During the latter half of 1943, American forces were engaged in a vast campaign across the Pacific Ocean. On November 1, troops landed on Bougainville Island, at the northern edge of the Solomon Islands; shortly thereafter they took Rabaul on New Britain, the site of a Japanese naval and air base, and the fighting shifted north of the equator. February 1944 saw the inauguration of a fierce campaign against the Marshall and the Chuuk island group; on June 15, the Americans landed on Saipan; two months later they had captured the Marianas. And then they advanced on the Philippines. The Japanese sustained a disastrous defeat in a land battle on Leyte. A war of attrition was being fought on Luzon. And then it was 1945. A land battle of incredible scale broke out on Iwo Jima, and the fighting moved to Okinawa.
How many people died in all?
And how many dogs?
Tens of thousands. Literally tens of thousands, all across the Pacific. And those dogs were among the casualties. One after another, they were killed in battle. Only one of their number was still alive when, in August 1945, two atom bombs—one made of uranium that was called Little Boy, one made of plutonium that was called Fat Man—flashed within the space of a few days over the Japanese islands of Honshū and Kyūshū.
That dog wasn’t Masao. It was one of Masao’s children. Four puppies in that litter of nine, four of the little ones that had come into this world alive after Masao and Explosion mated, were dead now. Only one returned unscathed.
Returned to the American mainland. From the west side of the Pacific to the east. A German shepherd named Bad News. A male.
America, having emerged victorious, continued to expand its military dog population. The kennels were maintained. Because the dogs remained useful. Their numbers had to be increased in preparation for the next war. Stronger dogs, better dogs. Some of the active dogs were selected for breeding. Bad News, an A-class male, was given the right to mate.
The right to straddle beautiful female dogs.
And then there was Kita, in Alaska.
In 1945, Kita became a lead dog. His authority in the team could not be challenged. The musher who was his master treated him as his best friend, trusted him implicitly. After all, Kita had saved his life. They were bound now by a powerful tie; each understood what the other was thinking. Kita’s master had always been a talented and energetic musher, but now that he had Kita as his lead dog he began winning even more races. Kita wasn’t a standard breed for a sled dog, of course. But he was strong. Four times a day, before and after practice, his master rubbed his body down with alcohol; his energy was never exhausted, and he poured it all into doing his duty. That winter, and the next, Kita led his team to more than one record-breaking victory. His master was a star, and Kita came to be known as the dog, not only in Alaska but across the entire Arctic. Kita was the most famous sled dog there was.
Naturally, his master encouraged him to sire as many children as he could. The pups in his bloodline, inheriting his traits, became a sought-after breed of their own. The bitches all came from fine stock too. Only they weren’t the same breed as Kita. They were Siberian huskies, malamutes. Mushers had been selectively breeding sled dogs for some time, and they knew the power of guided mongrelization. Eventually, Alaska would produce its own breed of Alaskan husky, bred specially for racing. It was only natural that Kita became a breeding dog.
Puppies from famous dogs weren’t cheap. Sewing his seed, Kita earned his master a living. And the other dogs too. He became their benefactor.
Sled racing continued to develop as a sport in Alaska in the wake of the Second World War. The establishment in 1948 of the Alaska Dog Mushers Association was followed in 1949 by the creation of the Alaska Sled Dog and Racing Association, and races began to be held on an unprecedented scale. The number of applicants increased and with it the demand for pedigree sled dogs.
Already by 1949, Kita had sired 124 puppies.
And the other dog?
By the same year, Bad News had fathered 277 puppies. He had long since retired from life as an active military dog, but he went on planting his seed.
“Russians are better off dead.”
“That was an interesting article you ran.”
“That one last week, you mean? ‘The Chechen Train of Death’? Ha ha ha! Yes, indeed—that drew quite a response.”
“Yes. It was truly… truly masterfully done.”
“Of course. It was the truth.”
“The truth of the situation.”
“Those Chechens have been springing one surprise after another on us, since before the establishment of the Soviet system. Such ardent separatists! Such fierce anti-Russian sentiment! Yes—that, in short, is the situation. The North Caucasus is in turmoil. Our dear president has cut off all funding from the Russian Federation, recalled the engineers who were teaching them to drill and refine their oil. They’ve been left with no means of preserving their identity as a so-called ‘independent state’—apart, that is, from illegitimate business activities. And, voilà! The bloody Train of Death, set upon out of the blue by a band of robbers! Ha ha ha!”
“You seem pleased.”
“I’m just a regular Russian, same as everyone else.”
“Hence your popular appeal. I see… just what an editor needs.”
“You said it!”
“It’s a glorious age we live in.”
“Yes, a glorious age—for me, at least. I’m flabbergasted by these heretical Chechens, with their unyielding moral vision. And our readers love it when I’m flabbergasted! They love how ‘true’ it is!”
“So it seems.”
“It’s astonishing. I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. The numbers talk. Yes, this, my friend, is what capitalism is all about! And liberalism, the market economy! Numbers!”
“Anticommunism.”
“Precisely. And anti-‘red totalitarianism’ too. While we’re on the topic of heretics, though… You’ve heard about the Islamic prophet being killed? Guy with tattoos, quite high up?”
“Is that true?”
“It’s true.”
“Then I guess I’ve just heard about it.”
“He was part of the inner circle of the Chechen mafia’s boss in the Far East. The boss’s right-hand man. What I wouldn’t give to run a photo of the scene… ideally with the body.”
“In your paper?”
“That’s right.”
“In Freedom Daily? The tabloid?”
“Right smack on the front page.”
“In place of the usual satirical cartoon, occult scoop, or alien corpse?”
“Our new readership doesn’t go for that stuff.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“Isn’t it?”
“A photo would boost sales,” the old man said.
“On another note, this restaurant… rather loud, isn’t it?”
“Very. I like it loud.”
“Salted herring in oil! Smoked eel! Cow tongue in sea salt! These appetizers are as good as it gets. You like it… because there’s no fear of being overheard?”
“Not, at any rate, so long as we’re just talking. Take a look at us, my friend. We look like an elderly uncle and his nephew, dining together for the first time in ages. The nephew has made it big in the great capitalist city. And here I am, straight out of the forest, being treated to a magnificent meal.”