The Last of the Dogteam Read online

  Terry jammed stiffened fingers into the man's throat, cutting off the scream as the larynx ruptured. Ripped the man's face into bloody shreds with claw-fingers and nails, jerking out one eye with his downward rip. Lashed out with a powerful Judo chop to the man's neck, paralyzing the muscles. Brought

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  the knife edge of his hand down, breaking a collar bone. Pivoting, he broke the redneck's nose with the side of his hand, then brought the lower palm of his right hand up in the classic Cobra Strike, driving the nose cartilage deep into the man's brain.

  Terry stepped back as the world began revolving and time ticked into reality. The construction worker flopped on the gravel parking lot, his damaged brain not yet transmitting the message that he was dead. He trembled, his legs jerking. He grunted, snorted, then died.

  Terry stood for a few seconds, looking down at the man. The door to the bar remained closed. The parking lot was dark. A truck rumbled by. Terry felt no emotion as he looked at 'his work, lying on its back, one eye staring into nothing, blood leaking from its mouth, nose, and ears.

  The man had attacked him, Terry had defended himself, and that was that.

  Terry walked to his car and drove off without looking back. He did not stop—except for gas—until he reached Chicago. There, he bought a Memphis paper and learned a John Doe warrant was out for the arrest of the man who wrecked a Memphis bar and killed a construction worker. The man is obviously a maniac, the paper implied.

  Fifteen minutes after reading the paper, Terr was on the phone to Colonel Ferret.

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  BOOK THREE

  TEN

  The officer in charge of the team called a halt: a rest period for which all were grateful. It gave the men time to remove the leaches that had worked their way up boots, under field pants, and onto flesh, puffing up to three and four times their normal size, sucking the blood of the men. A South American officer moved down the line of sprawled men to stop in front of Terry. He squatted down, sipping water from his canteen.

  "It won't be long nbw, Sergeant. Three miles. Are you ready?"

  "I know who to kill, if that's what you mean," Staff Sergeant Kovak took a sip of water from his own canteen. "Are you certain our man is there?"

  Major Pizarro shrugged. "If my informant is correct. That's the problem with torture: people will tell you anything you want to hear

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  just to make the pain stop. But, yes, I believe the general will be at this camp." His eyes shifted to the still sealed gun case, part of it resting on Terry's leg. "The weapon, you are certain of its reliability? It will do the job?"

  "You get me to the man," Terry said calmly, "and I'll do the rest."

  "The bullet—it really explodes on contact?" the Latin was not fully convinced.

  "Yes, it's tipped with an explosive. Don't worry, Major. Just get me to the target."

  The Major regarded the Sergeant. "You're very young to be so highly rated by your government. I had expected a much older man."

  Terry was not disturbed; his age had come up in question many times before. "I have good eyes, calm nerves, and a steady trigger finger, Major. Ill do my job."

  The Latin nodded. "Yes , , . well, rest now—sleep if you can. I'll wake you in about an hour."

  Terry closed his eyes. To the amazement of the Major, he was asleep in less than three minutes, sleeping as peacefully as if he were on his way to a ballet, instead of an assassination.

  "General Flores," "Ferret briefed Terry, showing him the man's picture from a thick dossier. "Hard line Communist stirring up trouble among the masses. The Man says send

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  a gun—you're the gun."

  Terry nodded, studying the face of the General he was to kill. "This is an Agency shoot. Why don't they send some of their own people?"

  "Because they asked for you, hot-shot. Now, listen: the way this thing sounds to me, youTl have time for two shots, maybe three. The friendlies can get you to within maybe five hundred meters." Ferret showed Terry pictures of the camp and aerial photographs of the terrain surrounding the camp, marking an X where Terry would shoot. "Can you do it?"

  "No sweat, Colonel."

  "There'll be plenty of sweat, all yours, with much pain—if you miss and get caught."

  "Colonel, if you have doubts about me, send someone else." Military or not, Terry spoke his mind and pulled very few punches.

  Ferret smiled. "Kovak, this country is very important to us. We need all the friends we can get in South America. I can't make it any clearer than that. Do you read me?"

