The Last of the Dogteam Read online

  "Yes," the young man said, unhesitatingly. "Yes, I would."

  Damn you, Ferret! the psychiatrist silently fumed. How do you do it? How can you simply look at a man and know what's in his heart and mind? How do you do it?

  The Colonel had picked another one, unerringly.

  "Thank you, Private Kovak. That will be all for today."

  "You'd better tell him, Bill," the psychiatrist told Colonel Ferret.

  "Can he handle 4t? Hell, Doc, the kid's only sixteen."

  "Yes, he can handle it."

  "You don't approve of me or my work, do you, Doc?" Ferret smiled.

  "Morally? No. But I'm realist enough to know the work your . . . people do is

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  necessary. But God help you if Congress ever finds out about your teams."

  Ferret laughed. "You mean, the good ole American way of justice for all would be tarnished?"

  "What are you, Bill? You're married, you have a family, you love your wife, and I know for a fact you don't run around on her. Yet, if I may use a most unprofessional term, you're a goddamn killer."

  Ferret laughed louder. "Puzzles you shrinks, doesn't it? Killers are all supposed to be raving lunatics, with no emotions of any land. Doc, I've never killed a child; Fve never raped a woman; I've never mugged anybody . . ."

  "But you can and have killed coldbloodedly, and you train others to do the same."

  "For my country, Doc. Not for personal gain. For my country. You can't understand that, but you know you can't look down your nose at me, or men like me, for you've been screening my people for eight years."

  "Yes," the psychiatrist said.

  "Going to write that paper someday, Doc?"

  "How did you know . . . ?"

  Again, the Colonel laughed. "Come on, Doc, you know this business as well as I. Everybody watches everybody else. We don't even have private thoughts."

  "My phone; my office."

  "Of course, they're .tapped—wired for sound. So is my office. God, you're naive!"

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  "I should throw you out of herel" Ferret's eyes grew cold. "I'd kill you before you could ball your fists, Doc. Relax, man." "If I should write my paper someday?" "Don't."

  November, 1954

  "I never dated a soldier before," the girl said. "You look a lot older in that uniform, Terry."

  With his newly acquired PFC stripes shining on the sleeves of his Ike Jacket, Terry smiled. He did look much older than his years. No one thought much about a sixteen year old joining the National Guard, In the 40's and 50's a great many young men did just that, for those were the days when the nation still possessed a degree of pride in the military: those were the days before 'overt liberalism; before serving one's country became a nasty word—before Vietnam. In those days, it wasn't unheard of for parents to actually encourage young men to join the military.

  No one knew, however, that this particular young man was on his way toward becoming a part of one of the most feared and highly secret units in the military; a unit that touched all branches of the military.

  No one knew that Terry, during the final week of his stay at Summer Camp, had received some very intensive training on the Hand to Hand combat range, or that he had

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  taken to it like a Pro, learning a great deal more than his instructors had believed possible in so short a time.

  "The kid's a natural/' a sergeant said.

  "I'd hate to come up on him in a dark alley a few years from now," another remarked.

  "Cold son-of-a-bitch!" another said.

  "Want some more bourbon with that Coke?" Terry asked, unscrewing the cap on the pint bottle.

  She smiled, nodded, and held out her Coke bottle. Terry obligingly poured it half-full of bourbon and the two of them sat quietly in the car, listening to the rain pound on the roof. Robert had loaned Terry his *49 Ford for the evening.

  Thanksgiving holidays blanketed the country, and the Guard meeting was cut very short that evening. When roll was taken, only twenty men had showed up, and the meeting was canceled. Now, instead of having two hours to spend with Bess—as they had planned—Terry had almost four hours with her. His brain was working overtime, trying to figure out a way to get her panties off her.

  "Terry?" Bess questioned. "Why did you call me for a date? You know I'm supposed to be going steady with J.A."

  "If you're going steady with Cater, what are you doing out with me?"

  Bess looked at him through the dim light of night and only shook her head. She didn't know, really, why she accepted his invitation

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  to go riding, have a drink. Something about Terry Kovak fascinated her; something else about him frightened her. He was not like the other boys, more adult-like in manner and bearing.

