Trinity: Military War Dog

by Ronie Kendig

  “Storm’s getting bad,” Watterboy shouted to the team huddled close together. “Last report said we were going to get buried. We’re two klicks from the village.”

  “Get in there,” Candyman hollered. “Get it done. Get out. Get home.”

  Sergeant Putman looked up from the coms box.” Lost communication.”

  Watterboy scowled.

  “Storm’s pulling major interference,” Putman said.

  “We’re losing warmth faster than daylight.” Watterboy looked at Trinity. “Ghost, how’s she holding up?”

  Ears perked and swiveling like equilateral radar dishes, Trinity seemed at home with the elements and the situation. “She’s good.” Heath coiled an arm around her and rubbed her chest, trying to infuse some warmth and reassurance—for him, not her. She wasn’t easily rattled. He was another story. Especially with all that was happening. Wind, snow, stress. Thinking of Jia, wondering why Haur had picked him to buddy up to, fear of failing …

  With his track record, he should pass out any minute now.

  Please, God. Help me.

  “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.” The first verse of Psalm 46. He knew it, quoted it. But did he believe it?

  Of course, it wasn’t God who’d tanked on keeping His end of the bargain. Heath had given talks about God having their backs, about not walking away from faith and belief, and hadn’t Heath done that very thing?

  What Heath believed in and what he did—they’d become two very different things. Saying those words, spouting scriptures was easy. Almost second nature.

  A habit.

  His heart dropped against that revelation and landed cockeyed in his chest.

  It is not good to have zeal without knowledge, nor to be hasty and miss the way.

  Heath stilled at the admonishment. Wished he’d worn his spiritual steel-toed boots for that verse. Was he being—?

  Yes. No need to even finish that thought. Hasty was the precise word he’d use to describe his personal mission—or was it a vendetta?—to prove he still had what it took. With all vigor to get back in the game. To feel useful, needed, and important again.

  “Hey!”

  Jarred from his internal diatribe, Heath blinked through the snow and wind to Watterboy.

  “Use Trin’s NVG camera to lead the way.”

  Heath flicked up the camera, which stood perpendicular to the spine of the vest, and retrieved the monitor from his pack. He turned it on, the screen smearing an ominous green glow across the darkness. “It’s up and working.”

  “Good, let’s move. I want to get home and thaw out before this storm goes blizzard on us.”

  “Ain’t this a little late for a winter storm?” Candyman said with a growl. “Winter is over in three weeks.”

  “Wasn’t too long ago,” Heath put in, “Afghanistan had their worst storm in fifty years. Maybe they’re trying to top it again.”

  “Well, they can stop.”

  “Okay, move out, people!” Watterboy said.

  Trudging forward, his gloved hand gripping the readout, Heath realigned his thoughts with the mission. But there in the chaos of his swirling thoughts and the snow, he wondered what propelled him. What drove him to risk another blackout, to risk his life—and considering these elements, Trinity—to save a woman named Jia? A military operative who had hoodwinked one of the most powerful men in China.

  Okay, that was a big leap, but considering what Haur mentioned, Heath couldn’t help but entertain the thought. What if she was that operative? Burnett hadn’t mentioned her occupation, just that she was military intelligence and needed to be found. But military intelligence could be anything. It didn’t mean she was the spy, right?

  Even he knew he was reaching with that one.

  “That’s the only name you need to know.”

  The general’s words whispered on the wind of doubt. It implied she had other names. Who had other names besides operatives? Fugitives. Entertainers seeking to protect their privacy. Since she wasn’t in the latter group, and he couldn’t think of another category, Heath was left with the option of buying into the fact that Jia was a spy.

  Clandestine, then, was her middle name.

  Small Village in the Hindu Kush

  15 Klicks from Chinese Border

  Jolts of fire thrust Darci from the greedy claws of sleep. A scream echoed in her thoughts as she came fully awake. She blinked in the semidarkness, searching for the source of the cry. But as the resonance settled, she came to the gaping conclusion that the scream had been her own.

