Home of the Brave (Raine Stockton Dog Mysteries Book 9) (6 page)

They ranged in age from twenty-five to fifty, and they had gathered for this emergency-called meeting on a weekday evening at Henry Middleton’s pleasant brick ranch at the end of Camelback Road on less than an hour’s notice.  Henry lived alone, his wife having left him ten years ago and his son now serving overseas, and his place was on eight fairly isolated acres.  It was unlikely that anyone would notice the two dozen haphazardly parked cars and pickup trucks in the driveway and yard, but if they did he would simply invite them in, in that jovial way of his, to join the pool tournament.

They sat on ladder-back chairs and folding chairs, on the plaid club chairs and on the faux-suede sofa over which the “Don’t Tread on Me” flag that was ubiquitous to groups such as theirs had been hastily tacked.  A few held red plastic cups of beer, but no one was drinking.  None of the men sitting in Henry Middleton’s basement were under the illusion that they were here to play pool.  They were here because something had gone wrong.

The Professor got to the point, his expression sobering.  “Gentlemen, you know why we’re here.  The threat has been neutralized.  I repeat, the threat has been neutralized, although not without some risk to certain of our members.  We all knew what we were getting into when we signed up.  Am I right?”  He repeated, more forcefully, “
Am I right
?” 

To which the response came with equal force, and to a man: “
Yes sir
!”

He looked around the group somberly for a moment.  “The tree of liberty must, from time to time, be refreshed by the blood of tyrants and of patriots,” he said.  “Do you know who said that, my friends?  Thomas Jefferson.”  And that was why they called him the Professor.  He knew those things.  His eyes were fierce as he said, “Remember that when the slings and arrows of the world start coming your way.  We stand on the shoulders of giants to wave our flag of liberty today, gentlemen.  Giants!”

The passionate murmurs of agreement that went around the room would have been cheers under other circumstances.  A few raised their red cups, but no one drank.

“The mission has not been compromised,” said the Professor firmly.  As he spoke, he walked back and forth before the group; not pacing, precisely, but stalking.  Meeting eyes.  Reading expressions.  Holding firm.  “We are a go for July 4, thirteen hundred hours.  Your orders are unchanged.  Bravo squadron will execute at eleven hundred hours as directed.  Alpha squadron will be in place at twelve hundred hours as directed.  Charlie squadron will stand by.  Are there questions?”

For a moment there was nothing, but it was clear by the way the Professor waited, his eyes searching each and every one of them with terrifying patience, that he expected something.  And when it happened, it was no surprise.

A man sitting in one of the folding chairs stood.  His jaw was set.  He had rehearsed.  “Sir,” he said crisply.  “Recommend the mission be postponed, sir.”

Replied the Professor, “Explain, soldier.”

“Our headquarters have been compromised,” said the soldier.  “Munitions may be in jeopardy.  Security has been threatened.  A police investigation may be underway.  In my estimation, sir, the launch date should be reconsidered.” 

The Professor nodded, thinking it over. “In your estimation,” he repeated, without judgment.

The soldier squared his shoulders.  “Yes sir.”

“I see.”  There was a note of compassion, even pity in his voice.  The other men shifted their gazes uneasily away from the soldier who had had the temerity to speak up.  “And in your
estimation
, soldier, just how should we describe our situation to High Command?  Should we say we’re worried, or we’re scared, or we think something might go
wrong
?”  He did not raise his voice, or change his posture in any way.  In fact, his voice actually grew quieter, and more controlled, with each word. Only his eyes changed.

The young man swallowed hard.  “No, sir,” he said, forcefully. And he sat down.

The Professor looked around the assembly for a moment.  “Gentlemen,” he said quietly, “do you know who you are?  Do you understand your power?  Look around this room. 
Look
!” 

The last word was shouted; shouted so loud that it reverberated around the acoustically sound basement, and the men stiffened in their chairs.  They looked as ordered.

