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For three hours the dog would not come off the wire. Hackles up, low in the chest, fixed on the black treeline climbing the ridge behind the camp and refusing every order to come back in. Every rifle Camp Ridge owned was pointed the other way, south at the armored truck on the bend and the men gathering in the trees beyond it, and the senior watch had a comfortable answer ready for the one animal looking the wrong direction. A deer. A raccoon. Something with four legs and no plan.

The dog has been right before, and the men with the authority to act on him spend this night deciding the record does not apply. Camp Ridge has trained every eye on ...