Net Force - Tom Clancy [86]
The dog finished watering and fertilizing the lawn and, now sure the territory was secure from intruders, trotted back to the kitchen. He stood by Michaels feet, tail wagging, looking up at him.
You hungry, boy?
Yap!
Come on.
Michaels had bought some expensive canned dog food. He peeled the lid from the little aluminum container and dumped the contents into a small bowl, then put it down on the floor next to the water bowl.
As he always did, the dog waited. He was hungry, but he stood over the bowl looking up at Michaels, waiting for permission. Whoever had trained him had done a good job. Go ahead, eat.
Scout bent and gobbled the stuff up as if hed never been fed before.
When the dog was done with his meal and enough water to wash it down, he followed Michaels into the living room. Michaels sat on the couch and patted his lap. The little dog leaped up and into his lap, and began to lick one of its paws as Michaels scratched behind Scouts ears.
It certainly was soothing to sit and pet the little critter. Susie had always wanted a dog. Megan had told her she had to wait until she was old enough to take care of it. She was getting there-faster than he liked. Eight, his daughter was, going on eighteen
Michaels liked dogs. He hadnt gotten one after hed moved to D.C. because he hadnt wanted to leave it alone while he was at work, but as small as Scout was, the house was plenty big enough to roam around in. The previous owners of the condo had owned a cat, and theyd left a litter box stuck up in the rafters. Michaels had bought a sack of kitty litter, and during the day the plastic tub full of litter sat by the sliding glass door. So far, the dog had used that faithfully when he couldnt get outside.
Scout licked Michaels hand. The man grinned at him.
You dont care if I had a crappy day at work, do you? Youre perfectly happy to see me no matter what, arent you?
The dog gave out a small yip, almost as if he understood what Michaels said. He snuggled his head under Michaels hand.
Michaels laughed. That was the thing about dogs-you didnt have to be anything special to impress them. He liked that. If you were as good a person as your dog thought you were, youd be able to stroll across the Potomac without getting your ankles wet.
Well. Time to get moving. Better shower and shave and get dressed.
He had a thought: Why not take the dog with him to work? He could let him run around the office, take him out to pee once in a while. There wasnt any policy against it. He was the boss, wasnt he? At least for another day or two he was. Sure. Why the hell not?
Sunday, October 3rd, 7:40 a.m. Quantico
John Howard wore an Army-green T-shirt and faded, frayed cargo-pocket fatigue pants over his Kevlar combat boots. He also wore a black headband-he sweated pretty good once he got going, and keeping a garrison cap on was hopeless-but otherwise, he looked like any of the other fifty troopers doing the obstacle course this early Sunday morning.
John Howard was no armchair commander ordering his troops to do something he wouldnt-or couldnt-do himself.
He was last up.
Fernandez blew his whistle. Go, go!
Howard felt his belt transponder buzz, starting his personal clock. He sprinted toward the water hazard, jumped, caught the thick rope and swung out over the pit, more mud than water. The trick was to let your momentum swing you back and forth, pump a little with your arms and crunch your body, then jump on the second swing
Howard released the rope, fell, landed two feet beyond the edge of the pit. He ran for the razor-wire tunnel. There was a backstop at the end of the razor-wire approach, enough to stop machine-gun bullets. The gunners had the day off, but during the graduation run, a steady stream of jacketed full-auto fire, every tenth round a tracer, laid a roof over the wire.