Washington, D.C.
E
llie sat quietly at the corner of the long conference table. She had listened to Senator John Quincy’s long explanation about the documents provided by the DoD. All the momentum she had gathered during her brisk walk down the halls to come to this meeting had evaporated as soon as she came in the door. Senator Quincy derailed her quite easily by inviting her, in front of the rest of the committee, to come sit at the corner of his end of the table. It so disarmed her that she had barely heard him say how “pretty” she looked today.
This congressional hearing was not the first one on this particular subject. Senator Quincy reminded them of that. Congress had taken a look at these two classified government projects from the 1960s and 1970s. Project 112 and Project SHAD were a series of tests conducted by the Department of Defense. The purpose, which Senator Quincy read from a document, “was to identify U.S. warships’ and U.S. troops’ vulnerabilities to attacks with chemical or biological warfare agents and to develop procedures to respond to such attacks while maintaining a war-fighting capability.”
“Basically,” Quincy continued, “the DoD claimed they were trying to find out how chemical and biological agents behaved in different environments. How they affected our military personnel and how long it would take to respond effectively. They sprayed ships and dispersed aerosols in controlled areas that were supposed to simulate enemy attacks. Not until 2002 did the DoD admit that actual biological and chemical agents were used in these simulated attacks. Nasty stuff like VX nerve gas, Sarin nerve gas, and E. coli were used on our soldiers and sailors without their knowledge or their consent.”
Yes, Ellie thought, it sounded like a travesty, but she was raised in a colonel’s household and constantly heard her father talk about the sacrifices of the few to protect the greater good of a whole society. Military personnel didn’t necessarily sign up to be exposed to IEDs or machete-rampaging Taliban, but it happened as part of war. These soldiers and sailors were part of a project to protect the free world against an enemy who would use such weapons.
In her mind, Ellie had already decided that Project 112 and Project SHAD were not the evil and sinister works of her government, like Senator Quincy hoped to prove. But at the same time, she did believe the government owed these veterans some kind of compensation if they had become ill from their exposure. She hated that the DoD would rather bury them in worthless blacked-out, photocopied documents from half a century ago than provide the last of these men the health benefits they deserved. But in order to do that, men like her father and Colonel Hess—men who were hailed as heroes—would need to admit that they had done something wrong.
Instead of getting caught up in that nonsense, since Ellie knew she had no control over the outcome, she committed herself to what she could control. She kept glancing at the door, waiting and hoping that Carter had been successful in ordering a subpoena for Colonel Hess. After all, she was
not
a novice at using her political credentials. That was one thing she’d learned very quickly in this city. You embraced and used your power and authority or you’d be crushed by those who weren’t afraid to.
Now she needed Carter to come in and tell her it was a done deal before Quincy brought up the subject of Hess not being able to appear before the committee on the opening day of the hearing.
Quincy, however, droned on about how important this hearing was, telling them that the failure of those congressional attempts in the past made their task more urgent. A bill in 2008 would have provided those veterans who were a part of Project 112 and Project SHAD with health benefits. That bill had failed. Some of those veterans hadn’t given up, even though their congressmen had. They were hoping to push for another bill that would finally acknowledge them.
Ellie knew too well that the 2008 bill failure probably had very little to do with its merits, though she hadn’t been in the Senate at that time. In fact, when she first took office she dove in with plenty of good intentions, sponsoring and crusading for worthy causes only to watch the results of her efforts become political fodder, nothing more than bargaining chips. It mattered more what a bill was attached to than what it contained.
To make anything happen, she’d learned, she needed to play the game, keeping score with favors—“I’ll vote for this if you vote for that.” Somewhere along the way she’d lost her passion for the causes she’d believed in so dearly. She couldn’t remember when it became more about her own survival than her purpose for being there in the first place. Even now she still watched the door, waiting for her assistant.
Come on, Carter,
she found herself chanting in her head. She had seen glimpses of what this man-child was capable of doing. If she was going to create a monster, could it at least be a monster that benefited her? So intent was her concentration that when the stooped elderly man wearing his dress blues shuffled into the room she didn’t recognize him. He was accompanied by a younger man, a very handsome man, also in dress blues.
Senator Quincy stopped his rambling, shoved his thick body away from the table, and stood to greet the men. “Colonel Hess, Colonel Platt, thank you both for joining us.”