  "Loud and clear, sir. When do I leave?"

  "Sunday. 0800."

  Everything was going wrong with the operation. General Flores had twice the men in the rebel camp than had been anticipated, and Major Pizarro's troops were having a difficult time holding against the heavy odds. Terry could get no closer than six hundred

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  meters from the main building housing Flo res, and if the General didn't show soon, the mission would have to be scrubbed and it would be Bug-out time . . . with every man for himself.

  Terry adjusted his scope for the extra yardage and sighted in, steadying the cross-hairs. Six hundred meters. He'd hit targets at much further distances, but never under these conditions. He waited.

  General Flores made a break for it, heading for the protection of the jungle, moving swiftly for a man of his bulk. Terry led his target, gently taking up trigger-slack, then let the rifle fire itself. The weapon pounded his shoulder. When he again got Flores in the cross-hairs, the General was lying on the ground, blood spurting from a massive hip wound; the mercury-tipped bullet had torn a huge hole in the man's leg and hip. One of Flores' aides attempted to help the General to his feet and that was all the target Terry needed: he blew a cup-sized hole in the General's chest and it was all over except the mop-up. The Rebels scattered, Major Pizarro's men cutting them down, giving no mercy or quarter.

  Terry unloaded the rifle, stored the cartridges in the case, and locked the weatherproof carton. He dug in his picket for a candy bar, chewing slowly with the mop-up going on around him.

  Later, the fight over, Terry sat with the Major, waiting for a helicopter to take him out.

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  He was aware of the Major looking at him from time to time, studying him. Finally, Pizarro spoke.

  "You're a cool one," he said, and Terry assumed that was a compliment, of sorts, in a left-handed manner. "With Flores out of the way, his men scattered, we can dry up his source of Red money and move closer to a democracy—our form of your government, that is. You are a truly magnificent shot and a brave man, Sergeant, but I don't think I would want you for a friend." He chuckled. "However, I don't think I would want you for an enemy, either."

  Terry chewed a piece of gum from his accessory pack and remained silent.

  "It's a job to you, isn't it?" Pizarro asked. "This killing, I mean? Just a line of work."

  "I'm a soldier," Terry said. "Just like you. I had my orders and I carried them out—just as you did." He shrugged. "You tortured a man, then probably killed him, to find out where Flores would be—so I could kill him. I don't enjoy killing, not really, I don't feel anything about it, one way or the other. Did you enjoy torturing the man?"

  "No," the Major said softly. He sighed. "No, I didn't. It's a disgusting business. But one must believe that one is doing ... all this," he waved his hand, "for one's country, no?"

  "The end justifies the means."

  "Si."

  Both men were silent for a time. "You have

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  a family?" Pizarro asked.

  "I have no one."

  For a moment, in the steaming jungles of South America, amid the cawing of various brightly colored birds, Terry allowed his inner joylessness to show on his face.

  "You are not a happy man," the Major observed. "And you are far too young to be so unhappy and yet so worldly. I
think perhaps the latter is the reason for the former, amigo. Don't you agree?"

  "I don't know," Terry smiled. "But you just called me 'friend*. I thought you said you wouldn't want me for a friend?"

  Pizarro laughed. "Ah, now I can add mental quickness to your other talents. Well, we Latins are unpredictable—changing like the wind. At least that is our reputation." A chopper coming in cut off the conversation, both men rising, Pizarro holding out his hand. "I will not be returning with you, Sergeant, so I will say the words at this time: Adios, amigo."

  They shook hands, and Terry climbed aboard, strapping himself in, adjusting his headset as they lifted off. He waved at the Major and Pizarro saluted him, then was swallowed up in the jungle. Any Communist rebel still alive was being shot.

  Terry had not been back to Bishop in more than two years. The town had changed: several more factories, two shopping centers, a

  huge housing development that gave the old town a more modern look. Many streets had been changed into one-way's, and Terry almost got lost before he found his bearings.

