The Last of the Dogteam

by William W. Johnstone

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  jacketed, evening-gowned No-Man's Land.

  "I won't have my daughter being seen around town with a common laborer," the father's, words were cold, backed by generations of old money.

  "Laborers build the structures you design," Terry's gaze did not waver, and his words were of the same timbre as the older man's: clipped and icy.

  "I won't argue that," Cooper's nod of agreement was slight, "but my statement still stands."

  "Okay," Terry grinned. "How about an unemployed mercenary?"

  "Personally, I feel that is on the bottom of the social scale." The father could not help but feel some admiration for Terry's steady gaze. Louis smiled. "Be at my office at nine in the morning. Til . . ."

  "I will not go to work for you, sir. Period. I think nepotism is the ugliest word in the dictionary."

  Male eyes met in half-hostility. Locked. The father said, "Would you object if I merely dropped a word or two in your behalf."

  "I guess not."

  "Good. Now, let's see about getting you something to drink, Terry. You don't strike me as a scotch man. I believe bourbon and water is your drink."

  And while their husbands stood around and silently hated Terry, the wives moved toward him.

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  For the first time in many years, Terry was truly happy with a woman he was growing to love and knew she loved him. With each passing month his happiness grew until he thought surely it must show on his face, in his step, in his actions. He had enrolled in a small business school, preparatory to filing with the SBA for a loan to start his own business. He knew weapons, understood the out-of-doors, so he would start there, with a small sporting goods store. If all went well, he could enlarge later.

  Terry was happy. Happy with Brandy; happy with his life; happy with the knowledge that he longed to fight no more wars. His fatigue still bothered him, and very quietly, without Brandy knowing it, he went to see his sister.

  "I'm so .happy for you, Terry/' Doctor Shirley Preston said, as she took his blood pressure, listened to his heart, and took blood from him to be sent to a lab. "I think you're healthy as a work horse, but I'll send this off—just to be sure."

  "When will you have the results?"

  "Oh, in three or four days. Ill call you. In the meantime, you and Brandy come out to the house for dinner tonight. I want you and Ken to really get to know each other. You two got off to a bad start at first," She touched his arm. "Give it a try, will you, Terry? Try to like him?"

  "Okay/' he smiled, kissing her on the cheek,

  A week later she called him back for more

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  tests. Just to be on the safe side, she said.

  Terry faced his sister in her office, her face pale, her hands trembling. "You better sit down, Terry."

  "I'll take it standing up, Sis. Give it to me straight, now. Don't beat around the bush."

  Her medical decorum crumbled and she flung herself in his arms, crying. He held her for a moment, patting her shoulder, until she pulled away and put her hands over her face, trying to control her tears. She wiped her eyes with a Kleenex, patted her hair, then faced her brother.

  "It's . . . leukemia, Terry. And it's pretty well advanced."

  He sat down in an office chair, hands gripping the arms. "Is it treatable?"

  "Of course, Terry." But her answer came too quickly for him to believe it.

  "I know there's all kinds of leukemia, Sis—some worse than others. What land is this?"

  "Myelogenic."

  He forced a grin. "What the hell is that? Sounds like something for gas."

  "It's a type produced in, or by, the bone marrow, Terry. I want to refer you to a specialist here in Atlanta. He . . ."

  "No!" his reply was flat, final.

  "Terry, my God! We're talking about your life."

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  "My life is over and you know it, Sis. Don't lad me, I'm an old curly wolf who is about to see the varmint, and I know it."

  She shook her head; she knew her brother too well to argue. "All right, Terry, whatever you say."

  "How long do I have?" "I don't know, Terry. A year, maybe. Six months, perhaps. We may be able to sustain you longer than that. Won't you let us try?" "No, Sis. I will not die as a vegetable." He stood up and kissed his sister. "Shirloy, I have about twenty-five thousand dollars in banks overseas. Til make arrangements to have that sent to you. Give it to mother." "Terry . . ."

