The Last Phoenix by Richard Herman

leash with a silver-plated chain dog collar. He slipped the collar into a pocket and deliberately folded the leash into fourths. He slapped it against his pant leg like a riding crop. He closed the door and checked his image in the window. His black beret was set at the correct angle on his closely cropped Marine-style haircut, and his square jaw was cleanly shaven. He wasn’t a vain man, but he knew the value of appearances.
    Technical Sergeant Paul Travis saw him first. He came to attention as he greeted him. “Good morning, Chief. What brings you down here? Headquarters getting too much for you?” There was respect in his voice.
    “Personal business,” Rockne replied.
    No reply was called for, and the sergeant hurried past a training flight of students marching to the line of aircraft fuselages used for antihijacking training. He skidded to a stop and spoke to the training NCO, Staff Sergeant Jake Osburn. “Over there,” Travis said, pointing to Rockne.
    “Ah, shit,” Jake muttered. He halted his training flight. “Listen up. That’s Chief Master Sergeant Leroy Rockne over there. He’s called ‘the Rock’ for a damn good reason.”
    “What makes him so special?” an airman asked.
    “He just happens to be the best security cop who ever wore the beret.”
    Rockne walked into the building and turned into the operations section. The clerk, Airman First Class Cindy Cloggins, came to her feet. Rockne’s reputation had preceded him, and she was nervous at meeting him face-to-face. “Good morning, sir.”
    Rockne fixed her with a hard look, taking her measure. She was a big girl, young and immature. He made a decision and eased off a notch. “It’s ‘Chief.’ I’m not an officer.”
    “Yes”—she caught herself in time—“Chief.” She buzzed the captain and sent Rockne right in. She waited until the door was closed, and called the squadron commander, a newly minted major. “The Rock’s in the building,” she told him. The major said he’d be right over.
    The captain in charge of operations stood and smiled. “It’s been a while, Chief. What can I do for you?”
    “I heard Boyca was scheduled for disposal tomorrow. I want to adopt her.”
    “The veterinarian and kennel master say she’s not adoptable,” the captain replied.
    Rationally, Rockne knew that euthanasia for an old dog like Boyca, who had exceeded her working life and could never adjust to family life, was the humane thing to do. Shewas a working dog, and, like he was a security cop, that’s all she was. “Screw the vets. We got a history.”
    “She’s too old, Chief,” the captain said, telling him the obvious.
    “She’s got another year or two left in her,” Rockne replied.
    The captain was about to say that he couldn’t approve of the adoption, but one look at Rockne’s face convinced him otherwise. “I’ll take care of the paperwork.”
    “Thank you, sir. I owe you.” Rockne snapped a sharp salute and left, heading for the kennels out back. The captain punched at his intercom to tell his secretary to start the paperwork rolling, his day now pure gold.
    Rockne walked along the double row of kennels as he searched the cages. A dog started to bark, setting the others off. On the backside a dog smashed into the cage’s wire fence in a frenzy. “How ya doin’, Boyca?” he said. The dog barked at him. “You remember me, don’tcha?” Rockne’s lips compressed into a tight line when he saw the red X in grease pencil on the gate’s metal note plate. Tomorrow’s date was written below the X . “I almost missed it.”
    He opened the gate, but Boyca retreated to a far corner and growled at him. “Come,” he ordered. No response. “Feelin’ bitchy today?” He slapped the leash he was holding against his thigh. Boyca’s head came up as a vague memory stirred. He slapped his thigh again. “Come,” he repeated. The dog immediately came to his side and stood quietly, eager for whatever came next. Rockne bent over