  "You mean," Terry smiled, "I violated some kind of code by calling you?"

  The thought amused him. J.A. Cater was the Classic Jock of Bishop High School. And all-around athlete from the tip of his toes to the point of his head, pushing through his always neatly trimmed flat-top. J.A. was the type of person that somehow irritated Terry, and he suspected that sports contributed only a small degree to that dislike. Cater was a born horse's ass.

  "Well, I am wearing his ring," Bess sipped her doctored Coke. "And that's supposed to mean we're going steady."

  "Why do you go steady with Cater?"

  Bess giggled, the alcohol getting to her, spreading warmth in her belly and bringing a lightness to her head. She ducked his question. "Why did you break up with Clarissa?"

  Terry shifted positions in the seat and took her hand in his. Her hand was very soft and warm, "We just decided we didn't like each other anymore. We wanted to date other people."

  "She's pretty, but kind of false. You know what I mean?"

  "Yeah," Terry grinned in the darkness, taking a drink of his Coke and bourbon. "And

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  you don't like her very much. I feel the same way about Cater."

  "Can I turn on the radio?"

  "Sure, go ahead."

  She leaned across him, her breast pushing against his arm. Terry didn't know if that was accidental, or not, but he figured it was intentional.

  The disc jockey introed a golden oldie: Tony Bennett's "Because of You."

  Bess leaned back in the seat. "That's such a pretty song. I just love it."

  "And the words are so true," Terry picked up the old line and spoon-fed it to her.

  She drained her Coke/whiskey and snuggled close to Terry, the rain pulling them together, urging them, under its hammering blanket, to touch. She rubbed her cheek on the rough fabric of the Ike Jacket. "It must be exciting to be a soldier."

  "Yeah," Terry whispered, kissing her mouth. Their tongues met, charging batteries that did not need any more voltage in them.

  "If J. A. ever finds out about this," she spoke against his mouth, "you two will have a fight." She nibbled at his lips.

  Terry slid his hand under her sweater and caressed her bare stomach. She gasped, but made no attempt to remove his hand. "It won't be much of a fight," Terry said.

  "It sure won't," Bess French-kissed him, as the song on the radio changed. Tommy Collins sang: You Better Not Do That.

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  "I want to talk to you, Kovakl" J. A. parked his bulk in front of the door to the gym, blocking it. He flexed his muscles a couple of times and Terry laughed at him.

  J. A. reddened and pointed a thick finger at Terry. "You better stay away from Bess, Kovak," he warned. "I'm not gonna tell you but once. Bess is my chick."

  "And if I keep seeing her, you'll do what?" Terry grinned at him.

  J. A. threw a punch at him, but Terry was ready for it, suspecting it was coming. Using the simplest of all Judo tactics, Terry used the heavier young man's weight against him and flipped him to the floor. J. A. got to his feet, cursing, and charged at Terry. Terry sidestepped, stuck out his foot, and tripped him, laughing as he did, thinking: this is the easiest way to fight in the world.
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  Roaring with rage, J. A. bounced to his feet and attempted to grab Terry in a bear-hug. Terry kneed him in the groin and the fight was over. J. A. lay on the floor, vomiting.

  "STOP THIS!" Coach Murphy yelled from the door of the locker room. He ran to the side of his fallen right tackle, sprawled on the floor.

  Terry stood to one side, arms folded across his chest. He was smiling.

  The assistant coach ran in from the basketball court, looked first at J. A., then at Murphy, finally at Kovak. His gaze took in Terry's smile and that seemed to infuriate the man.

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  There was disgust in his voice as he said, "If you wanted to fight, why didn't you call for the gloves? We'd have done it properly."

  "Screw the gloves!" Terry blurted. "Fighting isn't a game to me. He pointed at J. A., huddled in a painful ball on the floor, hands cradling his cods. "He swung at me, coach, I didn't start the fight. At least I didn't swing the first fist." He laughed. "I didn't swing a fist at all."

  Coach Murphy stood up from J. A.'s side. No one had asked if Terry was hurt. That amused the young man. "Scott, you take Kovak to the Principal's office, tell him what happened, I've got to get J. A. to the hospital."

