The team had lost three dogs. Six more were wounded. One had tried to flee. The sled was halfway destroyed.
Then a blizzard blew up. The musher was almost dead, and Kita warmed his body with his own. Gave his master his own warmth to keep him from freezing. The surviving dogs gathered around him.
Dogs, you other dogs from Kiska, where are you now?
By the end of the war, Kita had won himself a position as a sled dog on the snowfields of Alaska. But what happened to the dogs that had parted with Kita at Dutch Harbor? They continued to serve as military dogs. During the war, of course, and even after it. Except that only one of them was still alive when it ended. The others fell in action, here and there, across the Pacific. On the Marianas, in the Philippines, on Iwo Jima, on Okinawa.
From February 1944, the six dogs who had been sent to the American mainland via Dutch Harbor—Masao as a “prisoner” dog and the five four-month-old purebred German shepherds as “candidate” military dogs—were housed in the spacious training center at Camp Lejeune. All six went on to become American military dogs—following, as it were, the script that had been written for them. Explosion’s unplanned union with a Japanese dog (Masao) had, as it happened, yielded an outstanding litter. It was hardly a surprise that the pups exhibited all the usual traits of the breed and were free from imperfections. Indeed, the superiority of their bloodline had come to an even fuller fruition in them. They seemed to have inherited only the best aspects of the latest breeding as it was practiced by the Japanese and American militaries. Having been tested in any number of areas, all five placed in the A class. Masao, too, exceeded expectations. The pups’ father adapted immediately to the commands his new American masters taught him. He made it abundantly clear how much he could do, almost as though he knew that this was an inspection, to see if he was fit to be admitted as an immigrant, to become an American. Within two months, the father and his pups were reunited, allowed to live together.
In order to be recognized as a full-fledged military dog, a pup must have reached a certain age. Military dogs can’t be too young. So it wasn’t until the fall, when the five pups were about a year old, that they were finally shipped off to the front lines. By then they had been thoroughly trained. They had learned how to carry out various tasks: guarding, reconnaissance, attacking, transport. They were sent onto mock battlefields where they were inured to bomb blasts, smoke, flames. They learned to crawl under barbed wire. All five were certified as A-class dogs and sent to various islands in the Pacific. Masao had gone off to war months earlier. He no longer felt any compunction about attacking the Japanese.
During the latter half of 1943, American forces were engaged in a vast campaign across the Pacific Ocean. On November 1, troops landed on Bougainville Island, at the northern edge of the Solomon Islands; shortly thereafter they took Rabaul on New Britain, the site of a Japanese naval and air base, and the fighting shifted north of the equator. February 1944 saw the inauguration of a fierce campaign against the Marshall and the Chuuk island group; on June 15, the Americans landed on Saipan; two months later they had captured the Marianas. And then they advanced on the Philippines. The Japanese sustained a disastrous defeat in a land battle on Leyte. A war of attrition was being fought on Luzon. And then it was 1945. A land battle of incredible scale broke out on Iwo Jima, and the fighting moved to Okinawa.
How many people died in all?
And how many dogs?
Tens of thousands. Literally tens of thousands, all across the Pacific. And those dogs were among the casualties. One after another, they were killed in battle. Only one of their number was still alive when, in August 1945, two atom bombs—one made of uranium that was called Little Boy, one made of plutonium that was called Fat Man—flashed within the space of a few days over the Japanese islands of Honshū and Kyūshū.
That dog wasn’t Masao. It was one of Masao’s children. Four puppies in that litter of nine, four of the little ones that had come into this world alive after Masao and Explosion mated, were dead now. Only one returned unscathed.
Returned to the American mainland. From the west side of the Pacific to the east. A German shepherd named Bad News. A male.
America, having emerged victorious, continued to expand its military dog population. The kennels were maintained. Because the dogs remained useful. Their numbers had to be increased in preparation for the next war. Stronger dogs, better dogs. Some of the active dogs were selected for breeding. Bad News, an A-class male, was given the right to mate.
