother say that very thing twice before, and she hadn’t meant it those times, either.

  From the pen Mr. Watt let a loud, cranky sounding bleat fly and stomped off into the shed.

  “Translation,” Ben said, turning on his Papa voice, “We donae’ need more bloody cay-utes about the hoos, got enough of the buggers under-hoof already.”

  The boy trotted off with the three young male hunters in tow. As they ran into the snow behind the pen the family heard him say, “You’re going to have brothers and sisters soon, and I can tell you it’s going to be a real pain...”

  Hamish watched the boy go and said, “Was he dropped?”

  “Aye,” Mimi said, “And he hit the same rock as you. Have you forgotten what you were like at that age? Mercy me. Why do you think you’ve got no younger siblings? How many times did your mum try to drop you off at Quarrier’s Village?”

  She turned to Kelcy and said, “The orphanage kept bringing him back and his mum started asking pastors their opinions and checking his curly dome for numbered birthmarks. His dah would just skelp him daily as he walked in the door to get it out of the way, just figuring Hamish had it coming.”

  Aila gave both of the old Scots a look and took a knee next to her laughing daughter.

  Kelcy poked and prodded the pregnant coyotes and as she lifted up One Ear’s lip she said, “It’s pretty amazing how healthy these girls are. We see a fair number of coyotes at the clinic that have been hit by cars. People think we’re miracle workers, or the wild animal morgue. Those dogs are always smaller, thinner, and have scrappy coats. Nothing like these fine ladies.”

  Piff, One Ear’s daughter, stood next to Kelcy and watched the human girl closely as she examined her mother.

  “You may be seeing the weaker ones,” Hamish said, “They’re more likely to get hit.”

  “Yeah, true” Kelcy said, “It’s sad, there’s usually nothing we can do for them, and we’re not allowed to go too deep when treating them anyway.” She patted One Ear and said, “You’re looking good sweetheart. You both are.”

  Smudge came over and stepped between the two larger wild female dogs, and translated their clean bills of health.

  One Ear leaned forward and licked Kelcy from chin to ear.

  Smudge noticed One Ear and her daughter Piff had become very attached to Kelcy. The three girls tended to cluster whenever they were together. Kelcy had always gravitated towards the tough little female hunter and her mother but now they seemed inseparable. The teen had checked on the pack by herself often when Ben and the pups were up north, and the female alpha and her daughter had clearly strengthened their bond with the human girl.

  Their close relationship turned out to be auspicious when Hamish had called down to Pembury to warn the family after the attack on the ranch.

  As Hamish spoke with the adults, Spot came up with a plan and asked Ben to video call Kelcy. Spot sent her to the den to bring One Ear and Piff back to the house. She returned with the wild dogs, and after some coaxing was able to get them to follow her into the Hogan’s living room where Spot signed for Kelcy to connect her tablet to the family’s widescreen television.

  The female alpha was confused when she first saw Spot on the big screen. She jumped back and growled but with Kelcy’s gentle convincing One Ear finally wagged at him, and acknowledged his vocalizations. Eventually One Ear caught on and they settled into a long conversation, even though the wild dog kept approaching the screen to rub against the image of Spot.

  Kelcy sat back and watched, fascinated as the two dogs chatted in barks, snorts, and spins. She wondered what Dr. Marty and Lindsay would think if they were sitting on the couch with her. She also wondered how much of the conversation Ben could interpret. He stood in the background behind Spot with his arms folded over his chest, nodding. It occurred to Kelcy that her brother was probably the closest any human had ever come to being fluent in dog.

  When her parents hung up with Hamish they came into the living room. Their worried looks turned to open mouth gaping when they saw the odd scene. Kelcy waved for them to hang back as the adults hadn’t spent much time with the pack’s juveniles, and Piff was clearly not comfortable being inside the humans’ den.

  After several minutes of yapping and turning in circles in front of the big television, One Ear barked to Spot and then took her daughter to the front door. They waited impatiently for Kelcy to open it.

  “What the hell was that?” Dan asked as the two coyotes darted across the front porch and disappeared into the snow.

  Kelcy said, “Spot asked One Ear to setup patrols at the house and the farm until he and Smudge get back home.”