Ellie felt the heat rush to her face. The man who had entered the room looked nothing like the brilliant biologist she knew. Granted, it had been years, perhaps a decade, since she had last seen him in person.
She stood as Quincy guided the two colonels to the empty chairs at the other corner of the table, just opposite Ellie. The old doctor’s eyes lit up when he saw her, and she was pleased with the recognition. After all, she was the one who had called him and asked him to be one of the experts to testify. She wanted the others to realize that. Maybe they would see that she had some connections of her own. She wasn’t just the junior senator from Florida—the one who was fighting for her life to remain the junior senator from Florida.
He took her hand first, ignoring several others who had offered theirs. His grip was firm, even if he added his second hand over the top of hers in that handshake men seemed to think was necessary when addressing a woman. Still, she was beaming.
And then he said to her, “Look at you. Your father would be so proud, little Ellie Delanor.”
Haywood County, North Carolina
I
t was too damned hot to breathe.
A hundred degrees at ten in the morning. That was Afghanistan.
Creed knew it would only get hotter. He already felt the weight of his gear, seventy-five pounds riding on his back. He couldn’t think about that right now. It didn’t matter how uncomfortable he felt, he was there to clear a path through hostile territory. The marine platoon he was assigned to certainly didn’t care. To them he was a perpetual outsider. Creed and his dog were there to do a job and then move on to the next platoon.
Only now he couldn’t see Rufus. The dog knew not to go too far out of his sight. Eighteen months old and he still had that easy lope of a Labrador puppy. But everything else about the dog projected strength and discipline. He got right down to business and worked hard for the same goal.
Always the same goal—
find toy
.
So intent he’d ignore his own discomforts. Creed considered the blistering heat and wondered if he should start an IV on Rufus before dehydration started.
He couldn’t see the dog but he knew he was there. He felt his presence even when he couldn’t quite see him. Still, Creed watched and listened. He felt his own senses heighten. Unlike Rufus, he couldn’t smell the ammonium nitrate of buried IEDs, but he could hear the breeze rustling through the nearby cornfields. His eyes could pick out a humped area of loose dirt. Sometimes even see the wire sticking up.
In camp you’d hear a blast in the distance and you knew a wandering goat or an unsuspecting villager had tripped another IED. You acknowledged it, shrugged at anyone who might have heard it, too, then you went on with your routine. But every time they went beyond the wire, things changed. Creed knew he and his dog were easy targets.
“First out, first to die.”
And in Afghanistan the Taliban targeted dogs. The bastards knew the emotional attachment. They knew what taking out the dog would do, not just to the handler, but to the whole platoon.
Creed thought it was a bit ironic, since each platoon regarded them as outsiders. Marine dog handlers came in for a short period of time and usually moved on. They rarely got a chance to become a part of the tight-knit family the others had created. Creed was used to being treated with some level of suspicion. With each unit he knew they were wondering if he and his dog would get them through safely or if he’d get them all killed.
But Creed and Rufus had been with Logan and his men for almost a month.
Too long.
Creed had seen things he wasn’t meant to see, and Logan knew it.
He glanced back to see if Logan was following, carefully stepping in Creed’s footsteps like Creed had taught him, looking for the shaving cream they used to mark the safe spots. But now he couldn’t see Logan. The huge mud wall blocked his view.
Where the hell was Logan?
He stopped and looked around.
Something was wrong.
There wasn’t anyone in sight. He needed to find Rufus. And he needed to find him quickly.
He rubbed his eyes, and when he opened them the mud wall was inches from his face. His fingers were muddy. The sun had disappeared into a dark sky. He blinked. Swiped at his eyes again. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. His chest hurt. His body ached. His limbs were pinned down.
Buried.
Only the realization didn’t bring panic. A calmness wrapped around him. All he wanted to do was close his eyes. He invited the dream back. Wanted to return to the sun even if it took him back to Afghanistan. It was better to breathe that godforsaken country’s eternal dust than not be able to breathe at all.
Creed’s fingers went still. He felt his body relax as his mind surrendered. The soothing hum crackled, almost like static interfering with his brain waves. It was followed by an annoying scrape and crunch. He wanted to sleep. A scratching sound followed, insistent and growing louder.
Something poked his shoulder. Just when he thought he had imagined it, he felt a second hit. And this time it came with a rush of air.
Fresh air!