  "Hush up," he said it gently. "You're certain about this leukemia?"

  "Yes," she wiped her eyes as the tears came again. "That's why I called you back for more tests. There is no doubt." "I'm being destroyed from within?" "Yes."

  "All right, then. I've got things to do." He kissed her cheek. "I won't see you again, Shirley: I hate goodbyes, so you say them to the family for me. I've got a lot of phone calls to make and some things to set up. When my . . . body is shipped back to the States—if it is—I want a very quiet funeral. No big deal. I do not want a military funeral. Bury me in Bishop. I deserve that punishment for all I've done in life,"

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  He pushed his sister from him. "Goodbye, Shirley."

  She met his bravery. "Goodbye, Terry." He walked out the door.

  "Goddamnit, Terry!" Brandy yelled at him as he packed a few clothes. "Will you at least tell me what I've done? Why you're leaving?"

  "You haven't done anything, Brandy. I love you—I "truly do. But I have to go." He could not, would not, tell her of his illness. If he did, he knew she would insist he stay, his final days in a hospital bed, wasting away into nothing. He did not want to go out in that manner. He wanted to die among warriors, among men who knew what life was all about, who faced it, met its challenge, and died on their feet, with smoke around them, snarling and biting.

  "You bastardl" Brandy cursed him. "Father was right all the time. You're no good. You can't face responsibility, can't take it, can you? When the going gets rough, you cut out."

  "If that's what you want to believe, Brandy."

  She sat down on the bed, then jumped up and walked to the door. "God, I hate youl"

  "that's too bad. I love you."

  She began to cry. "Love? If you loved me you'd stay, work this thing out—whatever is bothering you."

  "You'll hear from me, Brandy. I can promise you that."

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  "Oh, wonderful. I can hardly wait." She walked out of his spartan apartment, slamming the door.

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  NINETEEN

  Not many people attended the funeral.

  Terry Kovak had been a loner while alive, now he was almost alone in death.

  A cold afternoon in early November, a light rain adding to the misery of the moment.

  Inside the small chapel of the funeral home, only a few tears dripped and fell down various cheeks: Terry's mother, his brother, his sisters, their husbands and a few of their children. Terry's daughter, whom he never met. Five women without men sat in the rear of the chapel, slightly apart from each other, each grieving for Terry in their own way.

  The small children in the chapel sat silently, somewhat in awe of death, but too young to really comprehend the finality of it. They fidgeted inwardly, wishing all this solemn stuff would hurry and get over with, 'cause there is a football game on TV that afternoon. Bad enough we have to go to church and listen

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  to a bunch of stuff about sin, now we have to sit in this spooky place half the afternoon.

  One of Terry's nephews walked up to the casket and looked at the picture of his uncle on the closed box. Terry in his Army uniform, beret cocked jauntily, a slight smile on his lips. The young man just barely remembered his uncle.

  Outside the chapel, the cold North Georgia rain began falling harder, pounding the roof. This winter was going to be a bad one. Everyone said so.

  Terry's brother, Robert, walked to the casket to stand by his son. He put his arms around the young man's shoulders as he looked at the face of his brother in the 8
x10.

  I never really knew you, Terry, he thought. I'm sorry we quarreled the last time we met. One of the five women seated in the rear of the chapel, away from the immediate family, rose and walked to the casket. She had thought there were no more tears left in her, but looking at his picture, Brandy began to

  cry.

  Mother Kovak, in her late seventies and bothered with arthritis, painfully pulled herself out of a chair and hobbled to her son's casket. She touched Brandy's arm.

  "Terry broke with the Church when he was just a boy. So far as I know, he never went back. I suppose God will forgive him."

  "Do you believe God is good and understanding?"

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  "Yes, of course," the old woman said.

  "Terry's alright," Brandy reassured the woman, wanting desperately to believe her own words. According to Terry's letter, he had found God at the end. Or at least had talked to Him, if not with Him.

  "Were you in love with Terry?"