  Kelcy watched her father’s brain working to catch up, but her mom seemed to process it.

  “Smart damn dog, but the farm is closer to the den than we are,” Aila said, “Why didn’t you bring them to Mimi’s?”

  Spot was still watching them from the screen.

  He took a step towards the tablet camera and started to sign, and Ben translated from the background, “Dogs can detect movement at about seventy frames per second. That’s twice the rate of people, and not coincidentally double the refresh rate of a normal television like Mimi’s. We needed the high definition up-conversion of our HDTV or I would have just appeared as a series of flashes to One Ear.”

  “Of course,” Dan said, nodding as he turned to Aila, “You didn’t know that?”

  Chapter 23

  The well-dressed Director of National Intelligence poked his head into a West Wing office a few doors down from his own, and rapped on the open door.

  “Hey,” he said, “Madam National Security Advisor.”

  “Hello Mark,” Gloria said as she turned away from the credenza behind her new desk. She had been re-arranging the framed pictures her new assistant had seemingly just tossed there in no logical grouping. She had been through two assistants in as many months, and she wasn’t sure her current one could even order the replacement for her the office’s God awful carpeting without fucking it up. She waved Mark in and returned his big smile, smoothing her blouse as she said, “Nice of you to stop by.”

  “Congratulations Gloria,” Mark said as he crossed the room and extended his hand, “I was sorry to hear about Bill, but we’re all really looking forward to having you at the table with the big guy.”

  Gloria applied her signature stiff handshake. She knew it was a running joke but she’d prefer the boys perceive her as a tough bitch rather than a limp-noodled chippie.

  “I hated to see him go on such short notice,” she said, looking appropriately demonstrative, “But family always comes first.”

  Mark nodded, and paused for the required D.C. instant-of-silence for Bill’s dead career.

  Gloria knew Mark hadn’t become the top man in the intelligence business by being a dummy. She also knew he had been pals with ‘full steam ahead Bill’. She suspected he wouldn’t buy her former boss’s horseshit about spending more time with family any more than Bill’s bitchy, pug-faced wife had. But Mark probably figured Bill had chosen wisely. He also probably figured there was a bouncy intern involved. Mark would have no idea Bill had abandoned his post quietly after Semion honey-trapped him with the video of his tryst with his slut daughter, but the result was the same. Of course Mark could easily have been the one with his dick caught in the scandal ringer so Gloria also knew he would let it go. Gloria knew most of the staff, men and women alike, would let Bill ride off into the sunset with barely a hushed whisper and a knowing wink. Everyone had their secrets, and what shit-starters sent around the beltway often came back around to spray them in the face. Especially the ‘below the beltway’ stuff. />
  Mark said, “Gloria, let’s hit the ground with guns blazing on this Saudi thing. My office at eight?”

  “Perfect,” she said, “I’ll be settled in here by six.”

  Her desk phone beeped and Mark waved goodbye as he left, pulling the door shut behind him when she pointed at it and flapped her fingers.

  “Sam, how the hell are you? Thanks for getting back to me so fast,” Gloria said into the phone.

  She listened and rotated her finger in the air, willing the Secretary Director of the FBI to hurry up and get through the damn lamentations about poor fucking Bill’s dead career.

  Gloria said, “Thanks, yes we’re all sad to see him go.” She paused, counting to three in her head before she said, “So let me ask you about this no-fly list fiasco. I’m getting heat that we’re over reaching and it’s going to blow back. Who do we know at Homeland?”

  Gloria listened for a moment and then cut her off, “I understand Samantha, but that sounds like anti-British profiling and I won’t have it. I want this cleared up, today. We want to show we’re not missing a beat in the transition and this is a great first win. Orthus is our best defense contractor, we can’t hold up their foreign people for no good reason.”

  She listened again and then said, “That works, let me know by end of day. One more item, Sam. I’d like to carve out a few minutes to meet some of the field teams. You know, to keep my feet on the ground. I’m heading to my foundation tomorrow and would like to get a few minutes with our FBI guy in Boston. His name escapes me, Balton something? Anywho, have him drive down to the cape for a little face time.”