Pandora's Legion

17

Blue Team was deployed along a narrow crest overlooking the likely cave complex. It was chilly in the morning air at that elevation, but most of Dan Foyte’s operators were dressed for mobility rather than warmth. They knew they might have to move fast.

Foyte glassed the largest entrance from 450 meters out, then handed his optic to Khan. After a few moments, the Pakistani returned the binoculars. He nodded. “Yes, that is a good spot to begin.”

The scouts returned to the assembly area and Foyte called for a huddle. “Okay, here’s the drill.” He had checked off each item in his prebrief review though he knew the items cold.

“After we establish security and scout the area, we’ll make a go-no-go decision. If we go, the entry team will search as far in as possible.” He looked at the team leader, a former SEAL named Darryl Logue. “Darryl, keep me informed of your progress. We won’t know about radio reception until you get inside, but if we lose contact for more than a minute or so, come on out and we’ll reposition.”

Logue nodded, working on a stick of gum. “When will you want to bring Mrs… ah, Doctor Smith in?”

CPS shot a discreet grin at Foyte. She had long since accepted most Americans’ inability to grasp hyphenated names.

“We’ll do that only if there’s sign of recent activity. Otherwise, we won’t waste the time. We can start looking in other places.”

“Gotcha, Gunny.” Logue glanced over his shoulder. “Entry team, on me.”

Foyte deployed the perimeter team below the ridge line to avoid unseemly silhouettes. He decided on a compromise between terrain and tactics, placing his two snipers to cover either side of the cave entrance, eighty meters out, and the other three men watching their rear and flanks. He kept Dr. Padgett-Smith nearby, noting that she watched the balletic actions of Logue’s team with interest.

The tactical choreography unfolded. Hank Haywood and Jake Swetman were on point. They entered the mouth of the cave, within arm’s reach of one another, advancing in a splay-footed gait they called “duck walking.” Foyte watched approvingly as they alternately searched high and low, using the lights on their suppressed MP-5s to look into the recesses and darkest corners. They kept their night vision goggles up on their helmets for now. If necessary, they would lower the NVGs farther in.

Still in sight of the security team, Swetman pointed downward with his left hand, making a walking motion with two fingers. Foyte read the tacit shorthand. Footprints.

The last pair “pulled drag,” watching the rear. Jim Boyle and Joel Hall had practiced “backwards dancing” until it was second nature.

Forty seconds after the “drag” team disappeared, the cave erupted.

“Oh my god.” Omar looked up from the phone as Leopole entered the office.

“What is it?” Leopole asked.

“We lost half of Blue Team.”

“What?”

Lee slumped in his chair. “Apparently the cave was wired. When the entry team was about twenty meters in, the ragheads blew it.”

Leopole felt an emotional smack to his consciousness. He grappled with his professionalism to focus on the consequences. He heard his own voice. “Jesus. Who?”

Omar checked his scrawled notes. “Boyle, Cashius, Haywood, Hall, Logue, and Swetman.”

“Carolyn?” Leopole realized it was the first time he had used her given name.

“No, she’s all right.”

Leopole thought for a moment, forcing the anger and grief to the back of his mind. He had conducted that exercise before. “Can they recover the bodies?”

“They don’t know yet, Frank. The security team’s working with the Pakis to see about excavating.”

“Well, we can’t do much good with six guys operating independently. Let’s transfer the others to Red and White.”

“Alright. I’ll send Hendricks, Norton, and O’Neil to White. Gunny Foyte can bring Champlin, Santo, and Reynolds to us.”

Leopole scratched his close-shaven head. “Omar, you know what this means…”

“Yes.” The training officer looked at the former marine. “They knew we were coming.”

“You think we were set up?”

Omar shrugged. “If we weren’t, the results are the same. Maybe they dropped some false intel; maybe they just knew where we’d search.”

Leopole stalked toward the door. “Frank, where you headed?” Omar asked.

“I’m gonna talk to Khan. Up close and personal.”

Michael Derringer gripped his bedside phone. He reached for his night-stand notebook and began writing, forcing himself to focus on the words he transcribed from the familiar voice rendered scratchy from eight thousand miles away. He still blinked from the unwelcome light that probed his sleepy eyes but his mind was wholly, violently awake. “Repeat the last two, Omar.” He looked at the freshly inked names: Logue and Swetman. He tried to put a face to each; he could not.

After Mohammed hung up, Derringer rolled back on his pillows. His wife’s manicured hands went round his neck, her graying hair against his cheek. “It’s no good trying to sleep, is it?”

“No, Karen, it’s not. No good at all.”

Major Khan appeared at Leopole’s improvised office early the next morning. In contrast to his usual appearance, the Pakistani looked unusually rumpled. Leopole assessed him at a glance and concluded that he had been up most of the night.

“Please come in, Major.” The American had not tried crossing the line with his colleague. Theirs was still a professional relationship; first names would only come in time, if at all.

Khan pulled up a chair and sat down, visibly tired but erect. He rubbed his mustache, then leveled his gaze at Leopole. “Colonel, I have investigated the tragedy that your team suffered. At least to the extent possible. I believe that I have an explanation, but…”

Leopole leaned forward, hands folded on the desk. “Yes?”

“But it is not meant as an excuse. You understand? You acted on my information. You took me at my word, and…” Khan’s voice choked. For a moment Leopole wondered if the Paki would begin crying.

