Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (33 page)

Nails clicked as the handler entered with her beast and VanAllen.

“Shut the door.” Hand on his belt, he waited. Ran his knuckles over his lips. The door clicked. “What in Sam Hill is going on? Hogan, you’ve always been a pain in a donkey’s backside with me, but VanAllen …” He wagged a pointing finger at him. “You said you’d straighten her out.”

“Did no such thing, sir. You said talk to her. I did.” Green eyes sat weighted in their sockets.

“It went that good, huh?” Lance cursed. He scratched his head then raised his hands in surrender. “I don’t care if you’re sleeping with each other or hating each other. But I need both of you to get your heads in this game.” His finger veered to Hogan. “Young lady, you have good instincts. But with that attitude of yours, I wouldn’t care if you could read minds. Get that fixed or stow it. That team out there, they’re mine. And I’d cut my own throat before I let you get them all riled up just before they head into the nastiest hornet’s nest of a situation.”

Contrition. He saw it all over her face but couldn’t believe it. Was it an act?

“I’m—” She lifted her head and looked him in the eye. “You’re right. I’m sorry, sir.”

Her dog whimpered.

He almost cursed again. Since when had Hogan
ever
backed down. What did it mean? Was the fight in her gone? No, he’d seen and heard it not two minutes ago. But what could he do at this point? He needed that dog on-site. Needed him to sniff out the trouble they were hunting.

With a heavy sigh, Lance nodded, gathering his wits from the floor where her response had knocked them. “That’s a good start.” He looked at VanAllen. “I warned you to keep your head in the game. I see anything like this again and I’m pulling your sorry butt back here. You’ll have desk duty till your eyes bleed.”

“Understood.” VanAllen, hands behind his back, gave a curt nod. “Not going to be a problem, sir. I’m in. One hundred percent.”

“May I ask a question?” Timbrel didn’t do the whole submissive-contrition thing very well, but he could appreciate her effort.

“Only one.”

Timbrel wet her lips and shot VanAllen a sidelong glance. “So, the lab coat—”

“Gave us critical proof that what you found in that bookshop wasn’t just bookmaking chemicals.”

Exultation leapt through her expression.

He went on before she could say anything. “The levels were too highly concentrated. Although they had broken down some—the techs think the coat might’ve been washed—but there was enough for plausible concern.” Lance suddenly understood how painful it was for her to be humble right now because he had to muster his own humility from the dregs of his foul mood. “You did good work, Hogan.”

She seemed to breathe in and savor the praise.

“But don’t go off half cocked again, or you’ll be cleaning dog kennels for the rest of your life.”

Timbrel smirked. “Already do, sir.” She tussled Beo’s fur.

Bagram AFB, Afghanistan

Warbling across the flat terrain, heat plumes warned of the unseasonably hot day. Sweat slid in sheets down Tony’s face and trailed tickling fingers down his spine. He grunted as he lifted his gear and headed away from the Globemaster. His gaze hit Timbrel, who jogged along the runway with Beowulf. The dog had gone ape after nearly a full day airborne. He didn’t want to think about how the bullmastiff took care of business. That’s a nasty job he was glad didn’t fall into his obligations.

Shouldering his ruck, he strode across the tarmac toward the tent that would be their home for the next however long it would take to finish this mission. According to the general, the mission should be pretty cut and dried. Get in. Get the intel. Get out.

But that was assuming a lot.

And Tony never assumed.

Another bead of sweat slipped from his hat and raced down his temple, skidding right into his eye. He grunted and tossed his gear onto a gray mattress.

“Hey,” Java asked as he took the bunk next to him. “What happened with you and Hogan?”

Tony glared at him.

“Might wanna leave that one alone,” Pops said in his low country drawl. Sitting on the edge of the bunk, he held a book in his hands. No, not a book. The Bible.

Tony faced the guy whose reddish-blond hair had gotten him a lot of ribbing … and a lot of flirting by female personnel. Though the big guy never flirted back. He was married. He took that commitment seriously. “Pops, you okay?”