The right to straddle beautiful female dogs.
And then there was Kita, in Alaska.
In 1945, Kita became a lead dog. His authority in the team could not be challenged. The musher who was his master treated him as his best friend, trusted him implicitly. After all, Kita had saved his life. They were bound now by a powerful tie; each understood what the other was thinking. Kita’s master had always been a talented and energetic musher, but now that he had Kita as his lead dog he began winning even more races. Kita wasn’t a standard breed for a sled dog, of course. But he was strong. Four times a day, before and after practice, his master rubbed his body down with alcohol; his energy was never exhausted, and he poured it all into doing his duty. That winter, and the next, Kita led his team to more than one record-breaking victory. His master was a star, and Kita came to be known as the dog, not only in Alaska but across the entire Arctic. Kita was the most famous sled dog there was.
Naturally, his master encouraged him to sire as many children as he could. The pups in his bloodline, inheriting his traits, became a sought-after breed of their own. The bitches all came from fine stock too. Only they weren’t the same breed as Kita. They were Siberian huskies, malamutes. Mushers had been selectively breeding sled dogs for some time, and they knew the power of guided mongrelization. Eventually, Alaska would produce its own breed of Alaskan husky, bred specially for racing. It was only natural that Kita became a breeding dog.
Puppies from famous dogs weren’t cheap. Sewing his seed, Kita earned his master a living. And the other dogs too. He became their benefactor.
Sled racing continued to develop as a sport in Alaska in the wake of the Second World War. The establishment in 1948 of the Alaska Dog Mushers Association was followed in 1949 by the creation of the Alaska Sled Dog and Racing Association, and races began to be held on an unprecedented scale. The number of applicants increased and with it the demand for pedigree sled dogs.
Already by 1949, Kita had sired 124 puppies.
And the other dog?
By the same year, Bad News had fathered 277 puppies. He had long since retired from life as an active military dog, but he went on planting his seed.
“Russians are better off dead.”
“That was an interesting article you ran.”
“That one last week, you mean? ‘The Chechen Train of Death’? Ha ha ha! Yes, indeed—that drew quite a response.”
“Yes. It was truly…truly masterfully done.”
“Of course. It was the truth.”
“The truth of the situation.”
“Those Chechens have been springing one surprise after another on us, since before the establishment of the Soviet system. Such ardent separatists! Such fierce anti-Russian sentiment! Yes—that, in short, is the situation. The North Caucasus is in turmoil. Our dear president has cut off all funding from the Russian Federation, recalled the engineers who were teaching them to drill and refine their oil. They’ve been left with no means of preserving their identity as a so-called ‘independent state’—apart, that is, from illegitimate business activities. And, voilà! The bloody Train of Death, set upon out of the blue by a band of robbers! Ha ha ha!”
“You seem pleased.”
“I’m just a regular Russian, same as everyone else.”
“Hence your popular appeal. I see…just what an editor
needs.”
“You said it!”
“It’s a glorious age we live in.”
“Yes, a glorious age—for me, at least. I’m flabbergasted by these heretical Chechens, with their unyielding moral vision. And our readers love it when I’m flabbergasted! They love how ‘true’ it is!”
“So it seems.”
“It’s astonishing. I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. The numbers talk. Yes, this, my friend, is what capitalism is all about! And liberalism, the market economy! Numbers!”
“Anticommunism.”
“Precisely. And anti-‘red totalitarianism’ too. While we’re on the topic of heretics, though…You’ve heard about the Islamic prophet being killed? Guy with tattoos, quite high up?”
“Is that true?”
“It’s true.”
“Then I guess I’ve just heard about it.”
“He was part of the inner circle of the Chechen mafia’s boss in the Far East. The boss’s right-hand man. What I wouldn’t give to run a photo of the scene…ideally with the body.”
“In your paper?”
“That’s right.”
“In Freedom Daily? The tabloid?”
“Right smack on the front page.”
