Shakedown Read online

  The canteen would wash. A big dog slapping his muzzle against her fingers like a thirsty Oliver Twist asking for more was unforgettable.

  Time to see how serious he was about guarding the path. Bonnie capped the canteen, set it aside—he won’t bite, he won’t bite—then rose to her feet and stepped around him.

  Or at least she extended a foot. At the first motion, Pojo ducked ahead of her and froze. Her knee slammed into his ribcage. Without even a grunt of protest, he braced his paws and pushed back. His low-slung leverage won the shoving match, and Bonnie stumbled sideways into the rock face. Sharp pain spiked in her elbow, and she hissed something naughty.

  She didn’t need to look. “Neal, don’t shoot. My fault.” Whether it really was or not she didn’t know. But she didn’t want him rushing in to save her from a nonexistent threat.

  The ranger’s Mossberg was poised halfway to his shoulder. “Are you sure about that?”

  Head down, Pojo paced in front of her with quick, agitated steps that left a new trail of bloody pawprints across the path. A dead leaf, still golden yellow, stuck to one paw and scraped across the packed dirt. Finally it fell aside, a red smear across the gold, and blew away.

  “No, she’s not.” The obnoxious hiker pushed aside his water bottle and stalked forward. “Just shoot the dog.”

  Without lowering his shotgun, Neal turned. “One more word from any of you and I will escort everyone off park property.”

  “I’ve got a right—”

  Not worth the time. Bonnie turned her back on the drama and brushed off her fatigues. The strong cotton-nylon blend hadn’t torn, but the smudge left on her sleeve by the dust-covered rock showed even on the digicam camouflage pattern’s slate grey. She’d be doing laundry tonight, frag it.

  What a bizarre thought. Here she was, deciding whether her dog lived or died, and a stain on a shirt designed to hide stains upset her. Or maybe it was the escalating argument back there by the stone tables. A raw edge had crept into Neal’s voice and that didn’t bode well. He was a calm, patient man, a lot like the rocks he lectured about and loved. If his temper frayed, he’d make the decision for her.

  In the middle of the path, Pojo turned. Fixed her with a hard, brazen stare. Grim, determined. As if trying to tell her something.

  He sat down.

  Again.

  In front of her.

  Without ever looking away.

  The rock-warmed canyon air chilled. A ghost shivered up her spine.

  “Everybody stay right where you are.”

  She’d been blind. Utterly, entirely blind. And she could yet pay for it.

  With her life.

  ****

  She’d learned a little about working dogs during the process of adopting Pojo. One thing she’d learned: they all had tells—ways of communicating a find to their handlers. One common tell, often used by narcotics dogs at customs stations, was for the dog to sit.

  As Pojo had been doing.

  Last night up by the roadside, when the breeze had blown from the Grotto below up to her clearing, he’d sat and stared down into the canyon’s depths. Twice—once before she’d taken him on a tour of the boundaries and then again afterward. And he’d demonstrated his displeasure when she insisted he go inside.

  And twice in the last ten minutes, he’d stared at her, folded himself deliberately, and sat.

  If she was right, it hadn’t been the dog who’d selected this clever, strategic position.

  Bomb sniffer.

  No signal on the cell phone. No way of contacting the rescue group. If she’d read about Pojo’s tell earlier, when slurping coffee and skimming his records for a microchip frequency, it had vanished from her memory.

  She had to trust this obsessed, traumatized soldier. She had to believe him. She could handle being wrong, looking foolish. She couldn’t risk the alternative.

  “Bonnie, listen—”

  She whirled. “Neal, stay back.”

  Her voice sounded panicked, even to her. The hikers all stood and drew together around the tables, on the side away from her. The ranger froze, Mossberg cradled. His gaze fastened onto hers and widened.

  “Evacuate the area. Is there anyone up on McKittrick Ridge?” Hikers weren’t supposed to leave the marked trails, but if one did—and she’d done it herself just that morning—then he could approach Pojo, and what Pojo protected, from behind.

  Neal shook his head. “No. What—”

  “Just get those hikers back to the contact station.” She grabbed her backpack and slung it on, ignoring the resuming and redoubling argument. She’d need to haul some gear down, and she’d need the pack.

