Pandora's Legion

13

As SSI’s resident rappelling authority, Jason Boscombe drew the not unpleasant duty of instructing Dr. Padgett-Smith in military techniques. Holding a tactical harness, he pointed out the features.

“The main difference from what you probably use is location of the carabiner,” he began. “I think most sport climbers use a waist-level attachment but we put it higher, at the chest or shoulder. That way…”

“You can’t fall backwards with your feet above your head,” she interjected.

“Right.” He liked the way she said cawn’t. Male English accents sounded condescending but female accents were a turn-on. “Uh, would you like to show me how you rig the line?”

She gave him an indulgent smile. “Surely, Mr. Boscombe.” She couldn’t blame him; the operators had to satisfy themselves that their medical charge really did know something about climbing.

Taking the 11mm line and a steel figure eight, she talked her way through the process. “I pull a bight of the rope through the big hole and loop it around the stem; then clip the small hole to my harness with a locking carabiner or two opposing standard ‘biners.” Deftly completing the motion, she pulled the line tight to demonstrate it was safe.

“Good, ma’am. Now…”

“However, there’s another option. On single lines, I can feed the rappel rope through the smaller hole, as long as it doesn’t cause excess friction. I’ve used a petzl stop on occasion, but I don’t suppose you lot have much need for them because you don’t need to go upward, do you?”

Bosco smiled in spite of himself. “No, ma’am. Usually we just blow a hole in the wall and walk up the stairs if we need to.”

Padgett-Smith had to laugh. “Well, I’ll leave that part to you, lad.”

For a moment the ranger was taken aback. He could not decide whether “lad” was an endearment or a put-down. Sometimes it was hard to remember that Dr. Padgett-Smith was ten to twelve years older than most of the SSI men.

“Um. Ma’am, we have use of this tower for an hour or so. I’ve already secured bases at the middle and upper decks so we can rappel down the wall. Once we’ve done that okay, Terry Keegan will lift us to a hundred-foot cliff and we’ll also rappel from the helo with some of the other guys.”

“Oh, splendid. I should enjoy that.”

Bosco gallantly opened the door to the abandoned control tower and allowed his student to precede him up the stairs. He had already noted that she was dressed for comfort, with low boots, hiking shorts, and a T-shirt in addition to helmet and gloves. He decided that the immunologist looked as good from behind as she did from the front.

During the last practice session they decided to race to the ground. Bosco won by four feet, but he had to make a kamikaze descent to do it.

At the end of the day Bosco commiserated with some of his friends. “Well, Dr. Smith sure knows her way around a cliff face. She moves slow, but with economy of motion.”

Breezy nodded. “And she sure looks good doing it.”

“You noticed that, did you?”

“Bosco, in case you haven’t noticed, that lady has a gorgeous pair of buns following her around.”

Bosco punched his partner. “Hey dude, why do you think I let her go first through doors all the time?”

When they returned to the hangar, hardly anybody was around. Bosco inquired and was told to report to the meeting room. It was crowded with anxious SSI operators.

“Well, they beat us to the punch,” Leopole announced. “This morning three men attacked the office in Arlington. They killed six of our people before they were taken down.”

The listeners sat stunned for a microsecond before their emotions kicked in.

“Oh my god!”

“Sons of bitches!”

And a fervent “Holy shit.”

Daniel Foyte raised his voice above the din. “Who were the shooters?”

“Evidently they were black Muslims with a naturalized Saudi. That’s all we…”

“To hell with them, Colonel. Who’s dead?” Breezy Brezyinski shouted to be heard.

Leopole raised a hand, motioning for quiet. “Most of you don’t know the KIAs, but here’s the list: Harriet Billingsley, Tom Grant, Becky Nielsen — she was brand new — Aaron Marks, Ray Treater, and Chuck Werblin. One of the electronics consultants, Jay Poor, is in critical condition. Sandy Carmichael was wounded but she’s recovering. A few others also were hurt, including Dave Main, who was in the office at the time.”

Steve Lee found his voice. “By God, it sounds like old Ray took some with him.” Lee, an army officer, admired Ray Treater as a Vietnam Marine.

“I’m afraid not, Steve. Omar talked to HQ right after we got the email. Details are still sketchy, but nearly all the shooting was done by Sandy and the admiral.”

Gunny Foyte exchanged wide-eyed glances with Lee. “Well I’ll be go to hell.”

Leopole sought out Carolyn Padgett-Smith and found her in the third row. She returned his look with a level gaze. I am woman, hear me roar!

Leopole continued. “All right, pipe down. I’ll pass the word when we get more info. But for now, we need to keep our heads in the game, gentlemen. It’s obvious that they know more about us than we do about them. Major Khan is investigating but I doubt he’ll be able to learn much — it’s impossible to keep our presence a secret. We knew that all along. We just didn’t have a way to anticipate they’d take the offense in our home court.”

Lee stood up. “Frank, aren’t we likely to get hit right here?”

“Yes, that’s possible. It’s why I deployed most of my team as perimeter security during this meeting. We’ll draw up a watch bill for additional sentries and rovers until further notice. Khan also is arranging for some reliable Pakis to help out.”

“How do we know we can trust them, sir?” Foyte voiced the tacit concern of many SSI operators.

“All of them are vetted by Major Khan and our attaché office. But we’re spreading out to avoid bunching up. From now on we’ll bunk each team in a separate building.”