  A shape shifted nearby, drawing her focus to that spot. The blurs morphed into the form of a man. With the light behind him, he stood as a perfect silhouette. Jianyu? He seemed to have the same build, but the angle made it impossible to know for certain. What she did know for certain was the glint and clang of metal told her what was on the menu. Her brain.

  So, torture.

  Fear wiggled through her gut. Weakened from the broken ribs, beatings, and no food, she wasn’t sure how long she’d last. Darci slumped back, fingers trailing what she lay on. A table? It wasn’t metal. Wood … thick enough to hold her but not too solid she couldn’t break it. If she could just move her feet—no go. Restraints pulled against her ankles.

  God … I’m not even sure what to ask…. Just let me know You’re here.

  “Names, Meixiang,” came Jianyu’s voice from behind.

  Eyes shuttering closed, Darci braced herself.

  “I want the names of those who helped you gain access to the highest levels of security.” “I worked alone.”

  “No! That is impossible!” His warm breath crawled along her ear and down her neck. “What you accessed required security protocols only someone in the highest levels could provide.”

  “Maybe you provided it,” she said, feeling out of breath. Fire again wormed through her side, the spot where the soldier had cracked more ribs. “Maybe you talk in your sleep.”

  A snicker made Darci still. Who else was here?

  “You would like me to think that, but I do not sleep that hard.”

  “That’s true,” Darci said. “You’re so haunted by your failings and insecurities you can’t sleep at night.”

  Something touched her arm.

  White-hot fury bolted through her body, thrashing her secured limbs. Darci clenched her eyes as the smell of burning flesh—her flesh—filled the frigid air. “You coward! Using electrical torture!” She arched her back as the electricity zipped through her body, using the water to conduct its fiery path.

  Silence gaped as the current died, and Darci slumped back against the table. Panting and grunting against the agony, she willed herself to hold on.

  Hold on for what?

  A rescue? In all her years as a military intelligence officer, she hadn’t been rescued. No supernatural intervention. But she’d had a lot of situations that worked in her favor that convinced her God was watching out for her. She clung to the faith her mother had died for.

  But that was just it: Her mother had died. Believing God.

  Was that Darci’s lot in life, too? To die?

  God, I don’t want to die. She didn’t feel like her life was over. That her usefulness had dried up. Maybe her desire to continue this occupation had dried up, but her will to live, her curiosity over a certain guy …

  Trinity.

  Was it a foolish hope that his dog would help him find Darci?

  Right. Twenty-four thousand feet above sea level, in a snowstorm?

  Might as well expect angels to float down and cut her restraints right now.

  Darci held her next breath, her mind trained on the bindings on her wrists and ankles. Waiting for them to be loosed.

  She wriggled her hands. They didn’t budge.

  Didn’t think so.

  “Names. I want names, Meixiang.”

  Humor. She had to keep her humor, keep him operating out of anger so he didn’t have time to put thought into what he was doi
ng. “Pinocchio, Cinderella, Aurora—she always was my favorite.”

  Volts snapped through her body. Her teeth chattered. Bit into her tongue. Sweet warmth squirted through her mouth. It lasted longer, stronger than the previous time. He was escalating. Another indication he wasn’t here for the long haul. He had to get answers fast and move on.

  That both pleased and worried her. Pleased that she wouldn’t have prolonged torture. Worried because he could pull out some big guns of torture. And while she thought she could survive it, Darci would prefer to keep her body parts intact.

  Slumped against the wood again, she tried to swallow but found her mouth parched. She stroked the salivary gland beneath her tongue, trying to wet her mouth. As she sucked in heavy breaths, she heard a creaking.

  Footsteps.

  Quiet.

  Lifting her head, she looked around. The light still glared at her. But shadows sulked in the corners. Alone? She dropped back and let out a grunt-whimper. Get it together, Darci. You can do this. You have to do this.

  Soft rustling to her right drew her head around, then a clanging.

  She stilled.

  “Darci.”

  She let out the breath she’d held. “I thought he shot and killed you.”

  “Just my leg.” He angled it toward her.