  Pojo still sat, watching her. A different sort of gleam lit his amber eyes, something happy. When she stroked his head and scratched behind one ear, his eyelids drifted closed and his mouth opened, panting for a few breaths.

  “Good dog, Pojo. But you already know that, don’t you, smarty britches. Good dog. Now, guard it.” His tongue flicked out, licked his nose, and his jaws snapped together. “Guard it.”

  She ran down the slope, squished through the mud and gravel, leapt over the intermittent stream—sorry for the bootprints, delicate ecosystem—and started the long slog up the northwestern slope of Frijole Ridge.

  The decision had come to her without thought, but like most instinctive choices, it felt right. Pojo acted as if he’d detected explosives. If she wasn’t willing to shoot him in cold blood, then she needed to investigate his claim. She could call Fort Bliss and request an explosive ordnance disposal team… if she could convince them she wasn’t crazy. It might help her case if she could first convince herself of that.

  Besides, that course would take time and the park would have to remain closed until it was cleared. And hikers travelled from all over the world to see these autumn colors, the most brilliant in the state of Texas. Insisting the park remain closed during its busiest time of the year was perhaps a smaller point, but an element to be considered nonetheless.

  The second switchback on her service road loomed overhead, deceptively near. Brown scrubby grass caught at her mountain combat boot. Bonnie staggered and kept climbing, fighting the steepening slope.

  Or she could call one of her team members, using the radiotelephone still in her backpack. The explosives expert, a friend who knew and trusted her, lived only two or three hours away. But the thought of waiting that long tightened around her skin like a prison cell. Not knowing if her guess was right or wrong, if the dog was crazy and she was a fool—no, not a workable solution. She needed an answer now.

  The last ten feet to the switchback rose almost vertically. She braced her boot against the biggest tuft of grass and pushed up, grabbing a handful more overhead. Sharp, thin blades cut into her palm. But she didn’t feel blood, no slippery mess making her hand slide off the grass. Pulling from above and pushing from below, she swarmed up the rise, rolled onto the gravel road, scrambled up, and started running.

  No, she had only one option—to serve as Pojo’s voice and advocate. She had to prove him right and expose any explosives that were planted on the Grotto pathway. Then Neal could call Fort Bliss for a disposal squad and she could let the experts take over.

  And if she was wrong, she’d have to shoot the dog she’d only just started to like.

  By the time she rounded the last curve and her cabin came into view, the uphill run had settled into her calves, thighs, and lungs. Wuss, wimp, pansy, pitiful excuse for a soldier. She sounded like her old drill sergeant. So much for positive self-talk. Ignoring the lead weighing down her legs, she accelerated up the final slope, across the clearing, and body-slammed the front door to brake.

  M9 bayonet from the gun case, hardwood kris dagger from the display above the hearth, portable toolkit and box flashlight from the kitchen cabinet. The two fat file folders still sat where she’d left them on the rustic dining table. No time for them now. She’d decided to trust him, so trust him she would.

  No metal detector. Well, not e
very bomb contained metal. Up in the loft, crammed full but at least organized, her netbook, a strong tripod, and the radar antenna she’d altered and reassembled only yesterday—the day Pojo had arrived. At least she’d checked her work last night, but now she’d field-test it for real.

  The tripod’s mounting stuck vertically from the backpack’s zippered top and the gear sloshed around inside, not filling the space enough to prevent movement. She wrapped bottles of sports drink in hand towels, used rubber bands to secure them, and stuffed the backpack’s empty spots, then added a cereal bowl. Pojo could use some electrolytes and after she finished her third hike of the day—up to McKittrick Ridge, back down and to the Grotto, and then back to her cabin—they wouldn’t hurt her, either.

  She returned the radiotelephone to the backpack on top of the other gear. Sixty-plus pounds of equipment. She needed to finish building that barn and buy a horse.

  At the door, she paused. Urgency nipped at her soul and she yearned to settle this, one way or the other. But if she was right, if Pojo proved trustworthy, she’d be searching for an explosive device in little more than an hour’s time. Okay, so her closest friend was an explosives nut, and she’d watched the bomb disposal process, and handed out the tools as operational nurse, often enough during training and the war. But she’d never done it alone.

