The Mission
Army K-9 kennel, Monterey,California: 1957
Joe crept past the pen where Lady was kept, signaling her to keep silent. Since his retirement a week before, he had no authorization to be on the premises of the Army kennel, certainly not at 0245 hours. He could smell the faint, acrid scent of his own fear along with the stronger, almost skunky odor of dog urine. But he knew, in spite of the churning cramps in his stomach, what he had to do.
Without a doubt, Lady was telepathic. The ESP experiments were proof. It made sense that some of the pups in her litter had the ability, too. He knew the Army suspected as much, and he knew how they operated They could go to any lengths. A puppy could be brutally injured to find out if it would mentally “call” another dog for help. Or a pup could have its skull studded with shock electrodes in trial and error attempts to map the “telepathy center.” As an Officer and handler in the K-9 Unit, Joe had a deep connection to his dogs. He felt a sick fear thinking about what could happen to them, and then a rage so strong his world washed red.
The puppies had already been slated for preliminary ESP testing. He had no choice but to steal them and go into hiding. He wanted to steal Lady herself, but she was too highly trained, too valuable, and her disappearance would be suspect. He hated to leave her behind, but hoped she’d be spared further experimentation and used for breeding. Her puppies were a different matter.
Joe padded in his crepe-soled shoes to the room where Lady’s litter, four twelve-week old German shepherd pups, were kept in separate pens. An emergency light above the door was adequate for his dark-adapted vision. He heard the rustling of dog bedding and a soft snort.
As he stepped past each cage, the pups were sleeping except for one. Moka, a black and tan female, sat with her head cocked, eyeing him. He studied her appealing face and got that same weird hunch feeling he’d had during the ESP experiments. He suddenly knew, without knowing how, that she was the only one of the pups who had any telepathic ability. He was relieved. Stealing one dog was going to be much easier than stealing four.
In the kennel office, lit by moonlight through a high window, he pulled Moka’s file. Dating a last entry, he wrote 0400: Found dead. Acute bloat. Body incinerated. He scribbled an unreadable signature. Would the ruse be believed? Joe thought so. Since his official retirement and leaving the kennel a week ago, his position as Officer In Charge had not been filled. He remembered the urine smell in the cage room. The place was short-staffed, probably disorganized.
With Moka and a slip leash tucked in his jacket, he left the kennels and snuck back the same way he’d come, keeping to the shadows of the deserted maintenance buildings. At the chain link fence surrounding the base, he leashed Moka. He crawled under first, then encouraged her with gentle tugs to squirm through on her belly. She made no noise, seeming to understand the need for stealth.