  The Presidental campaign was over, and JFK looked pretty good to SFC Terry Kovak. Twenty-two years old and Sergeant First Class. He had come up fast.

  He drove slowly past the high school, his thoughts, for the first time in months, swung to Ruby. He wondered where she was and how she was doing? Ruby, with the sometimes kinky sex habits. Terry hoped she had found someone to love and understand her. He smiled as the school faded in his rear view mirror. He had no desire to stop and visit.

  He drove to the Armory and went in, wanting to say hello to Tate, but his friend was gone, replaced by a Master Sergeant Terry did not know. A straight-leg, too, unlike Tate, who had been a Jumper. This one wore a sour expression on his face.

  "Sergeant Tate around?" Terry asked.

  A full half minute before Terry received any reply. The Master Sergeant—his name tag read: RICHMOND—gave Terry a long onceover with little mean eyes, taking in the Silver Wings on his chest, resting above his decorations; the Airborne/ Ranger tabs on his shoulder, and his highly polished Jump Boots.

  "I thought some of you rough-tough glamor boys had taken to wearin' them berets?" Richmond asked, no friendliness in his voice.

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  Terry smiled. The hostility was nothing new to him; he had met it many times before from both officers and EM's of the old line Army. Many of them resented change of any kind—possibly afraid of it, certainly envious of it.

  "Special Forces wear them. Is Tate around?" Terry got back to his original question.

  "Naw, he retired, shipped out—something. Hell, I don't know where he went and really don't care. He left me a mess here."

  "Thanks for your cooperation," Terry said sarcastically. Richmond only glared at him as he left. Just outside the door, he said, loud enough for Richmond to hear: "Asshole!"

  "Screw you, pretty-boy!" the words drifted out to Terry as he walked to his car.

  Terry laughed and shouted, "I wanna live a life of danger—I wanna be an Airborne/ Ranger."

  Richmond appeared at the door, his face red with anger. "Get outta here, you son-of-a bitch 1 Took me fifteen years to make SFC. You wouldn't have made it in the old Army!"

  Terry laughed and drove away.

  He didn't believe Tate had retired. Tate had told him too many times he was in for three times ten, and 1960 would be his twenty-first year in the Army, over fifteen of those with Ferret and the Dog Teams. No, Tate had either gotten killed, cracked up, or Ferret had moved him to another post—probably the lat-

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  ter. Terry made a mental note to find out. He and Tate had gotten along; they understood each other.

  He drove past the mill, from a distance seeing his father walking across the mill yard. He would be home and surprise his father when he came in from work. Terry smiled; it would be a good homecoming.

  The old house looked pretty good: a fresh coat of paint shining on the wood, red trim around the windows, a new porch. A very lovely young lady sat in the porch swing, reading a book. She looked up as Terry pulled into the driveway.

  My God! Terry thought. That's Shirley. She's a grown woman.

  Then she was in his arms, kissing his face, crying. His mother ran out of the house, wiping her hands on her apron, crying, throwing her arms around the neck of her son.

  Terry was home.

  "You sure aren't much for letter-writing, Terry," Poppa Kovak gently and jokingly chided his youngest son. He smiled at his wife. "What, Momma—eight letters in two years?"

  "Yes, but I saved them all. Such nice long letters." She winked at Terry. "I tied them up with a ribbon around them. At least a page and a half each. And your handwriting, son, it's terrible." And the family laughed.

  With all the family present, the big house

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  seemed to overflow. Robert slapped Terry on the back and grinned at him. "You look good in that uniform lad. Real good. Kind of makes me sad I didn't stay in this last time."

  Terry returned the smile as he looked around the room at the family. One was missing. He cut his eyes at Robert.

  "If you're looking for Mavis," his brother said, "she's not here and won't be. She ran off."

  "Aw, hell, Bob," Danny jumped in the conversation, blunt as always, "tell him." He looked at Terry. "It's just one of the things we're not supposed to talk about." He ignored his mother's efforts to shush him. "She ran off with the Priest. They're living up in Detroit."

  Vera had been right all along. "The Priest?" Terry said.

  "Yeah," Danny's voice trailed off.