  Meaning she might never see her sweet little cabin again.

  For a moment the ache was exquisite. But the urgency won. There was nothing she could do about that. Bonnie closed and locked her cabin door, heaved the backpack into the Willys MB, and drove to the second switchback above the Grotto. She backed and filled until she’d tucked it tailgate-first against the rock face, so that even if the brakes gave way, it couldn’t roll downhill. Backpack strapped to her front for now, she jumped from the switchback to the steep slope below and skated down on her butt in a controlled tumble, bouncing over the grass tufts in painful jolts and sending a massive cloud of dust billowing into the afternoon sky.

  Guess they’d figure out she was coming.

  ****

  The hikers had vanished. Neal sat in their place, Mossberg on the stone table in front of him. His elbow was propped on the granite slab, chin cupped in his fingers, and his mountain boots were crossed atop the opposite bench. The sun balanced above McKittrick Ridge, and the evening’s first chill breathed in the lengthening shadows. Not a lot of daylight left.

  Pojo hadn’t moved. His amber gaze had been fixed on her from the moment she’d ducked under the orange-leafed sapling and the Grotto area had opened before her. Must have heard her coming, or smelled her. Or he’d been sitting there watching and waiting. Kind of creepy in a way, and flattering in another. At least he wasn’t ignoring her any more.

  Bonnie unslung the backpack, crouched in front of Pojo, and unzipped it. He watched her and if he blinked, she didn’t notice. Tripod, toolbox, netbook, connecting cables, big thick square antenna—no canine reaction. Still sitting on the pathway, stiff and impatient. Kris dagger; his ears pricked higher. Bayonet, and his tail swished back and forth, scattering leaves across the packed dirt. The universal landmine detection tool. Something he recognized.

  Well, whatever made for a happy dog.

  “You’ve got really lousy taste in entertainment, kiddo.” She poured him a bowl of sports drink and slugged down a bottle—orange, yuck—while he lapped, then she set both of their empties aside.

  “What is all this?” Neal asked. His shadow inched across her shoulder, hesitated, withdrew.

  “It’s called a man-portable radar.” She fired up the netbook and while it booted, she screwed the tripod’s mounting bolt into the antenna’s base and telescoped the legs to their full length. No need to stretch them open, though, since she’d be using it flat and facing down. “It’s not exactly the right gear for the job. This is a high resolution radar, working in gigahertz, and we’d get better results with something very high frequency, in megahertz. But it’s all I’ve got, and it should at least give us a clue what we’re facing.”

  “Bonnie-girl, what’s this job you’re talking about?”

  The shadows had lengthened across his weather-beaten face, confusing the planes and angles and hiding his expression. His gaze skipped across the jumble of electronic gear. He hadn’t figured it out.

  Actually, she hadn’t told him. But he’d trusted her enough to send the hikers packing and wait on a stone bench while she’d run off without a coherent word.

  “The job’s ground penetration.” The job. She’d adopted Pojo’s mindset, joined his single-minded determination. Or obsession. If he was crazy, he’d taken her with him.

  And if he wasn’t, she had some explosives to find. Great choice.

  Neal grunted. “You mean, looking to see what’s down there without digging? You really think there’s a bomb or booby trap?” He didn’t quite laugh. “Way out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  So much for trust. She tapped the keyboard, entered her password, and booted up the interface software. “He’s a bomb sniffer. Can you think of any other reason he’s acting this way?”

  Neal’s shadow eased away, slipped off her shoulder, and vanished. “Yeah. I can.”

  But he still backed up to the pathway’s head.

  She scooted closer to where Pojo sat, his tail quivering. The antenna was eighteen inches wide, the trail over a yard, so two side-by-side scans would cover it with a third down the middle, overlapping them both, if nothing showed. The tripod would add four feet to her search pattern’s reach, letting her explore past the big boulder looming on the right side. As she cleared a section of path, she could inch further forward. At least the dog was no longer pushing her back. But he still stared at her.