  Coach Scott put his hand on Terry's arm and the young man shook it off. "Don't put your hands on me," he warned. "I'll go with you, but don't put your hands on me."

  "You need a good ass-whipping!" the young coach told him.

  Terry took a step backward, raising his hands, leaving his hands open. "Here I am," he said calmly.

  "Both of you calm down!" Coach Murphy barked. "Kovak, get the hell over to Mr. Watkins' office. Move!"

  The Principal shook his head, clucked distressfully a couple of times, and said, "Terry, Terry—this is shocking. I don't approve of violence, Terry, but there are times

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  when it just has to be." He reached for the paddle on his desk.

  "Is Cater going to be paddled, too?"

  "I rather doubt it, Terry. Don't you think he's suffered enough?"

  "I sure as hell don't! He started the fight, Mr. Watkins. Not me. If I get paddled, so does Cater. That's the way it's gonna be!"

  "Are you refusing to take this whipping?" Watkins asked. He was angry, but he had heard several stories concerning this usually quiet and well-behaved, but yet tough and very capable-looking young man standing in front of him. He remembered Robert and Danny Kovak: fine young men; good, if not great athletes. But this young man was . . . different from his brothers. A coldness about him that was ... he searched for the word . . . disquieting; somehow unsettling. He knew both Kovak parents, knew they were sometimes border-line poverty cases, and in a way felt sorry for Terry Kovak. But, discipline had to be maintained. If he just hadn't jumped on J. A. And Terry had to be the one to initiate the trouble; J. A. had never been in any serious trouble. Such a fine athlete,

  "I asked you a question, Terry: are you refusing to take this spanking?"

  "You damn well better believe it!"

  Watkins nodded curtly. "Very well, then. You're on suspension until I can take this matter up with Superintendent White."

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  Terry spun around and walked out of the office without acknowledging the directive or looking back. He pushed past an astonished Coach Scott.

  Terry walked to the Armory, located on the other side of Bishop, and told Master Sergeant Tate what had happened.

  "And you didn't start this fight, Terry?"

  "No, Sergeant, I did not. Cater swung at me, I just put him down, that's all."

  "With Judo?" the Sergeant said dryly.

  "Yes, Sergeant."

  "You're too good, Terry. Maybe the best I've ever seen. You take to the killing arts like nobody I've ever seen. Go on home. Stay out of trouble. If your parents don't bring up the . . . incident, don't volunteer anything. Don't tell anyone you came to see me about this. I'll see it's worked out. No sweat."

  The door had scarcely closed behind Terry before Tate was reaching for the phone.

  Colonel Ferret was at the Armory that evening; he had been training men not too far from Bishop, at a isolated training area around Dallonega, Georgia. Tate smiled at what the Colonel brought with him: in two paper bags, a rabbit and a rattlesnake, both live.

  "A little object lesson, Colonel?" Tate asked.

  "I thought I might be able to appeal to this White's sense of patriotism. But he doesn't have any, or so it seems."

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  "Military records?" Tate asked.

  "None. Zip. Same with his kids. Two oafs he managed to keep in college so they wouldn't get drafted. Go get White. He'll be at the gym. There's a basketball game tonight."

  When Superintendent White walked into the Armory, he had time to see the blurred image of Ferret before the superintendent went flying through the air to land roughly, but unhurt, save for his ego, on thick close-combat pads on the floor. Yelling as he crawled to his knees, White felt himself jerked to his feet, then slammed down on the pads. This action was repeated several bone-jarring times. Badly shaken, hair disheveled, eye glasses lost somewhere on the Armory floor, the superintendent was close to tears when Ferret finally stopped flinging him about like he was a rag doll.

  "My God, man!" White managed to say. "Are you insane? What is this?"

  "Kovak," Ferret said.

  "Who? What?"

  "Kovak, Terrance Samuel. Serial number NG 25434038. I don't want him expelled from high school. I want him to finish his education. Are you hungry, Mr. White?"

  "What? What? Hungry. Hungry? God, no!. I'm going to call the policel"

  Ferret reached for him again and the superintendent scrambled backward on the pads. "No, no! Maybe I won't. No, I know I

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  won't call the police I Kovak? What, what . . .?"