He gasped and sucked it in. Tilted his head and twisted his neck, pointing his mouth and nose toward the draft over his shoulder as best he could. The object poked through a third time and knocked him in the back.
Creed’s eyes tried to adjust to see through the blur. With recognition came relief, sweeping over him along with another influx of air. That’s when Bolo’s big front paw tapped him again.
A
s soon as he was out of the hole, someone shoved an oxygen mask on his face. Creed fought to pull it off. He wanted to smell the fresh air, not something out of a can. The medic tried to put it on again and Creed pushed it away.
“Let him be,” he heard someone say.
He gulped in air and ignored the stab of pain in his chest. He yanked off his helmet and instantly felt the cool breeze against his sweat-drenched hair.
“Bolo.”
He struggled to look around. Hands came down on his shoulders to keep him still and he shoved at them, too.
“Hell, let him see his dog. If it wasn’t for the dog, we wouldn’t have found him.”
Creed glanced up to look at the speaker, but his vision was still fuzzy. He thought he recognized the man’s voice but he couldn’t remember his name. Then Creed felt another shove at his shoulder. Before he could bat it away, he felt the lick on his cheek. Ignoring the aches, he reached up and wrapped his arm around the big dog’s neck, pulling him close. Bolo licked his mud-stained face.
The man squatted in front of Creed and waited for his eyes to focus on him.
“Can you tell me who I am?”
Bushy gray eyebrows stuck out from under the brim of a yellow hard hat. An equally bushy gray mustache hung over the man’s mouth.
Creed blinked hard a couple of times and he let his fingers caress Bolo’s head, running them over the dog’s ears then neck. Other than mud, he couldn’t feel any wounds or cuts on the dog.
The man looked disappointed and his eyes started searching for the medic.
“Vance,” Creed said.
The man’s eyes returned to Creed’s.
“But you like to be called Ollie.”
“Son of a bitch!” Then over his shoulder he yelled, “I think he’s okay.” To Creed he said, “We’re still gonna take you down to our triage center. They’re letting us use the high school gymnasium. Medic thinks you have some busted ribs. They’ll fix you up and find you a nice soft cot where you can get some rest.”
“What about Bolo?”
“He’ll go with you.”
“Is he okay?”
“As far as I can tell. I gotta tell you, though, that dog was possessed. We were looking for you up higher, where the edge gave out and the slide began. He kept insisting you were all the way down here. You traveled a good long ways, my friend.”
“What about the other dog?”
Vance scrunched up his face in question.
“The vehicle underground.”
And now the man hung his head and his eyes went down as well. When they returned, Creed knew the results.
“Driver and two passengers were dead. They were pretty bloodied up. I don’t think they survived the impact. So at least they weren’t down there suffering.”
Vance stood up and waved for the medics to come back over.
“What about the dog?”
“I think she’ll be okay.”
“She’s a scrappy thing,” the medic said, keeping his distance from Creed as if to make sure it was safe to approach him.
“She was cushioned between the seat back and one of the passengers. Probably protected her from serious injury,” Vance said.
“She didn’t try to bite anyone,” the medic told him. “She’s back in the ambulance. We’ve got her subdued on pain meds. You and Bolo mind riding along with her?”
“Not at all.”
Creed let the medic help him to his feet. It took more effort than he expected and Vance came on the other side to assist. His legs felt like spaghetti. He couldn’t get his knees to hold. His head started swirling and suddenly he was struggling to catch his breath again. This time when the medic offered the oxygen mask, Creed didn’t fight him.
“Let’s sit you back down,” the medic told him, easing him back to the ground. Then into his shoulder radio he said, “Bring up that stretcher.”
“Hey, Ollie, we’ve got something here,” one of Vance’s men yelled to him, even though he was close by, less than twenty feet away. “Smells bad.”
Creed watched them pull and tug at something buried under the mud, digging around the edges. They were being careful. It didn’t take long to realize it was a body. He saw the urgency slip away from their shoulders and hands when they realized the victim was dead.
“Looks like there’s more than one.”
But even this revelation didn’t bring with it a sense of urgency.
Vance helped lift a body out from the hole. They turned it to lie faceup.
“Holy crap!”
Creed craned his neck to see but the men were standing too close around the body, staring down at it.
“What’s wrong?” he finally asked the medic who returned to Creed’s side. “They’re dead, right?”
“Oh yeah, they’re dead all right. But not from the landslide. One has a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.”