“What do you see?” demanded the Professor.  “Twenty men?  Thirty?”  His eyes were blazing now, his nostrils flared.  “Wrong!  You are a hundred thousand strong, gentlemen!  Your brothers are lined up across this nation, waiting for you—yes, you!—to act.  You hold history in your hands.”  As he spoke, he paced off the group, stopping with each word in front of a different individual, holding him with his eyes and his words. “ Every. Single.  One.  Of. You.” 

He stood silently for a moment before them, hands clasped behind his back, surveying them all with quiet authority.  He said, “We have met with challenges.  But we’ve also been favored with fortune.  Why?  Because our Cause is just.  This mission will proceed as planned.  I want a twenty-four-hour surveillance on the munitions site.  The situation is not ideal, but it can be managed, are we in agreement on that?”

There was a resounding, “Yes sir!”

He nodded curtly.  “Our goal is to keep civilian casualties to a minimum.  We are not baby-killers.  But remember how many lives have been lost already.  We must have the courage to do what is necessary, and if some fall in the course of this battle, they are heroes of war, and will be honored as such.  We will do what is necessary,” he repeated forcefully.  He squared his shoulders and held them with his gaze and demanded, “What are we, gentlemen?”

The assembly surged to its feet and responded with one voice, “We are Patriots, sir!”

The Professor smiled and dismissed his troops.

Chapter Six

C
amp Bluebird is a forty-acre facility in a high valley on the northwestern side of the county, surrounded by rolling blue mountains and views that go on forever.  It’s been owned by the Methodist Church for over fifty years, which is the only reason such prime acreage hadn’t been sold to some money-grubbing real estate developer like Miles years ago, and it’s been managed for as long as I could remember by Willie Banks.  He lived at the bottom of the mile-long dirt road that led up to the camp, behind a small general store that he owned and operated.  Since that store was the only one for eight hard miles in either direction, and since the church paid him a salary for maintaining the camp, he did pretty well for himself.  And even though the heyday of Camp Bluebird had passed ten years ago, I was pleased to see that Willie had kept it up well.  After all, I was the one who’d suggested the facility to Camp Bowser Wowser when they lost their old site.  I didn’t want to be embarrassed.

I’d had that experience enough for one day.

The entrance was marked by a big laurel arch from which hung a sign emblazoned with frolicking cartoon dogs that read,
Camp Bowser Wowser July 1-3. Welcome!
  Melanie bounced in her seat with excitement as we made the turn and the dogs, who always woke when the car slowed down, sat up and looked out eagerly through their respective windows.  We drove a few hundred yards down the dirt road that was surrounded on either side by overgrown pasture land and came to a fork in the road.  It had been years since I’d been here, so I was glad for the hand-lettered signs: 
Lodge and Dining
(straight ahead),
Cabins
(left)
Rec Hall
(right).  I drove straight.

“Now remember,” I told Melanie, “no special privileges.  Pepper has to sleep in the doggie dorm just like all the other dogs, even if there is room in your dorm for her tonight.  No complaining.”

It would have been utter chaos  to have dogs bunking in the same cabins as their pint-sized owners, not to mention the liability factor should one of the children try to take a dog outside for a potty break in the middle of the night.  The problem had been solved by providing a separate doggie dorm where all the dogs would be crated at night with a designated counselor to take care of their needs.

“Don’t worry,” Melanie assured me.  “I explained to Pepper about how the fun of going to camp is sleeping away from your folks.  It’ll be an adventure.”

I smothered a smile.  “Good deal.”

Registration was being held on the porch of the dining hall between five and six today for early arrivals and between eight and ten tomorrow for the regular group.  There was another welcoming sign with frolicking beagles and Labs, and a small group of adults had gathered around the registration table, sipping soft drinks and chatting.  I glanced at my watch and realized that, despite my best efforts, I was five minutes late for instructor orientation.  “Melanie,” I said, hastily unstrapping my seat belt, “I hate to run off, but they’re waiting for me …”

“No problem,” she said, clearly pleased to be left on her own.  “I’ll just walk Pepper around.  What about Mischief and Magic?”