  "Yes," Brandy turned away from the casket, walked to the rear of the chapel, and took her seat with the other women.

  "I can't bear to even look at his picture," one of the women whispered. "Not yet." She held out a gloved hand and Brandy took it. "Jill Slane," she said.

  "Terry spoke of you," Brandy said. "And not unkindly."

  Brandy introduced herself to Jill and to the other two women and the younger woman. Paula and her daughter, Patsy. And the woman who introduced herself only as Joyce. f Somehow Joyce looked military in appearance, erect carriage, even sitting, and calm eyes, short hair. She spoke very little.

  There, in that somber place, the five women looked at each other while the Kovak family looked at them and wondered what was going on?

  "Let's get out of here," Brandy said. "Go somewhere and get a drink."

  "I'm staying," Patsy said. "I want to spend as much time as possible with my real father. I'll see you all back at the motel."

  "She drove over from Memphis in her own

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  car,** Paula explained.

  "I only passed one bar in this town,** Jill said. "Full of rednecks.**

  "Let's buy a bottle and go back to the motel/* Brandy said. "We have to be staying at the same motel, it's the only one in town."

  "Let's go," Jill said. "I've traveled a long way to get here, and I've bawled and blubbered half the way. I'm going to come unglued if I stay here much longer."

  "Coming, Joyce?" Paula asked.

  The silent woman shook her head. "No."

  In Brandy's room, the women looked at the box sitting on a dresser, lid open, a black beret in the box.

  "When I got that in the mail," Brandy explained, "I blew he was dead. My father said he'd gone back to Africa, to fight as a mercenary." She looked at the women. "I got a phone call telling me Terry was dead and when he was to be buried, but the caller refused to give his name. How about you-all?"

  "Same way," the women replied. "Odd."

  In the motel room, on that sleety day in Bishop, Paula said, "A little while ago, you said something about a letter from Terry. Would you read it to us, if you don't mind?"

  The fifth of whiskey was almost empty, the room filled with cigarette smoke, the women's voices husky from smoke, booze, and conversa-

  tion.

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  "Of course," Brandy said. "I think Terry would have wanted that."

  She took the letter from her purse. All could see that it had been read many times. The paper was creased and lined from use. Brandy read it softly, gently, trying very hard to keep her voice from breaking.

  Brandy, my darling, ~~~

  By new I'm sure you know why I left you the way I did, I didn't mean to run out on you, not at all. But neither did I think it fair to either of us to have you witness my transformation from whole man to someone too weak to feed himself. I believe I spared you a great deal of anguish and myself an equal amount of humiliation.

  I love you, Brandy. I'm quite certain I've never loved anyone or anything more—that includes my God, whether He be great roaring thunderer, or gentle lamb, or indeed, if He even exists, or if He does, whether He even knows me after all I've done.

  I love you. Always believe that. Or, rather loved you. Past tense, now.

  I believe we could have made if, Brandy. And it is because of that knowledge I can go out to see the varmint with a certain feeling of happiness.

  Don't mourn my passing, Brandy,

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  because the day is ending for men like me. Values are changing in America; warriors are becoming a thing of the past, and that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I should have been born a hundred years ago, but had I been, I would not have met you.

  Ah, well.

  I will never be convinced I did anything wrong in my career in the military. I did what I had to do for my country, and I believe I was true to my level of patriotism, conscience, and to whatever God listens to warriors.

  As for my years as a mercenary— there again, no apologies. I fought for freedom: my interpretation of that word, at least, and I see no wrong in that. Brandy, what is a mercenary? Surely one must call Lafayette and Kosciusko by the same name, and where would America be if not for those men, and others like tKem?

  This letter is difficult for me, Brandy, because I know, I sense, this witt be my last letter. I've always been on the other side of death, now I must accept the fact that death is something we all must face—and face it alone.

  I don't believe God cares much for cowards, and as far as I'm concerned, for me to start calling on Him now, when I'm about to die, would be an

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  act of cowardice. I may be a lot of things, dear, but I'm not a coward. There is much about life I did not understand. Perhaps I will comprehend it in death?

