Free Survivalist - 23 - Call To Battle by Jerry Ahern Page B

grabbing his leather jacket when he passed the halltree and pulling it on over the shoulder holster and his bare skin beneath.
    He walked through the house from front to rear, exiting via the kitchen door to the backyard and the dog runs beyond. Raising the oversized Malamutes was not as profitable as raising the smaller pet varieties or the Dobermans, but he had a special interest in these animals.
    They were all up, awakened by the one which barked.
    As he approached, the animal calmed, looked at him.
    There was always one named “Hrothgar” in the family. Not that these Hrothgars were true physical descendants of the original who was the companion of Bjorn Rolvaag, of course. But, for more than a century now, someone in the Rolvaag family raised dogs and named one of those dogs Hrothgar.
    Thornton Rolvaag stroked the muzzle of his Hrothgar, saying to the animal, “Something’s bothering you tonight, isn’t it? Hmm?” This Hrothgar, however, did carry some of the original Hrothgar’s genes, and had the slightest part of wolf in him because of it.
    Hrothgar stood feet planted by the door to his shelter within the run.
    Thornton Rolvaag drew his hand back and walked along the fence to the entrance, opened it, went inside. Hrothgar sat before his shelter now. Rolvaag whisded softly and Hrothgar ran to him. “I should have checked for seismic activity, shouldn’t
    I? When will people learn to understand animals, huh?” He played roughly with the dog’s ears-Hrothgar loved it-and gave the dog a hug.
    What was called in the history books “The Great Conflagration” had one beneficial effect to a man who raised dogs; among the species wiped out was Ctenocephalides canis, the common dog flea.
    “Hrothgar-you go back to sleep and I’ll go do what I should have done in the first place, okay?”
    It was odd how Hrothgar seemed almost capable of understanding, because the dog turned around, winding itself down in a descending spiral until it lay prone beneath the roof of its shelter.
    Thornton Rolvaag left the run, closing the gate, stopped to give a quick look and a quick pet to each of the Malamutes, then returned to the house.
    In the kitchen, he took a glass of water from the tap, drank it, then set the glass on the counter over the dishwasher. His coat still on-the night was chilly-he went toward the front of the house, to his home office.
    As he had anticipated from Hrothgar’s behavior, his computer link to the seismographic equipment at the University indicated the volcano was acting up again.
    As if on cue, the phone rang. He tried to remember where he’d left it, found it beneath a stack of hard copy, picked it up. “Thornton Rolvaag.”
    “Thorn, Betty.”
    Betty Gilder, his professor during his postgraduate days at the University of Hawaii, was these days technically his boss, but more than that, she was a combination mother-figure and good old friend. “I’ve got the stuff coming in over my computer. Hrothgar woke me up.”
    “I think we should hire that dog of yours full-time, Thorn.”
    Til ask him and see what he says,” Rolvaag volunteered.
    “Think we can get around the fact he doesn’t have a PhD?”
    Til loan him mine,” Rolvaag volunteered.
    “You weren’t so flippant when I was your faculty advisor, sonny.”
    “Yes, mother. Want me to come in?” “No. But, do me a favor?” “Sure. What?”
    Betty sounded a little tired. Tm bushed. Ride herd on it for a little while so I can get some sleep. Then get some sleep yourself and come in by noon, okay?”
    “Fine.” Rolvaag lit a cigarette. “Til call you if there’s anything anomalous.”
    “Kiss Ellie and the kids for me.”
    “How about Hrothgar?”
    “Sure,” Betty said.
    “Get some sleep, mom.”
    “Right.”
    The line clicked dead.
    Thornton Rolvaag set the phone down on the desk. He heard the rustiing of clothing behind him, turned slowly toward the sound. It was Ellie, in nightgown, bathrobe and bare feet.
    “Betty,