“In place of the usual satirical cartoon, occult scoop, or alien corpse?”
“Our new readership doesn’t go for that stuff.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“Isn’t it?”
“A photo would boost sales,” the old man said.
“On another note, this restaurant…rather loud, isn’t it?”
“Very. I like it loud.”
“Salted herring in oil! Smoked eel! Cow tongue in sea salt! These appetizers are as good as it gets. You like it…because there’s no fear of being overheard?”
“Not, at any rate, so long as we’re just talking. Take a look at us, my friend. We look like an elderly uncle and his nephew, dining together for the first time in ages. The nephew has made it big in the great capitalist city. And here I am, straight out of the forest, being treated to a magnificent meal.”
“Straight out of the forest?”
“Yes. Your old uncle used to be…a hunter, shall we say. Deep in the forest.”
“Splendid. A hunter! Cheers, then! Once again—to us!”
“Cheers.”
“Mmmnnmm. Paper-thin slices of salted fatback! Exquisite!”
“A nephew I can be proud of. Taking me to such a classy restaurant.”
“Ha ha ha! Hats off to the restaurant! But to continue just talking…last month, a guy with an eagle tattoo was murdered. The month before, someone else. A cat tattoo. A nasty cat.”
“Russians.”
“Yes, the Russian mafia. Members of the Vor. For seven months now, the tension has been escalating, the fighting growing steadily worse and worse.”
“Tension sparked by a certain newspaper. A scoop.”
“Yes, indeed! A tabloid exposé. It must be said, however, that no lies were printed in that article. Speculation, yes, but the evidence itself, advanced in support of the conclusion—that was pure truth! How else could it have been so persuasive?”
“No doubt.”
“None whatsoever. Hence the public’s enthusiasm for our current investigative series on the Chechens. It’s been like this from the start, you know. From the first installment.”
“It was that immediate?”
“How can gangsters emerge as ‘hometown heroes’—or rather, as they’d put it, ‘homeland heroes’? How can one account for this peculiarly Chechen structure? See here, just look at me. I get all flabbergasted just thinking about it. Glorious, glorious! Another glass!”
“Here, drink up.”
“Thank you, dear Uncle! Ha ha ha! The point is, it was their homeland, you see. As long as the funds furthered the movement—independence, separation from the Russian Federation!—no one cared where they came from. Kill the outsiders, take their wealth! That was good, that was heroism. Anyone in the Chechen mafia was a righteous bandit struggling to liberate his people. It didn’t matter where—in Moscow, St. Petersburg, Yekaterinburg. Flawless ‘homeland heroes’ of the North Caucasus, one and all! What a moral sense! What a vision!”
“Flabbergasted again?”
“Stunned. Absolutely. These people…leaping, just like that, beyond our comprehension. That’s what made them such a potent force, here in our Russia—that’s how they made waves in the criminal world. And in just a decade! The Chechen mafia enters Moscow, they set up in…damn, it’s on the tip of my tongue. That port, on the Moscow River. Yuzhny Port, that’s it. They come in, and in a decade they’ve captured the market for stolen cars in Yuzhny Port. Just ten short years! Even less!”
“It’s impressive. I give them that.”
“Do you?”
“I do,” says the old man.
“They brought down the old system, after all. The Soviet underworld. Impressive indeed. Not only to me, but to you—even you, Uncle. The old system was very solid, of course. It had lasted since the 1930s. Vors running everything from the slammer. There they were in prison, in camps. Precisely where all the political criminals wind up. The state used them to keep an eye on anti-Soviet elements, it actually relied on the mafia’s organizational capabilities!”
“On the traditional Russian criminal organizations, that is.”
“Precisely! From then on, the Communist Party and the Russian mafia became subtly and inextricably entwined. And that’s how the Soviet social structure was preserved. Front and back. Witness the birth of a bureaucratic mafia rife with corruption. Ha ha ha! Sturdy as a prison—no exit! Naturally, back then—I was young then, working as a reporter for Trud, the labor union newspaper—I assumed that the Russian mafia would control the underground economy forever.”