  No one said anything more for a moment. Shuffling of feet on the carpet, much inspecting of the ceiling, avoiding of eyes, clearing of throats, lighting of cigarettes.

  "Shameful," Mother Kovak said. "Not to mention her leaving the children. Sad excuse for a mother."

  "Well," Robert said, "it's over and done with. I've met a nice lady. She'll be over here tomorrow night and you can meet her."

  The subject was closed.

  "Exactly what do you do in the Army?" Joe asked. He sat with his arm around Ginny. She had just passed her Bar and would soon go into

  practice in Bishop.

  "Too bold!" many of the local men said. Damned if they'd go to a female lawyer. But Cinny had the support of almost all the women in the county, and she didn't seem to be too terribly worried about her future.

  "I'm in weapons," Terry said, not a lie on his part.

  "Stationed where?" Shirley asked.

  "Fort Bragg—for awhile, at least. I get shipped around quite a lot, instructing all over the world." And blowing dudes away, he thought.

  His answers seemed to satisfy the family, but every now and then Terry would feel Robert's eyes on him, gazing at him rather curiously, a puzzled look on his face, perhaps wondering how a twenty-two year old could make Sergeant First Class so quickly and could afford to drive a new Thunderbird on that salary. To hopefully put an end to further discussion of his military career, Terry changed into civics.

  After the family had returned to their homes, promising to get together the next night for a real family reunion, Terry drove around Bishop. He realized he could not spend much time here: the place depressed him. He did not fit in Bishop society—if, indeed, he ever had. He drove by the Skelten home and saw Carolyn working in the yard, fussing over her blooming flowers. She looked about the same as he remembered her: still a good-

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  looking woman. She was bending over, her jeans tight on her rump. But Terry had no desire to stop and chat. He wondered if she was still married, or had she finally gotten enough of Lee's drunkenness and tossed him out? And, Bess? Where was she?

  He swung into the service station where he had once worked and bought gas from a lad he didn't know. He felt even more depressed; old for his years. Terry knew he would have to leave this town very soon.

  "You're Terry Kovak, ain't ya?" the young man ask
ed, wiping his runny nose with the sleeve of his shirt.

  "Yeah, that's me."

  "Man, it must be great . . . what you do, I mean. Jumpin' out of them airplanes."

  "It's a job, partner."

  "Huh?"

  "You can get used to anything." Terry wished the kid would just shut up, blow his nose, and fill the tank with high-test. Maybe check his oil if he could find the dip-stick.

  "I been thinkin' 'bout joiniri* up myself. Gettin' me a pair of them big shiny boots." The gas ran over, spilling on the pea gravel of the drive. "I been readin' 'bout them Green Berets guys. Them Special Forces Troopers. Maybe that's for me. What'd you think, Terry?"

  Terry looked at the young man and wanted to laugh and cry simultaneously. Terry spoke German fluently and could get by in Russian,

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  Vietnamese, and Pali—having just returned from four months duty in Burma. This kid was having trouble with English and he wanted to join SF.

  At this juncture, Special Forces was perhaps the finest guerrilla fighting force in the world, its men required to speak several languages, be familiar with dozens of weapons—including garrote, knife, and cross-bow—and were considered to be the best jungle fighters, the best mountain men, the best dog-sledders, the best desert fighters, and the most murderous am-bushers in the world. But, as usual, the military potentates of the United States Army, would, eventually, attempt to turn fighting men into sanitation engineers, bridge builders, and diplomats, and royally fuck up the finest fighting force anywhere in the world.

  But for several years, the men of the Green Berets—Special Forces—would be considered the best guerrilla fighters in the world.

  "You can give it a try," Terry told him. He paid for his gas and drove away, thinking: Damn stupid Cracker. Jesus, I've got to get out of here.

  Terry drove to the local drive-in for a Coke and was startled to find it gone, a Serve-Yur-Self store in its place.

  He drove around until he found the new location of the now very modern drive-in. He walked in and ordered a milkshake. The place was full of chattering, giggling high school girls, the boys seated around and among them,