Everyone having sex is at least 18. This story is a work of fiction. I made it all up. Check reality at the door and enjoy it for what it is. Special thanks to goducks111 for his help and making this a better story.
This story is a continuation of "The Rescuer." It's a good read on its own, and it helps set up this story. It's not required reading, but as I said, it's a good read. I took liberties with the children. At the end of the Rescuer, I didn't anticipate this story. The quantity, parents, and sexes didn't fit this story well, so I changed the names, sex, who they were born to, and in what order they were born. This has zero effect on the original story and a considerable impact on this story. After all, it's just fiction anyway.
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Chapter 1 - Welcome Home
Twenty years have elapsed since The Rescuer story ended.
Our children are all coming home for an extended Christmas leave. Half don't deserve it; they haven't been in the military long enough. However, their old man (me) is a bit of a legend on their base. My children complain that they get special treatment. Generals salute them! You see, 20 years ago I saved the United States president's daughter, stopped some annoying smugglers, and oh yeah, I halted the taking of our base and its nuclear missile tips by Russian drug smugglers. Long ago, I started up a unit of snipers that were assisted with their dogs. We made an excellent rescue unit. Alone and then, as a group, me and my unit were credited with hundreds of rescues.
My favorite rescue was the year I was called into the mess tent to save the base from a lousy meatloaf. Virginia was mad at me for months. Even she looks back and laughs now. I help with emergency procedures, emergency preparedness, and help those dealing with death. My days of carrying a rifle are done. Well, other than for sport.
Our family business provides hunting, fishing, and horseback riding trips. Twenty-two years ago, we added the cabins by the lake, a dock, some planes, boats, and a horse-riding adventure for families or wives and children of the men that go out hunting or fishing. We have a dog farm that provides dogs for the US and Canadian armies as well as making excellent sled dogs.
I mentioned my children. I gave all of them names when they were born. They each acquired a nickname that they now go by. My first son with Kim (my sister and wife) is Hunter. If there ever was a more accurate name, I have not come across it. He is the oldest, and like the others, enlisted as an officer. They have never had a soldier that was better trained than Hunter. He is the second-best shot in the world. Many consider me the best, does it matter? He can easily teach sniper school as he is #2. His dog Zeus is smart and by far the biggest of all dogs.
Sara and I had Bonnie. I have no idea where her name comes from. Like her mother, she is a nurse practitioner. Her mother trained her from the crib in medicine while I taught her to be a soldier and shoot a sniper rifle; she went through medical school in two years. Her attention to detail is impressive. Her dog, Chip, is an average dog but the most protective.
Mary and I had two children. Her children Bubba and Porsche, have dogs, Jack, and Jill. They (the children) are good shots (the dogs don't shoot); I trained them. Their dogs are the best trained. I believe if they tried, they could teach those dogs to write. It's genuinely remarkable what they can do. Bubba is the enforcer of the group. He likes to fight hand to hand and use his size and strength to intimidate people. He has been working with the base for years. He was a very skilled child. All my children in one way or another are. Porsche likes speed, particularly boats, horses, airplanes, and helicopters. Funny, he's not so big on cars.
On the first day of basic training, the other cadets teased his sister for having a dog with her. The Sargent giggled but made no move.
Bubba yelled at all the privates, "There are six of us total with dogs, me and three others who are two years older, we are additional instructors. These are trained attack dogs. Say anything about one of my sisters, and you will be lucky if the dog gets to you before I do. All six of us have the latest in US weapons technology and use a .50 caliber round. Each of us routinely hit the bull's eye nearly every shot at 1000 yards. We grew up shooting moving and stationary targets.
"I will use my dad's favorite line, any place, any time, any amount, fixed or moving. Hunter is the best shot in the world right now. Our old man is wearing down; we still let him think he is #1."
Instantly the Sargent asks, "How is your old man? Damn, the stories I have heard about him. Listen up, you punks. These four (Bonnie and Porsche are two years behind), all came into the service as officers. Since they were born, their old man has been training them to shoot and be soldiers. You don't mess with them. They are the best shots, and all six will be in the Canine Rescue unit. Generals salute them. That's how much they admire Hunter's and Bonnie's father."
Pam and Paula are Penny's daughters, twins. She named them with Russian names, they changed them to something Canadian and are happier for it. Well, as you might expect, their dogs, April and Kathy, love horses, and her girls are the best riders of the group by far.
Bonnie is already in shape for basic training. Bonnie and Porsche each excelled and were soon leaders of their groups. Nobody ever gave them a hard time again; the dogs don't have a sense of humor.
Immediately on entering the service, my children are taken out to run missions, even during basic training. Phil still leads groups, but he is more like me now, leaving it to the young ones. He started my children out in pairs for doing missions; he gave them easy stuff to help build their confidence. There just isn't anything like a real mission.
Hunter is better than I am in the forest. He walks silently and blends into the woods much better than I ever could. He spent the summer with my old CIA friends a few years ago, and I think they taught him some tricks. He won't talk about it.
It's day two of our holiday when we get an urgent phone call. Our old Eskimo friends are being harassed by smugglers. Since these are old friends and there is an unknown force, I take my rifle and Mini Runt (my dog). This one is even smaller than his father but much smarter. I figure I'll help interview them.
After loading the helicopter, everyone is looking at me like I am going to say something. It's Bubba that spoke up first, "Um, dad. Are we really going to land next to our friends? This doesn't feel right."
Porsche is next, "Fuck you. Took you long enough to say something. No way an Eskimo goes to the military and complains about smugglers. I doubt they even know what a smuggler is."
Paula asks Hunter, "Why don't you seem concerned? Do your magic eyes sees the guys standing on the ice, waiting for us?"
The child (Hunter) smiles, "As I say, keep your eyes open, and the world reveals itself. When we loaded into the helicopter, dad gave the pilot three fingers and then did a squiggly line going down. Sign language for three kilometers South."
Bonnie asks, "You immediately knew?"
I reply, "Porsche had it right on both points. That's why I am here - to help advise. This time, if they shoot back at you, something you have not experienced before, I can help."
I speak to the pilots, "I don't want you anywhere near us until it's safe, we'll call you in. If you don't have more men on the way, get some up here now but hold them back until we call them in."
We land, and I spread the children out. Hunter is closest to the camp. We move forward carefully. We find no traps, no sentries, nothing. Their camp is more than 500 yards from the tree line. I look up and down the coastline, the forest line, and in the village. Nothing. In the center of the camp is a single young female tied to a stake.
I was going to have my son look around, but he is already gone. I hate it when he does that. Bubba motions for everyone to dig in and hide. Paula is on the far end; her dog Kathy catches a scent and points. Sure enough, on the high ground, she finds a sniper.
Softly on the radio, she whispers, "Six snipers and about twenty in the bushes."
I radio our pilots, "Send the ground troops in as soon as you can, the last kilometer they better be silent; they have twenty machine guns waiting."
The pilot responds, "ETA one hour."