“I can keep an eye on them from here,” I said.  “I’ll open the back door for air.”  I waved to the group on the porch as I climbed out.  “Hi, everybody!  Sorry I’m late!”

I knew the other instructors—Camp Director Margie Hildebrand and her husband Steve, who taught junior handling, and Lee Beatty, who was in charge of everything else, including the Pre-Opening Welcome Barbecue that was scheduled for tonight.  As Cisco and I bounded up the steps of the low, lodge-like building, we were greeted with calls of welcome and hugs—the hugs being mostly for Cisco, I admit—and introduced to the camp nurse and vet tech, who would be coming in on a daily basis, and to the three fresh-faced teenage counselors,  Andrea, Haley and Bill.

“Raine,” exclaimed Margie from her place behind the registration table, “this place is marvelous!  I couldn’t have done better myself!  It’s just a little piece of heaven, isn’t it?  Everyone, Raine’s the one who found us this place.”

There were murmurs and nods of appreciation, and I was going to explain how I had worked here as a kid, but Margie is one of those steamroller personalities who lets nothing stand in way of her agenda—not a bad characteristic to have, I suppose, when you’re trying to wrangle twenty five kids and twenty five dogs for three days.  She went on energetically, “Now, we have five early registrations tonight who’ll be here in an hour, so let’s get on with it and then we’ll take a quick tour.  It’s gorgeous, really gorgeous.”  As she spoke, she handed out thick manila envelopes with names and cabin numbers written on them.  “Here are your tee shirts, your instructor badges, and the camp schedule, along with a list of the camp participants, their ages and dorm assignments, and their dogs.  Every participant will get a copy of camp rules, which are also included in your packet. Cell phones and other electronic devices will be collected at breakfast and may be claimed after dinner each evening, lights out at ten, pick up after your dog, the usual.  Remember, even though we want our campers to have fun, our primary goal is to promote a responsible, respectful relationship among all of God’s creatures—and that includes counselors and instructors.”

There was some laughter, and Cisco sniffed enthusiastically at my orientation packet.  Apparently Margie had included dog treats—it was the kind of thing she customarily did—and I moved it out of his reach. He promptly sat back on his haunches and stared worshipfully at the envelope.  It would seem someone had taught him that sitting and staring was the fastest way to get a treat.  It wasn’t me, I swear.  I suspected Miles.

“So no sass from the campers,” Margie went on.  “Remember, we treat these kids like we would our dogs—firm but fair, positive reinforcement, click treat!”  More laughter, and then Margie’s eyes lit up and she clapped her hands together in sudden remembrance.  “And good news!  The sheriff’s department called this afternoon to volunteer a demo by their new police dog on Saturday morning.  Apparently this guy is really something, a military vet, trained in munitions, search and take-down.  I can’t wait to see him myself!”

As murmurs of appreciation went around the group, I muttered, “She.”  When Margie looked at me I explained uncomfortably, “The dog is a she.”

Margie laughed.  “Even better!  So, this will mean pushing the Parade of Breeds back until after lunch, and the agility run-through and search demo will have to be cut short.  You can take care of that, right, Raine?”

I smiled stiffly.  “No problem.”

“Everyone make the adjustment on your schedule.  Now, a couple of special notes.  Angela Bowers is allergic to peanuts, bee stings and chemical by-products—whatever that is—so she’ll be wearing a red bracelet.  Just make sure she has her epi-pen, counselors, before she leaves the dorm each morning.  We have a couple of thunder-phobic pups …”

I glanced back toward my car and saw Magic and Mischief with their noses pressed against the back window.  Melanie and Pepper were nowhere in sight and I started to get anxious until I spotted them coming up the hill from the lake. I waggled my fingers at her discreetly.  She waved back and started trotting toward me.  Cisco, noticing their approach, stood and swiveled his head toward them.  I tightened the leash just enough to remind him that I was still there.  He glanced at me, seemed to debate for a moment over his chances of securing a treat from the envelope, then compromised by sitting to watch Pepper and Melanie approach.