Michael Derringer made his way around the workmen patching holes in the walls and replacing shattered glass. The noise of power tools and the bustle of strangers in SSI spaces upset his routine but not his equanimity. He still had work to do.

Derringer walked past Wolf’s office and paused a moment. He set down a zippered case that drew the domestic ops chief’s attention. “Packing more artillery, Mike?”

“Damn right I am. When I was fumbling through my drawer for some birdshot the other day, I realized that I was as personally unprepared as we were organizationally. Now I have some leverage, but I doubt I’ll ever need it.”

“What’d you get?”

“You know me, I’m a shotgunner. Remington 870 with an extended tube and poly-choke barrel. It takes eight rounds of double-ought buck with six more in a butt cuff.”

“Have you shot it yet?”

“Sure did. With Hornady Tactical it patterns eight inches at fifteen yards.”

Wolf swiveled in his chair. “I guess I need some range time myself. I still can’t believe I missed that guy twice.”

Derringer grinned. “Maybe that’s why it’s the Federal Bureau of Investigation rather than the Bureau of Marksmanship.”

The ex-fed regarded his friend and employer. “You look better, Mike. How you feeling?”

He shrugged eloquently. “Oh, I’m all right. Not four-point-oh but good enough to get underway.” After a moment he added, “You know, Joe, I spent a good part of my career training to kill submarines. Maybe a hundred fifty men at once. It hardly occurred to me I’d have to shoot somebody in the face.”

Wolf leaned back, hands behind his head. “Yeah, I know. Even in my work…” His focus went soft, as if seeing something beyond the wall. Then he gathered himself. “I’ve been thinking, Mike. We know why those bastards were here. We just can’t prove it. This was in effect a terrorist attack on American soil.” He spread his hands in frustration. “But there’s no way the government will admit it. Not publicly.”

Derringer decided to take advantage of his colleague’s contacts. He shut the door and sat down. “Joe, you know that any of us could be a target for kidnap or murder, especially those of us on the masthead.” He hefted the zippered bag. “This is fine at the office or home. But what about traveling? What about just between here and the District?”

“You mean, packing in the car? Going to a restaurant? That sort of thing?”

“Exactly.”

Wolf said, “Well, you can get a concealed carry permit in Virginia. But as for the District…” He spread his hands again.

“Yeah, I know. Get caught with a firearm and you’re in deep trouble. It’s absurd! Every gang banger has a gun but their victims are prosecuted for owning one. Are we supposed to go unarmed when there’s a specific threat against us?”

“Well… legally, technically, yes.”

“And another thing. We do business in government offices all the time. The so-called security people at the metal detectors are Barney Fifes, and you know it. But they carry sidearms while I go to jail if I’m found with a can of Mace.”

“Right again, chief.”

“So what can we do? Even if we get federal bodyguards — U.S. marshals or whatever. That’s no solution. What’s the worst that could happen if they screw up and get me killed? Maybe they’d lose their job. Not much incentive, is there?”

Wolf felt defensive at the implied criticism. “Well, Mike, you know, I’d like to think that our people in federal law enforcement are all professionals.”

“Well, I’d like to think I can defend myself against the next hit squad that comes gunning for me. So we’re back to Square One. What can we do, if anything?”

“I’ll make some inquiries, Mike. I don’t know if I can do anything, but I’ll try. It’s going to take time, though.”

“Time’s short and the clock’s running, Joe.”

“Well, I do have one immediate suggestion.”

“Yes?”

Wolf grinned. “Don’t go anyplace without Sandy.”

“The Crusaders have been struck in their nest.”

Ali received the word with dispassionate interest. He turned to Kassim and said, “Tell me.”

“We have monitored press reports from Washington. Our operatives entered the headquarters of this… Strategic Solutions… and did much execution.” His tone changed as he added, “All three now rest with God.”

The Pakistani knew that his Syrian colleague was not devout, and briefly wondered at the man’s choice of words. Small matter — he serves our cause better than most. “What damage was done, Kassim?”

“At least six Americans were killed and others wounded. Damage to the facility is unknown but said to be extensive.”

Absorbing that information, Ali reckoned that it was good news but not decisive. Unless… “Who were the Crusaders that were killed?”

Kassim shrugged. “We have the names from the electronic sources but they mean nothing to me.” He cocked his head. “Do you have knowledge of their leaders?”

“No, but it should be a simple matter to compare the corporate managers with the dead. Should it not?”

Kassim realized that he could have gained that information before making the return trek to the border. Ali was nothing if not thorough, but this matter of pulling information off the internet was a vexation. Kassim understood radios and small arms and explosives — and loyalty and ruthlessness and courage. Little else had mattered in his life.

“Doctor, shall I return to our safe house? I can obtain the information you desire and return in…”

“No, brother.” Ali waved a placating hand. “Do it on your next scheduled trip. Meanwhile, what of the Crusaders in Quetta?”

“My men now watch them day and night. They have not moved. When they do, we will know.”

Ali rested his chin on his folded hands. Kassim recognized the sign: the doctor was thinking. Finally he said, “I believe we should issue them an invitation. Call for two trustworthy men.”

Kassim straightened, his face now drawn at the implied criticism. “Doctor, all of my men are trustworthy.”

“Of course, brother. Of course.”