  Sympathy wound. Still working her. She groaned. “What do you want, Toque?”

  “Hold on, Darci. You’re doing great.”

  Twisting her neck to see him didn’t help much. She couldn’t see all of him. “If I’m doing so great, why don’t you switch”—pain stabbed her side, and she jerked with another grunt—“with me?”

  “He’s still soft on you.”

  “I’d hate to see your definition of hard.”

  “He killed the guy who hit your side. Shot him on the spot.”

  Darci hesitated. He’d killed one of his elite?

  “And just now, you couldn’t see his face, but I could. I’ve never seen the guy look so tortured. It was killing him.”

  Darci laughed at his choice of words. “I think he’s killing me.”

  “Listen, I have people on the way. Just hang in there.”

  “Yeah?” She hissed as her still-tingling extremities ached and her head pounded. “Well, forgive me if I don’t buy that.”

  More clanging, and this time he shifted into view. “I think we can use his sympathy for you. Milk it, get him to stop torturing you. Buy time till my people arrive.”

  “Your people?” She snorted as the room began to darken. She was fading. “Who? How do … know?”

  “I have a tracking device. I activated it when the Black Hawk went down. They use it to home in on my location.” His voice grew animated. “They’ll be here.”

  “And what if I kill you?” came Jianyu’s voice.

  Darci snapped her eyes open and looked in the direction of the new voice.

  Shadows. All she saw were shadows.

  “Jianyu, no.”

  Bright muzzle flash blinded her.

  Thirty-One

  Deep in the Hindu Kush

  15 Klicks from Chinese Border

  Tucked into a tiny cleft and shielded from the raging elements, Heath tugged Trinity onto his lap to get her paws off the bitter, freezing terrain. From his pack, he tugged out the collapsible bowl, dumped a packet of food in it, and held it while she chowed down.

  “We got a feed from Command,” Watterboy said as he crouched beside them, munching on a protein bar. “There’s a village just around the next rise. We’ll reconnoiter.” He jutted his jaw toward Trinity. “How’s she holding up?”

  Heath rubbed her head as she sat back, licking her chops. “Better than me, I think, in this freezer of a mountain.”

  Watterboy nodded with a smile, then clapped him on the shoulder. “She’s gotten us this far. Take care of her so she can get us back.”

  “Hooah.” Heath smiled as he buried his hands in Trinity’s dense fur and, unbelievably, found warmth.

  Someone landed next to him, shoulder to shoulder, leaving no room. Heath frowned, then saw who it was. Haur.

  His captain stood over them, surveyed the shoulder-to-shoulder arrangement, then with a grunt he left.

  Had that been done on purpose?

  “A friend I knew had a dog like her,” Haur said over the howling wind.

  Heath grinned. “Not possible.” He rubbed her ears. “With her pedigree and her training, other dogs don’t compare. Besides, she’s my girl.” As if in answer, Trinity swiped her tongue along his cheek, then leaned against him, closed her eyes, and lowered her snout to his arm. Power nap. Atta, girl. Get some rest. You’ve earned it.

  “Do you have family?”

  Heath paused before answering. Odd piece of dialogue in the middle of a mission. “Don’t we all? How else would we have gotten here?” But the bitter pill of truth caught at the back of his throat. His parents had been dead for years. His only father figure lay in a soldier’s home dying.

  “Then you have your parents?”

  “No, actually.” Heath chewed over how much to divulge. “Trinity”—her ears flicked toward him despite her closed eyes—“here is my family. I have an uncle I’m close to, but he’s … well, one war too many.”

  Haur gave a slow, curt nod.

  Family. Why on earth had he brought up family? To point out to Heath that he’d do anything to help his brother? What about his father, the general?

  Something niggled at the back of Heath’s mind. Had since the guy first started talking. He looked to the Chinese man. “Can I ask you something?”

  Keen, expectant eyes held fast to his. “Of course.”

  “I’ve noticed you call Wu Jianyu ‘brother,’ yet you have never referred to General Zheng as your ‘father.’” When he didn’t respond right away, Heath resisted the urge to backpedal. “Or am I wrong?”