“Of course, Major. Of course I understand.”

“Thank you.” Khan cleared his throat, regaining his composure. “I, ah, talked to my sources several times.” His obsidian eyes hinted at some severe “conversations” during the night. “What I believe happened is this:

“Military intelligence works with various agencies, especially where terrorism is concerned. Police and border guards deal with smugglers and that necessarily involves those who cross back and forth into Afghanistan.”

Leopole nodded. “Yes, terrorists and smugglers are interrelated.”

“Correct. After some preliminary — interviews — I suspected that one of my police contacts was too well informed on certain aspects of al Qaeda operations. I mean, he mentioned a sensitive detail that he would not ordinarily know.” Khan shrugged. “The sin of pride, Colonel Leopole. Some men reveal themselves in order to appear intelligent or influential.

“Anyway, under further interrogation he, uh, admitted that he might have ‘accidentally’ provided information to people who had no authority for such things.” Khan licked his lips.

“Would you like some water, Major Khan? Or maybe some tea?”

The Pakistani wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, then nodded. “Water, please.” As Leopole poured from the bottle on his desk, he wondered what had transpired in the past several hours that would make an experienced operator like Khan so unsettled. The erstwhile Marine decided not to pursue that subject.

Khan set down the empty glass and nodded his thanks. “After that interrogation, I contacted two trusted colleagues and told them what I had learned. They checked their sources, which took some time— most of the rest of the night. They called me just before I came here.

“This is my assessment: a mid-level customs official was eager to please his superiors with arrest of certain smugglers who have long evaded capture. In his haste to succeed, he worked without authority to consult with other sources, some of which had low-level security ratings or none at all. From there the trail grows cold, but I believe that at some point the terrorists connected me to your operation and — help me — seeded false information.”

“Oh, planted. They planted false information.”

“Quite so.” Khan nodded. “That was the information I provided to you. And I am at fault for not checking it more thoroughly.”

Leopole leaned back. “And we — that is, I — decided to act on your information, Major. I suggest that we take this as a lesson learned, and move on.” He paused for effect. “What do you say?”

Khan almost smiled. “I say, thank you, Colonel Leopole. From my heart.”

Kassim rapped on the door, greeting Ali with a rare grin. “Praise be to Allah!”

The doctor realized that it must be very good news indeed if the Syrian were becoming devout. “And to you, brother, for bringing His Word.”

Kassim almost executed a jig despite his false foot. “Our messages produced results. Several of the Crusaders have been sent to hell.”

“The Americans came to the cave?”

“They did, my friend. They did indeed. At least five — maybe six.”

Ali gestured toward a rude chair. “Be seated, Kassim. Tell me more.” He reached for the teapot and began to pour.

“It went much as we planned, but better than most plans actually produce.” Kassim related the trail of hints and clues that had drawn the SSI team to the desired cave complex. “Awan and Nisar — the ones you met — waited with twelve kilos of explosives. One operative would have been sufficient but I convinced them that both had reached the time for Paradise.”

“Blessings be upon them.” Ali mouthed the words more perfunctorily than usual. His accomplice noted that the Samaritan tended toward minimizing such sacrifices of late. “Did the cave collapse?”

“My observer says that the mouth fell in. He watched the Americans trying to dig through the rubble for quite some time. Then he left when he heard a helicopter. But he counted at least five men entering the cave.”

Ali sipped some tea, not really tasting it. He was thinking downstream again, trying to stay at least one step ahead. “We will learn the actual number of dead infidels shortly. An event such as this cannot be kept secret for long — not at Quetta.”

Kassim leaned forward on the table. “Of course, this will only enrage the Crusaders. They will come after us harder than ever.”

“That is certain, brother.” Ali smiled.

The Hip air-taxied to the designated spot, then set down in response to the ramp director’s signal. Terry Keegan allowed the helo’s weight to settle onto its wheels, then began to shut down. Nobody approached the Mi-17 until the rotor nearly stopped. There was no hurry.

Leopole, Mohammed, and some others walked to the aircraft as an unmarked truck parked nearby. The Pakistani crew chief opened the helo’s door and turned back inside.

The first body bag was handed down.

SSI operators carefully loaded their six friends in the truck, which drove to the company’s hangar for temporary storage. Rustam Khan and Buster Hardesty had arranged for access to a civilian mortuary. They did not want a military facility to handle the casualties for security reasons. A certain handling fee offered better security than military protocol.

Padgett-Smith felt somehow obliged to witness the operation. She had seen the men enter the cave seconds before they died, but now with a start she noted that four of the rubber bags were marked “Human remains: nonviewable.”

Leopole appeared at her side. She inclined her body slightly toward him; he resisted the impulse to hug her. After an awkward silence he intoned, “It’s always like this. Sadness and anger.”

She nodded slowly, unable to turn her gaze from the six forms. “I suppose it must be.” Finally she looked up at him. “My god, Frank. Whatever will you tell their families?”

The former Marine emptied his lungs, his cheeks sagging inward. “Fortunately, I don’t have to handle that chore. The admiral probably will do it. He always has in the past.”

Padgett-Smith worked up the nerve to ask, “Have there been many others?”

He fixed his gaze on her. “This almost doubles the previous figure. It’s not many, considering all the man-days we’ve logged over the years. But if you’re the one going home in a box…”

“Yes.” She touched his arm.