  The grid faded in on the netbook screen. A quick test prior to starting the search wouldn’t hurt. She aimed the antenna back down the path, over her shoulder, and fired off the impulse generator. One second, two, then a greyscale topography of the rocks behind her coalesced on the screen. It was a raw image, not shape-classified. But the human figure standing half behind the biggest boulder, off on the right side of the screen, wasn’t hard to spot. Test successful.

  “Before you begin whatever it is you’re doing, Bonnie, let me borrow your radio. We need to check in with Terri,” his voice lowered to a growl, “so that fool woman doesn’t come chasing after us and tear us both limb from limb for being idiots.”

  Hooking one hand around the radiotelephone, Bonnie pushed it behind her. “Go for it. But take it back to the tables so I can concentrate, okay?”

  Footsteps crunched. The now-familiar shadow broke over her, switching off the sunlight like a lamp. Then it withdrew, the light returned, and the footsteps retreated. “Trust me, I intend to.”

  She set the antenna face-down on the ground in front of Pojo and tucked the tripod’s jutting legs between the rolled-up backpack below and her thigh above. Bracing her boot heel against the dirt and pressing down with her knee lowered the tripod like one end of a seesaw on the backpack’s fulcrum, raising the antenna an inch above the ground’s surface. Not the most stable arrangement, but it would let her take readings without tripping anything down there.

  Ready to go.

  Roly-poly baloney, she didn’t want to do this. The sudden realization thudded in her chest like a panic attack. People died searching out buried bombs and booby traps. Unexploded ordnance maimed and killed people all the time in Vietnam, Cambodia, Korea, Mozambique, Angola, Kosovo, Georgia—Afghanistan, where Pojo’s handler had died. Even still in France and Germany, more than six decades after the last war’s end.

  Maybe she should just brush aside that covering of autumn leaves, exposing the path and finding where, if anywhere, the packed dirt had been disturbed. The leaves didn’t blow around with the gentle breeze, didn’t even flap. Had they been wetted down and glued into a mat to hide a booby trap? Or was she being paranoid?

  And maybe her brushing hand would be all the weight needed to trip a bomb’s hair-trigger. Stop, br
eathe, center. Beside her, Pojo whined. He still stared at her. He’d finally decided she wasn’t a useless coward. Well, maybe he was waiting for additional information, and her actions now would help him decide.

  She’d been judging him. He’d been judging her. And now it was crunch time for both soldiers.

  Another deep breath. Bonnie held the tripod in one hand, lifted her thigh, and eased the antenna beyond where Pojo sat, folding herself into a runner’s stretch and her other hand guiding the rolled-up backpack. His amber gaze shifted to the antenna, following its motion onto the path behind him, and he whined again. But his tail swished.

  Behind her, Neal’s voice droned, repeating the call-up over and over. This deep in the canyon, he’d have trouble establishing contact, as she sometimes did from halfway up Frijole Ridge.

  When the antenna’s closest edge was level with the tip of Pojo’s tail, she braced it in position with her leg, its face an inch above the ground. She didn’t let herself worry further. Her fingers flowed over the netbook’s keyboard, instructing it to start the impulse generator. The ultra-wide band radio waves penetrated the ground, bounced off the roots and rocks within the soil, and seconds later a bizarre jumble appeared on the screen. Confused shades of grey in various intensities reflected the composition of everything less than a foot belowground.

  There could be a nuclear warhead down there and she’d never see it. She had good penetration, but too many returning signals. Unlike her test with Neal, the raw data were impossible to decipher.

  Well, crap. Another problem to solve.

  She could scan the entire area, store the data, compile it, and prepare horizontal slices. That would give her a better picture of what was underground at, say, each quarter inch of depth, and she could combine that with the vertical slices to create a three-dimensional image. But she couldn’t reach the entire path, not with any degree of safety, and she really didn’t want to blow herself up. Especially as any explosion would likely take the Grotto with her. She might survive, but its natural beauty would be shattered.

  Not to mention Pojo. He hadn’t moved, and watched her research as if he understood her every decision. Putting him through another butcher-the-handler sequence would be beyond cruel, even if he survived.