Gray-blue eyes rose from the whisper-thin pages. “Just searching …”

Tony felt the frown. “For what?”

“Answers.” The guy with brawny shoulders and stout heart closed the Book, stowed it in his locker, then started suiting up, donning his plate-carrier vest and standard issue Colt M1911.

Catching the guy’s shoulder, Tony squeezed. “Todd. Seriously—you okay?”

Somber eyes held his then lowered slowly. He whispered, “Amy has cancer.”

Drawn up short by the revelation, Tony took a step back. “Man, I’m sorry.” He glanced around, suddenly irritated with himself for forcing the subject. “Do you want to go home, be with her?”

A weak smile wove through his face and faded out. “Can’t let my team down.”

Tony scowled. “Dude—she’s your wife.” He pointed to the locker where the Bible lay concealed. “God first, family second, country third.”

Pops held up a hand. “I appreciate that, but she had surgery to remove the tumor. Chemo starts next week. She told me my hovering was driving her crazy.” His snicker of a laugh had no humor to it, then he gave another nod. “I talked to Burnett. As soon as this mission is over, I’m heading home.”

“Good.” Relief swirled sweet and yet bitter. Tony patted his shoulder. “You’ll be missed. You’re doing the right thing. But don’t think you can slack off.”

Pops laughed, understanding Tony’s attempt to not make light of his wife’s situation but to let him know they had his back. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Circle up,” Dean said as he entered the tent armed with a couple of tubes—rolled-up maps, no doubt.

The team gathered, and it felt good to get out of the domestic element, to set aside relational challenges with his father, his brother, and even his sister, who took exception to Timbrel’s presence.

Speaking of, Timbrel and Beowulf stepped into the tent, the dog panting against the 110 degrees dousing them in sweat and body odor. Even Timbrel had sweat rings around her black tank. But she hadn’t said a word about the heat. That’s one of the things he liked about her—she wasn’t afraid to do hard work, to get down and gritty. In fact, she looked good with a little dirt caked on her face and a heat-flush in her cheeks.

He liked everything about her except her unwillingness to risk her heart, to be
real
and unafraid to embrace mistakes so she could grow. So their relationship could grow.

Java and Scrip made a hole for Timbrel to join them for the mission brief.

“Okay.” Dean rolled out a political map. “Our mission is twofold.” He held up a thumb. “Confirm or deny the presence of WMD or chemicals used in the construction of said weapons.” He held up his pointer finger so his hand looked like a gun. “Snatch-and-grab.”

Tony frowned. “Who?”

Dean laid out three photographs. “Any of these men. They’re purportedly top tier with Bashir’s organization—same Bashir we’ve been looking at. We just didn’t put two and two together. Bashir Bijan is Bashir Karzai.”

“Shoulda guessed,” Java said. “These Muslim guys adopt a new name for every big event in life, it seems.”

“Not quite that often, but yeah.” Dean fingered an image. “This guy is Lieutenant Irfael Azizi, Bashir’s right hand. It’d be ideal if we hauled him back here for a little one-on-one.”

“Hooah,” Scrip muttered.

“But we have STK orders if they engage us. The other is Altair al Dossari. He’s a scientist who went missing about fifteen months ago. Chatter suggests Bashir has him.”

“Why aren’t we going after Bashir?” Timbrel asked. “He’s the reason this is happening.”

“Too hot,” Java said with a wink.

Tony’s bicep flinched. His buddy better stow that flirting unless he wanted a dent in his pretty mug.

“Java’s right—Bashir is a high-profile humanitarian.” Dean sighed. “The world believes him to be a saint, producing books for children and schools. We suspect differently, but we can’t string him up yet. And until we can nail his nuke-making butt with one-hundred-proof evidence, he’s hands off.”

Timbrel digested the information with a slow bob of her head, eyes tracking the images.

“What’s the plan?” Tony asked.

Squatting, Dean unfurled a large rendering of a fenced-in area. “The property is Bashir’s largest book factory, so we’re going in to check things out. We have to keep this under wraps, so we’ll head out at 0300.”

Java whistled. “Early bird catches the terrorist.”

