Pandora's Legion

18

“Whatchutink, Gunny?”

Foyte shot a frosty DI glare at Bosco, then turned back to the compact Zeiss binoculars. Ordinarily Foyte would not choose to affiliate with the brash ex-ranger, but Bosco was SSI’s rappel master. And the cliff face before them screamed for rappelling expertise.

“I think there’s only one frigging way into that cave,” Foyte allowed, fine-tuning the focus knob. Even from half a mile away, the gaping entrance looked large — Foyte estimated its width at thirty meters or more — but the approach offered any occupants a beautiful field of fire. The slight incline would expose attackers to both direct and grazing fire, depending on the defenders’ deployment.

Foyte rolled onto his back and eased himself off the narrow saddleback. Bosco followed, notebook in hand. At the bottom they consulted with the others.

“It’s like we thought, Colonel.” Foyte addressed Leopole. “No way to get close without being seen unless they’re drunk or asleep. Boscombe’s sketched the layout. It’s gotta be a vertical assault.”

Bosco laid his notebook on a rock so the others could see. “I think we can get two teams down there at once. I’ll know more when I re-con the top, but there’s at least one good-sized boulder to secure a petzl stop. I’d prefer a tree but there’s none in sight. The other team may have to rope off of some expanding bolts. If the rock over there is like this stuff here, it’ll hold.”

Leopole nodded. “Roger that. So we’re talking about eight assaulters?”

“Right,” Bosco replied. He only used sir when joking. It’s great being a civilian. “We might consider another assault element to attack on foot, but they’d have to cover some open ground, so they’d only go after the rappellers secure the mouth.”

Foyte caught Leopole’s attention. “That makes sense to me, Colonel. We don’t know how big that cave is or how many people might be there.”

“All right. That’s eight men from the top and six or eight from below. The rest of Red Team will provide security so that should do.”

Frank Leopole conducted the final briefing that afternoon. He stood before a large sketch of the cave, showing the top of the hill and the approaches. The operators were seated on the ground or standing for a better view. “All right, people, listen up. Paki intel says this cave complex is currently being used. Major Khan passed reports to us indicating recent activity, so we treat it as hot.” He pointed out the terrain features. “Here’s the drill. Because of the exposed terrain leading to the cave, we have to assault down the cliff face to achieve surprise.” Audible groans skittered through the audience but he ignored them. Tracing the distance from the cave to the crest, he continued. “It’s about sixty feet from the top, and we’ll use two teams: one on each side of the mouth. You rappellers — remember to take your leg bags so you don’t drop the ends of your lines and warn the gomers inside. I’ll coordinate by radio so we’ll have a comm and equipment check before we go. Bosco is running the show on top; Gunny will take the ground element.” He nodded at Foyte. “We go at 0715.”

Breezy waved a hand. “Sir, wouldn’t we have a better chance of surprising them if we went at dawn? Maybe catch ‘em praying or something?”

“Ordinarily I’d agree with you,” Leopole said. “It’s always advisable to take advantage of enemy habit patterns. But none of us have ever worked this area, and we can’t afford to go stumbling around in the dark. Also, I don’t want to spend any more time than necessary scouting the terrain. If we get caught in the open, we’re in deep serious.”

Jeff Malten called from the back row. “Sir, do we take bio suits?”

“Negative. There’s no reason to believe there’s any hazard in this remote area, unless it’s naturally occurring, and there’s no indication of that. But Dr. Padgett-Smith will be on hand in case you find anything suspicious, and Dr. Mohammed will conduct the interrogation.” He surveyed the crowd. “Anything else?”

Nobody responded, so Leopole wrapped it up. “Remember the objective, people: we want prisoners. Live prisoners.” A few door-kickers chuckled at the implication. “Just don’t take any unnecessary risks. Any POWs or casualties will be air-evaced back to base but Keegan and our helos will keep out of earshot until we need them.”

Foyte stood up to complete the briefing. “Listen up! We saddle up at 0500 and drive within two klicks of the objective. The rappelling teams won’t move into position until the security element is in place, so the schedule might slip somewhat. If so, Colonel Leopole will coordinate by radio.” He glanced at his watch. “Equipment check in three-zero mikes, then chow. Let’s move!”

“Comm check. Control is up.”

Leopole listened for the responses. They came promptly over the lightweight headsets that the operators wore.

“Red is up.” Jeffrey Malten was crisply professional.

“White is up.” Somehow Bosco’s laid-back tone belied his attentiveness.

“Blue is up.” Foyte’s ground assault team was ready.

Atop the rocky tor, Bosco had secured 150 feet of yellow assault line around a large boulder fifty meters down the reverse slope. He was confident that the weight of four men would not dislodge it, especially since its bulk lay in the opposite direction of the rappel. Next he screwed two expanding bolts into the rock above the other side of the cave mouth: a primary and a backup. Then he cinched them down tight with a crescent wrench from his backpack.

With the bases secure, Bosco and Breezy attached four-hole extension plates to each rope with extension lines off each plate. The eight operators ran their lines through the carabiners on their tactical harnesses, and Bosco checked each for tension as the assaulters leaned back, allowing the gear to take their weight. They were ready in minutes.

