“Yep.”
That was exactly where the name had come from—Be On the Look Out. It suited him perfectly. The dog pitched his ears in response to his name and Creed motioned for him to sit while he swung the rest of their equipment up into the overhead bins. He was overly protective of Creed. So much so that Creed had to be careful how and where he used the dog.
Bolo was muscular with great stamina and would be able to handle the long hours as well as the brutal terrain of a landslide. He was one of Creed’s multitask dogs and could search for live victims as well as find those not so fortunate.
Ridgebacks originated in Zimbabwe, where they were used in packs to hunt lions. That’s where their nickname “the African Lion Hound” came from. They could withstand the long heat of the day and the damp, cold nights. Bolo would do well for this assignment, if only Creed could keep the big dog from flattening anyone who might raise a voice to him.
Isabel glanced behind him, looking to the entrance. “Is someone bringing the other dogs?”
“No other dogs. It’s just Bolo and me.”
“Just one dog?”
“One handler, one dog.”
“Mr. Logan made it sound like there would be several.”
That was the other thing—people were always looking for there to be more. More dogs, more magic.
Creed pulled his electronic tablet and a paperback from his messenger bag and placed all three items on the seat beside the one he planned to sit in. He directed Bolo to sit next to the leather captain’s chair so the dog would be tucked against his legs, at his feet. He wanted him as close as possible for takeoff.
He removed a harness from the bag and slipped it on the dog. It provided a handle instead of just the leash in case the dog got nervous in flight. Bolo hadn’t flown before. One of his other dogs, Grace, had her first flight aboard a Coast Guard helicopter a month ago. She’d loved it. Grace would be bored with this luxury ride. Creed directed the air vent to flow across Bolo’s back and the dog lay down.
Isabel, however, was still standing beside Creed as though waiting for someone or something more. He stopped himself from taking his seat and turned to look at her.
“Can I get the two of you something? Wine? Scotch? The jet has a well-stocked bar.”
“Couple of bottles of water would be great.”
“Oh, certainly. Of course.”
And finally she turned on her heels and left for the back galley, obviously trained to be accommodating, which probably suited Logan just fine.
He looked around the wood-paneled interior as he sank into the soft leather. All of this seemed a bit extravagant for someone who was a platoon leader in Afghanistan. Logan was probably trying to impress him, but Creed couldn’t stop wondering how much this pickup was costing taxpayers.
Hannah had said that Logan was now a lieutenant colonel, but because it made no difference to Creed he hadn’t asked what Logan’s title was or who in the government he was trying to lead now. He imagined Hannah had included it in the briefing material she’d stuffed in his messenger bag. That’s where it would stay. Creed found it was best for him to know only the bare essentials.
If a handler got caught up in details, he could find himself misleading his dog and looking for signals or targets that weren’t important. Too many times handlers drove their dogs to find what law enforcement, or the officials who had ordered the search, expected to find. In this case, Creed didn’t even want to know how many people were missing. He didn’t want his mind focused on statistical rates of survival or calculating how many hours victims could stay alive buried beneath mud and debris.
Facts were fine, but Creed liked to leave room for those few cases that dispelled all rhyme or reason. Maybe it wasn’t practical—perhaps some would argue, silly—but he’d never have gotten through the last seven years in this business if he hadn’t believed in miracles.
Still, when Isabel brought the water to him, he decided to ask.
“What exactly is Logan’s job these days at the DoD?” He tried to make it sound casual, as if they were acquaintances who’d simply lost touch with each other.
She raised her eyebrows, surprised at the question, but without hesitation said, “He’s a deputy director of the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency.”
He nodded, thanked her as he took the bottles of water, again pretending it was no big deal, and waited for her to go back to her flight duties. At the same time, his mind was trying to grasp what in the world a deputy director of DARPA had to do with a landslide in North Carolina.
Ten minutes after takeoff Isabel was back. Without waiting for an invitation or permission, she sat in the captain’s chair across from Creed, careful not to disturb Bolo, who stayed at Creed’s feet.
“I was told to answer any of your questions or concerns once we were in the air.”