  No, for me, Brandy, for men like me, I don't know if the God you worship will have us. I have to believe in Valhalla. I hope that is true, I would prefer Valhalla. Yes, a place where real warriors from the beginnings of time can sit at the feet of Odin and Thor for the next thousand millenniums, talking of true heroism and battles fought. Without the presence of Paper Tigers. I have talked to your God of this place, f randy. I hope He heard me.

  One thought of your Heaven amuses me, Brandy. That is the picture of myself, perched upon a cloud, dressed in a flowing white robe, plucking on a harp, while bands of Angels drift stately by, singing celestial songs, being conducted by someone who looks like Lawrence Welk.

  No, my darling, that is not for me. I believe God Himself created Valhalla, for I remember—so many years ago— the Priest saying that God liked his warriors. Yes, and as penance for our earthly sins, well probably have PT twice a day—forever.

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  Now I must go and fight my last battle. Perhaps then I can rest. Always remember: I did love you so

  very much.

  Terry

  TWENTY

  Lieutenant Joyce Flexner, after making her final report on Terry Kovak to the Under Secretary of State, reported in to General Brasher at the Pentagon.

  "You saw the body, Lieutenant?" he asked. "Personally?"

  "I saw it, sir. Or what was left of it. He died awfully hard. The Rebels tortured him for hours. It was a closed casket funeral, but I got to see the body while the mortician worked on it."

  "You're certain it was Kovak?"

  "Yes, sir."

  The General leaned back in his chair. "Well, that's that, then. We can close another file. Kovak killed in Africa while working as a mercenary. Thank God, most of those Dog Team people are dead."

  A faint smile crossed the woman's lips, coming and vanishing before the General could see

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  it. On her own desk were the papers approving her volunteering for a new, super-secret group being formed by the combined military. She was due to start her training the next week. In Maryland.

  She hid her smile. "You're certain the Dog Teams are all through, sir?"

  "Not really," h
e folded his hands across his pot belly. "If the military finds enough of the right people, and the right man to lead those people," he shrugged, "who knows?"

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  EPILOGUE

  At an Army Fort in the Northwest, a young man reported in to his battalion, was assigned to his barracks, and began to settle in. He had just completed many months of brutal training, earning his black beret. He was a tall young man, with very blond hair and very cold, pale, icy eyes.

  His top secret personality profile read: "as having the mental and physical capabilities to be most dangerous."

  His CO read his profile with interest, then looked closely at the accompanying photograph. "Damn," he said, "this kid looks just like a bad dude I used to soldier with. The resemblance is uncanny." He glanced at the Sergeant Major. "Find out where he's from, will you, Van. Knowing Number Five, he must have left some bastards scattered around. Maybe this is one of them? If he is, we've got the makings of an ace special team. You read

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  the directive from Sugar Cube. Every special unit got one: Marine Force Recon, SEALs, Special Forces, Rangers, Air Force Commandoes."

  The Sergeant Major's eyes shone with interest. "Yes, sir, I heard rumors about reactivating the old Dog Teams."

  "Yes, I forgot Van, you worked with Ferret, didn't you."

  "Yes, sir, and with Kovak. Back in the fifties, when I was a young buck. Just Iflce you, Colonel."

  "Yeah," the CO leaned back in his chair and his eyes faded just a moment, remembering brave men, hard discipline, gunsmoke, and better days. "I wonder how many of the old bunch is left?"

  "How you doing, Corporal?" the Sergeant Major asked the young Ranger.

  "Pretty good, Sergeant Major. I've been looking forward to coming out here."

  "We're glad to have you. Got some good reports on you. You were supposed to have reported here six months ago, then your orders were changed. Where have you been all that time?"

  "Maryland."

  The Sergeant Major smiled, "That's interesting. What made you want to be a Ranger?"

  "My mother knew an Army Ranger a long