  “No.” Haur’s face filled with an artificial expression, one that spoke of a deep hurt yet … something else. Respect? Maybe, but that seemed too … good. “General Zheng has treated me well. I owe him great respect. He is a great man in China. To have him provide shelter for me when I was alone, when my family was not there … many in China say I owe him my life.”

  Heath cradled Trinity, but his mind was trained on his talk with Haur. “China says, but not you?”

  Haur tucked his chin. “I owe him a great deal. I am very grateful.”

  “But not thankful?”

  “China is my homeland. Of course I am thankful.”

  “But not to Zheng?”

  Haur looked to the right, which drew Heath’s attention to Bai, who sat staring into the swirling chaos. Ah. Got it. “It’s obvious with the loyalty you show that Zheng has no reason to doubt you.”

  An appreciative smile was his reply.

  “When one’s father betrays your country, it is hard to be trusted.” Emotions twisted and writhed through his words. “I have worked hard to ensure that my name and reputation smother any doubt.”

  “Gather up, people,” Watterboy said as he circled a finger in the air.

  Heath nudged Trinity up, then hoisted her onto his shoulders in a fireman’s carry so she could have a little more rest.

  “Okay, round that bend is a flat plain. It stretches out then drops into a valley. The village there is believed to be the site where the woman is being held.”

  “And my man is there, too.”

  “Right.” Watterboy shifted to Putman, who shook his head. “We’ve lost coms, so we’re winging this. Probably another two klicks to the supposed site of the village.”

  “Not supposed. It is the last known location of my agent.”

  “In other words, no shooting the Brit?” Candyman asked. Then shrugged when the spook glowered. “Just making sure I know my priorities.”

  “Our priority,” Watterboy said, “is getting Jia back.”

  Heath nodded. About time they mentioned that.

  “We want our man as well.” Steady, Haur met everyone’s
gaze. “If at all possible, we want him taken into custody, not killed. He will be removed to China and dealt with there.”

  “This is getting muffed up,” Candyman said. “Too many hands …”

  Watterboy nodded. “Agreed.” He towered over the others by a half foot. “Bai and Haur, we understand your concern, but our orders are STK. If we are being fired upon, we will shoot back.”

  “If we encounter Chinese soldiers, let me or Bai handle it. They are our people, under our command. We can convince them to listen.”

  Watters and Candyman shared a look that told Heath they weren’t happy, but conventional wisdom said the plan made sense. That is, unless Haur and Bai weren’t on the right side of convention, which was something Heath did not believe of Haur. He couldn’t say the same of Bai.

  Camp Loren, CJSOTF-A, Sub-Base

  Bagram AFB, Afghanistan

  “What do you mean we’ve lost communication?” Lance pulled himself from the dregs of sleep and off the mattress. Cold shot up through his stocking feet and pinged off his bones. He stuffed his feet in his boots and yanked the strings taut.

  Otte, looking like a bloated sausage in his winter gear, shifted near the door. “The weather, that’s what they’re saying. The storm is interfering with communication.”

  Lance fingered his hair, glad in this angry weather that he hadn’t gone bald like his father. It paid to have Cherokee blood, even on the days that made it boil. Like today. “What was the last confirmed relay?” He threw on a thick sweater, then reached for his heavy-duty jacket.

  “The village location.”

  Shoving through the door, down the hall, and into the bitter night, Lance searched his memory banks, nodding. But against the fog of sleep deprivation—two hours on a sofa prevented minds from operating on all cylinders—he knew something wasn’t right. Village … what else—?

  He wove around vehicles cluttering the road that separated his home away from home and the command bunker. “Daggummit, where’d all these vehicles come from?”

  “They pulled in the teams from FOBs Murphy and Robertson. The storm is going to bury the tactical teams.”

  “You don’t think I know that?” Asking about all the traffic was just his way of venting his frustration. Of off-loading the foreboding that dumped on him as fast as the elements. And playing host to—