“Structure B-4 is a two-story warehouse at the center of the compound.” Dean pointed to large rectangular building attached to another smaller one. A U-shaped road wrapped back to the gate in front of the warehouse. “This building is our concern. It’s been leased out by the same company that owned the bookshop.” He slid the map aside and unrolled another. This one a blueprint. “Four offices upstairs, two on either side of this catwalk that stretches over the entire warehouse floor. One way up, one way down—these stairs. Now the place should be empty, but we need to expect trouble if what we suspect to be happening is really going on there.”

“Hold up,” Java said. “At the bookshop, the dog”—he pointed to Beowulf—“detected the chemicals hidden behind a wall. Think that could happen there? We lost some serious time there and ended up with our pants down.”

Dean shook his head. “Sources have mapped out the building. No extra room.”

“What about a basement or lower level like a tunnel? Terrorists tend to like those,” Tony threw in, exploring all contingencies.

“Possible.” Dean rubbed his jaw. “But unknown.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Timbrel threw over her shoulder as her brown eyes struck him. “Beowulf can detect buried cache. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“What
shouldn’t
be a problem and what
becomes
a problem are usually two very different things,” Tony countered.

“If it’s there, Beo will find it.” Timbrel’s defense mechanisms were in full swing. Just like the first time he met her. She was primed and ready for a fight.

Thought we got past that
.

“Good,” Tony said, not willing to be baited.

“Still need to be prepared.” Pops lifted the photographs, studied the faces one by one, then passed them around. “From what I hear, he got tipped off that we were curious about him.”

Timbrel’s chin dipped then lifted. “Unfortunately, he’s right. But it was necessary to getting some proof.”

“Might want to backtrack on that,” Tony said. “We’ll find out today if it was worth the risk.”

Surprise and hurt washed through Timbrel’s face. She’d taken his response personally. Of course. Great. He wouldn’t be able to think tactically without worrying about her getting all up in arms.

Clearing his throat, Dean regrouped. “We’ll search the warehouse once we clear the other structures. The two on the northeast side are both residences. We have mixed intel on who’s living there. Either Bashir’s family—”

“Thought this dude was single. The lone Jesus to the masses?” Java said irreverently.

Pops speared him with a wicked glare.

“What?” Java lifted his hands. “I’m right—they treat him like a freakin’ messiah. Just became an imam. I’m surprised they don’t lay palm branches at this guy’s feet.”

“He’s greatly respected, it’s true,” Dean said, cutting through the tension with his mission focus. “That’s why for now, we need to steer clear of him. He might not be married, but rumors have it that he’s managed a mistress or two and an eighteen-year-old male he’s taken under his wing named Dehqan.” He held up a picture of an older teen. “If Bashir is there, you can count on Dehqan being there, too. He’s to remain unharmed. He’s off limits.”

“Why?” Timbrel bounced her shoulders. “If the teen is always with Bashir, then he has the most access to the man who’s creating WMDs. He probably knows what his father wants to do. Seems we’d want him here. Besides, kids are easier to persuade to talk.”

“He’s
off
limits.” Dean’s tone and expression severed a counterresponse. “You touch him, you’ll answer to Burnett.”

Now, that’s interesting
. Why would the boy be blacked out? The only targets they didn’t touch were assets. But even assets could be dragged back to command for questioning, at least to give the appearance of being arrested.

“The residences might also be Azizi’s—Bashir’s right hand.” He traced two lines connecting the buildings. “There’s a makeshift balcony joining the buildings, creating a breezeway. Definite danger spot—perfect for armed guards to hide.” Meeting each member of ODA452’s eyes, Dean grew much more serious. “We had a fiasco last time. This has to go right or we’re dog meat. The general wants this clean and black so nobody can point the finger at him, or us.”

“So,” Java said with a shrug, “what are we supposed to do if we find the stuff?”

“If we confirm the presence of WMDs, SOCOM sends in a SEAL team to take out the factory and secure the weapons for appropriate and safe disposal. Our job is to confirm and snatch.” Dean stood, hands on his tactical belt. “Questions so far?”