“As did I.”
“You too? Well, then! Another drink! Na zdorovye!”
“Cheers.”
“Ah, the rich flavor of aged liquor! Delicious! But…where was I? Don’t tell me, I know! The emergence of the Chechen mafia. With extraordinary speed—no more than a decade or so. They were a veritable army with all that equipment. Right from the beginning. Marching into Moscow with grenades, bazookas. And armed, moreover, with the ferocity of their loathing for Russia! How do you deal with that? How, that is to say, were the Vors supposed to deal with that? Shock waves ran through the old mafia world. Conventional underworld ways, notions of benevolence and justice, meant nothing to them! The headaches they caused, these fighters! And then…Act II. In Moscow, in St. Petersburg—Leningrad, just given its old name back—the Vors started hunting down the Chechen mafia bosses. Just like that, they drove the Chechens from their turf. But wait! It’s not over! Not yet! Because the Chechens have their ways. Their customs. Krovnaya mest—blood revenge. Oh, the horror! One by one, the leaders of the Russian mafia began to be assassinated…sprayed full of holes with machine guns, blown to bits with bombs…and then, at last—the incident.”
“The incident?”
“Twelve dead, in one fell swoop.”
“Twelve…?”
“Twelve Vors, all prominent figures in the current Russian Federation, had gathered for a conference. When the Soviet system collapsed, the Federation was split up into twelve regions. The mafia divvied up its turf. Each of these twelve Vors controlled a region. They’d gathered to brainstorm strategies for dealing with the Chechens. Someone attacked the conference, and all twelve Vors were killed. Ha ha ha! A remarkably efficient massacre! The attacker was a professional, obviously. And of course the Chechens must have hired him. I wasn’t much of a reporter at the time, just a kid with a pen and a pad of paper, but I managed to learn, not his name, no—but his nickname. They called him the Archbish
op.”
“The…Archbishop?”
“Yes. Somehow just hearing that makes you sober up a bit, doesn’t it? I don’t know why. I wonder why. Ha ha ha! What next? Things get interesting—as soon as he killed the twelve Vors, he immediately betrayed the Chechens. The two groups were decapitated, and their struggle, this feud between the Russian and the Chechen mafia, grew messier, more ferocious. All these little Vors trying to fight their way to the top, all sorts of people like that—and to make it worse, you’ve got these ethnic groups, Ukrainians and Kazakhs and so on, now they’re joining the fray too. They’ve turned the western regions of our great Russia into a bloodbath. It’s gone on this way for years, groups competing for profits that swell day by day, week after week, month after month. And now, at last, this year, the struggle between the two main forces has spread, leaping like a spark, to the Far East.”
“So the Freedom Daily reported. Seven months ago.”
“So we reported. It was a tremendous scoop. And what fun we’ve had since! Of course, it was unfortunate that a hundred blameless civilians had to get mixed up in it all. That was too bad. But it’s a fact—it is the truth—that the Chechen mafia has started moving into the Far East, hoping to further its business interests in used cars, gasoline, and firearms. They’re serving themselves nice fat pieces from the Russian mafia’s pie. That, too, is the truth. So you see, Uncle, I never wrote any lies! I never asked my reporters to lie! I don’t publish lies!”
“Just speculation,” the old man said.
“Yes, speculation. We do that.”
“And that created this situation. This world we’re in. Gangsters all over the place, riding around in heavily armored cars—not that this keeps the gangsters from being blown sky-high, along with their bodyguards.”
“We’ll keep the speculations coming. Ha ha ha!”
“Not long ago Freedom Daily reported that they’ve started targeting rigs?”
“The Chechen mafia? Trying to get control of the rigs? Hell yes! Of course! That seems to have irritated the Russians. Still, it’s not a lie. The information may not have come from you, Uncle, but even so. On another note…”
Belka, Why Don't You Bark? Page 4
