The doors of the Coronado Naval Base Emergency Veterinary Clinic slammed open at 2130 hours.
Two military police officers backed through first, boots skidding on tile, uniforms streaked with dust and dried blood. Between them, strapped to a sagging gurney, was a Belgian Malinois. Not barking. Not growling. Just watching—every shadow, every movement, every hand that reached toward him—like a bomb waiting for someone to trip the wire.
The dog’s muscles coiled beneath tan-and-black fur matted with dirt. His eyes tracked the room with mechanical precision, scanning faces, calculating distances, measuring threats. A leather muzzle hung half-destroyed around his snout. Blood dripped in slow lines from his rear left flank, painting dark streaks across the white canvas beneath him.
“Call sign Titan,” one of the MPs said, chest heaving. “Shrapnel wound, rear leg. Found him three clicks from extraction, dragging himself through the sand. Refuses approach from anyone.”
Titan snarled suddenly. Controlled. Deliberate. The sound cut through the room like a blade.
The muzzle tore completely free with one brutal jerk. Foam flecked his jaws. His lips pulled back to reveal teeth trained to crush bone.
A nurse near the supply cabinet yelped and stumbled backward.
“Jesus Christ,” muttered Dr. Patricia Morland, a woman in her mid-forties with silver threading through her auburn hair. She pulled on surgical gloves with practiced efficiency. “What kind of dog is this?”
“Tier One asset,” the second MP replied. “K9 from Naval Special Warfare. His handler went KIA six days ago on the Syrian border. He’s been like this since extraction.”
A junior tech stepped forward with a harness sling, voice pitched high and sweet. “It’s okay, buddy. We just want to help.”
Titan lunged.
Every muscle fired with surgical precision, launching his frame forward hard enough to make the gurney slide across the tile. His jaws snapped shut on empty air exactly where the technician’s hand had been a heartbeat earlier.
She screamed. The harness clattered to the floor.
“Back. Everyone back!”
The room erupted into controlled chaos. Staff scattered. Equipment rattled. Metal instruments hit the floor in cascading echoes.
Senior Chief Garrett Hutchkins, a barrel-chested man in his late forties, stood near the doorway and surveyed the scene with earned calm.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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