“I’ll stay with you,” Tel said.
“Before you make a decision, there’s two things you’ve got to know. First, you’ll have to go through training on your own.” He described the various forms of torture Tel would have to endure to qualify for special operations. “Most who try, fail.”
Tel listened impassively. “What’s the second thing?”
“This is what I am.”
Five
The shiny black 1956 Ford pickup eased into a parking space in front of the 341st Training Squadron at Lackland Air Force Base. For a moment the driver didn’t move as he gripped the steering wheel. His mind made up, Chief Master Sergeant Leroy Rockne climbed out of the cab. He was a big man, well over six feet tall, given to hard workouts and seven-mile morning runs. The Air Force was his only family, he wore his uniform with pride, and on first impression many thought of him as a five-hundred-pound gorilla with muscles. But those who served with him in the security police knew better. Professionally, he was a walking, talking advertisement for a security cop: dedicated, smart, and by the book.
Rockne reached behind the seat and pulled out a leather leash with a silver-plated chain dog collar. He slipped the collar into a pocket and deliberately folded the leash into fourths. He slapped it against his pant leg like a riding crop. He closed the door and checked his image in the window. His black beret was set at the correct angle on his closely cropped Marine-style haircut, and his square jaw was cleanly shaven. He wasn’t a vain man, but he knew the value of appearances.
Technical Sergeant Paul Travis saw him first. He came to attention as he greeted him. “Good morning, Chief. What brings you down here? Headquarters getting too much for you?” There was respect in his voice.
“Personal business,” Rockne replied.
No reply was called for, and the sergeant hurried past a training flight of students marching to the line of aircraft fuselages used for antihijacking training. He skidded to a stop and spoke to the training NCO, Staff Sergeant Jake Osburn. “Over there,” Travis said, pointing to Rockne.
“Ah, shit,” Jake muttered. He halted his training flight. “Listen up. That’s Chief Master Sergeant Leroy Rockne over there. He’s called ‘the Rock’ for a damn good reason.”
“What makes him so special?” an airman asked.
“He just happens to be the best security cop who ever wore the beret.”
Rockne walked into the building and turned into the operations section. The clerk, Airman First Class Cindy Cloggins, came to her feet. Rockne’s reputation had preceded him, and she was nervous at meeting him face-to-face. “Good morning, sir.”
Rockne fixed her with a hard look, taking her measure. She was a big girl, young and immature. He made a decision and eased off a notch. “It’s ‘Chief.’ I’m not an officer.”
“Yes”—she caught herself in time—“Chief.” She buzzed the captain and sent Rockne right in. She waited until the door was closed, and called the squadron commander, a newly minted major. “The Rock’s in the building,” she told him. The major said he’d be right over.
The captain in charge of operations stood and smiled. “It’s been a while, Chief. What can I do for you?”
“I heard Boyca was scheduled for disposal tomorrow. I want to adopt her.”
“The veterinarian and kennel master say she’s not adoptable,” the captain replied.
Rationally, Rockne knew that euthanasia for an old dog like Boyca, who had exceeded her working life and could never adjust to family life, was the humane thing to do. She was a working dog, and, like he was a security cop, that’s all she was. “Screw the vets. We got a history.”
“She’s too old, Chief,” the captain said, telling him the obvious.
“She’s got another year or two left in her,” Rockne replied.
The captain was about to say that he couldn’t approve of the adoption, but one look at Rockne’s face convinced him otherwise. “I’ll take care of the paperwork.”
“Thank you, sir. I owe you.” Rockne snapped a sharp salute and left, heading for the kennels out back. The captain punched at his intercom to tell his secretary to start the paperwork rolling, his day now pure gold.
Rockne walked along the double row of kennels as he searched the cages. A dog started to bark, setting the others off. On the backside a dog smashed into the cage’s wire fence in a frenzy. “How ya doin’, Boyca?” he said. The dog barked at him. “You remember me, don’tcha?” Rockne’s lips compressed into a tight line when he saw the red X in grease pencil on the gate’s metal note plate. Tomorrow’s date was written below the X. “I almost missed it.”
He opened the gate, but Boyca retreated to a far corner and growled at him. “Come,” he ordered. No response. “Feelin’ bitchy today?” He slapped the leash he was holding against his thigh. Boyca’s head came up as a vague memory stirred. He slapped his thigh again. “Come,” he repeated. The dog immediately came to his side and stood quietly, eager for whatever came next. Rockne bent over and ran his hands over Boyca’s coat, careful not to touch the open wound where she had rubbed herself raw against the wire. He felt her conformation, surprised that she was still in good shape at fourteen years of age. But the deterioration in her muscles was obvious, and he knew she tired easily. He dropped the collar over her head. “You’re a good old girl, aren’tcha?” Boyca was a Belgian Malinois with a reddish-brown, short-haired coat. Size-wise, she was smaller than a German shepherd with much the same conformation. But Malinoises didn’t suffer from the same hip-degeneration problems.
Rockne stood and clipped the lead onto the collar and headed for the parking lot as the major in command of the squadron walked up. He glanced down at Boyca. “She’s done good, Chief. Take care of her.”
“I will, sir.” Rockne led Boyca to his pickup and pointed to the back. “In,” he ordered. The dog looked at him and didn’t move. He relented. “Okay, so you’re too old for jumpin’ in and out the back.” He opened the passenger door, and Boyca crawled onto the new leather seat. Rockne settled into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The big, highly tuned V-8 came to life with the distinctive lope of a high-lift cam. Boyca leaned her head over the edge of the seat and vomited on the carpet. “Didn’t like the food?” He bent over to clean it up. “Do you have any idea what this carpet costs?”
Boyca licked his cheek.
Pontowski worked his way through the small group of protesters crowding the sidewalk outside the Chinese consulate. For the most part they were young, scruffily dressed, and carrying placards denouncing the WTO. A young girl stepped in front of him and waved one in his face. “Where you going, bud?” she demanded.
“In there,” Pontowski said.
“No way.”
“It has nothing to do with the WTO,” he said.
Three rough-looking young men joined her. “Get lost,” the biggest one said.
Pontowski shook his head and pushed past them. The man grabbed his arm, stopping him. Pontowski looked at the man’s hand and then at the other protesters. Without exception, they were thin, in poor shape, and showed signs of drug use. He looked for indications of a concealed weapon. Nothing. He had seen it before. They were there for show and not really serious about getting physical and going one-on-one. He tried to be reasonable. “You have no argument with me. Please, I urge you to reconsider if—”
“If what, fuckface?”
Pontowski’s voice hardened. “If you want your hand back.” The man released him, and Pontowski was all reason again. “I’m being polite and don’t want trouble. But I’m perfectly willing to oblige you, if that’s your choice.” He leaned into the man and lowered his voice. “Didn’t your daddy teach you to be very careful when you pick a fight? You gotta know who you’re taking on.” He paused. “You’ve already made two mistakes.”