  "Excuse me a moment, Mr. White," Ferret said. "I'm hungry."

  The Colonel reached into a bag, pulled out the kicking rabbit, and with one swift motion, brought the rabbit to his mouth. He tore open the animal's throat with his teeth, spat out a mouthful of hair and blood, then jerked the pelt from the still twitching animal, tore off several strips of raw meat, and ate them, blood running down his chin,

  Superintendent White threw up on the pads.

  Ferret tossed the bloody carcass beside White and opened the second bag. "Bring me a can of Sterno," he ordered. "We'll have dessert."

  Carelessly—so it seemed to the fascinated and repulsed White—Ferret reached into the second bag and jerked out a quivering rattlesnake. Actually, Ferret's move was anything but careless, but to the untrained eye, it would seem rash. He cut off the snake's head, stripped the skin from it, and cut the white meat into strips, impaling the strips on bent coat-hangers, holding them over the blazing can of Sterno.

  "You like rattlesnake?" he asked the superintendent.

  Whatever else was left in White's stomach came up in a gush. Ferret seemed not to

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  notice, eating the seared meat with great relish.

  "You ever eaten Long Pig?" he asked superintendent White.

  "Long Pig?" the man gasped. "What in God's name is that?"

  "Human flesh."

  The superintendent started gagging.

  "Yeah," Ferret smiled. "Sometimes you come up on a burned-out tank—they go up like tinder boxes, you know—and you smell fried meat inside. Just take your knife and cut you off a whack. It's really pretty good."

  The badly shaken man on the practice pads slowly nodded his head. "I believe I get your point, sir."

  "I thought you would," Ferret continued eating fried rattlesnake. "The incident with Kovak never happened, did it, White?"

  "No," the man said softly. "No, it didn't."

  "And you're going to forget anything that took place in this Armory tonight, aren't you? You're going to forget you ever saw me, aren't you?"

  "God, I hope sol"

  "Good. Now, get out!"

  White found his glasses, put them in his pocket, and,
walking as a man who had just bumped into death, left the Armory, waving off Tate's offer of a ride. "I'll walk, thank you. I need the air."

  When the door had closed, Tate picked up a piece 'of rattlesnake and chewed it thoughtf ul-

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  ly. "Forgotten how good it tastes/' he said. "Colonel?"

  "Uh-huh?"

  "You went to an awful lot of trouble for Kovak, didn't you?"

  "He's going to be awfully good, Tate. Maybe the best of us all."

  "Yes, sir. But you were pretty damned rough on White."

  Ferret chuckled grimly. "I enjoy fucking these candy-ass civilians around, from time to time. Shake up their smug little world. Especially these Holier-than-thou types who look down their noses at guys like you and me. To hell with them I"

  Ferret wiped his hands on a shop towel and walked toward the door.

  "Colonel?"

  Ferret turned around.

  "Did you ever eat Long Pig?"

  Colonel Bill Ferret laughed and walked into the night.

  Terry was back in school the following morning. No mention was ever made of his refusal to take a paddling, or of the fight in the

  gym-Superintendent White was out of his office

  for several days. Not feeling well.

  That same day, Karl Kovak was made a full

  foreman at the mill, and Robert and Danny

  both found good jobs in a local factory—one

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  with a heavy government contract.

  Terry wondered if the series of events in his own family were somehow related. He asked Sergeant Tate.

  Tate looked at the young man for a long minute. He knew Ferret had not told the boy why he was so interested in him, but Tate had broken the news to several old members of Dog Teams. He almost told Terry; then, at the last minute, held back, thinking: Let him get a few more months of age on him—maybe after Jump School this summer. If Ferret doesn't tell him, I will.

  "Terry," he said, "it's called back-scratching." He smiled. "Do you know what I'm talking about?"

  "Yes, Sergeant. But what I don't understand is why me?"

  "In time, Terry," Tate poured them both cups of coffee from the ever present pot in his office. "I promise you, you'll understand in time."

  Terry sighed heavily. "I think I've always understood, Sergeant. You saw me in the Piney Woods that afternoon."