Breezy’s team took the left side of the cave entrance; Jeff Malten’s the right. Besides the rappelling gear, each operator wore a headset beneath his helmet plus goggles, gloves, and tactical vest. Most had MP-5s with suppressors and lasers or lights; all had pistols with lights. Malten favored a fourteen-inch Benelli shotgun. Every weapon was loaded and safed.

Breezy also had his medical kit.

After the two teams lined up shoulder to shoulder, Bosco tacitly queried them. He got eight thumbs-up.

“Control, White’s a go.”

Leopole heard the quiet statement and keyed his mike. “Blue?”

“Blue’s a go.” Foyte’s ground team was in position, cocked and locked, eighty meters from the entrance.

“All teams, countdown begins.” Leopole paused, then initiated the process. “Five, four, three, two…”

He waited five seconds — an automatic hold in case a last-second glitch developed. Hearing nothing, he continued. “One… execute!”

As double insurance that the ball started on time, Bosco pointed two fingers of each hand at the rappelling teams. On “execute” six operators pushed off with their legs, dropping toward the earthen rock sixty feet below. The more expert made the descent in three drops, braking themselves by extending their rope hands outward, increasing friction on the double loop in the steel figure-eights hooked to their harnesses.

Three men from each team hit the ground within a few seconds of one another, leveling their weapons and scanning for targets. Almost immediately the fourth man from each team arrived, covering the others who disengaged from the ropes. Without a word, the six initial assaulters then stalked forward while the backups slipped the lines from their harnesses.

Eight shooters were up and ready in less than ten seconds. By then, Foyte’s “legs” were hustling across the open space, ready to secure the entrance or provide reinforcements inside.

Breezy and Malten led their teams on either side of the cave entrance, each man scanning left or right, high or low. They found that ambient light was ample within thirty meters of the wide entrance, gradually diminishing as they hunted farther in.

The point men were careful to watch for booby traps or warning devices. Finding none, they proceeded another ten meters when Breezy stopped. He touched his nose with his left hand, keeping a firing grip on his MP-5. Behind him, Delmore nodded. He smells something. Breezy pantomimed eating; the others caught the scent. He looked over at Malten, who repeated the gesture. They’re having breakfast.

The cave narrowed slightly, curving left. As briefed, Breezy’s left-hand team stopped in place, allowing Malten’s to search the curve. With his short-barreled Benelli at eye level, Malten began slicing the pie, advancing a step at a time, shoulder to shoulder with his partner.

Malten stopped abruptly. Breezy thought: He sees something. Malten’s left hand went to his chest, mimicking a child’s gun with thumb and forefinger. Danger, close. Then, with his left hand on the shotgun’s foregrip, he took the next step.

Four shooters swung around the rough-hewn corner, confronting an astonished Pakistani with an ancient Enfield slung over his shoulder. The man’s eyes went saucer-wide, his mouth forming a pink oval in his thick beard. Breezy’s partner took six steps forward, lifted his left index finger to his mouth, then motioned the man forward. As the bewildered gunman complied, he was relieved of his weapon and escorted to the rear. There he was gagged, frisked, and hands bound with tie wraps. The last operator in line shoved him toward the entrance and turned him over to Foyte’s Blue Team. The gunny then sent two men inside to handle any additional prisoners.

The smell of a cook fire grew stronger but there was little smoke. Breezy surmised that the cave had some sort of natural ventilation. He continued his methodical advance until the cavern widened. Then, from the darker approach, he saw a well-lit area with several men talking, cooking, and eating. He did a quick head count and raised his left hand: five fingers followed by one.

The cooking area was roughly twelve meters by twenty with bags and boxes stacked along one wall. Most of the men appeared armed. Breezy made a fist, raised it to ear level, then made a gesture like pulling a chain.

Six operators stepped into the open area, those on either side checking for laterals off the main corridor.

Breezy and Malten had been briefed on the Urdu phrase for “hands up.” Neither could recall “laasuna portakra.” Wondering at the silence, two other operators shouted the phrase in English. Then Delmore spoke the surrender demand: “Taslim shal”

The Pakistanis looked up in stunned amazement. A few immediately raised their hands; one sank to his knees and began wailing.

Two went for their guns. Phil Green shouted “Wodariga!” Stop!

Breezy and Delmore put their front sights on the nearest man, who raised his AK on its sling. They pressed their triggers simultaneously. Breezy had selected three-round burst; Delmore went full auto. Between them, the suppressed HKs spat out eight 9mm rounds. Six struck flesh, punching small red gouts in the man’s khaki vest. He dropped the AK, half spun on one foot, reeled awkwardly, and collapsed. He rolled a few feet, then stopped, holding his belly.

Other Pakistanis began shouting or sobbing. Most went to their knees.

Malten instantly placed his Benelli’s bead sight on the other shooter’s midsection. The ex-SEAL fired twice, and at twelve meters thirteen of the eighteen double-ought pellets carved a ten-inch circle in the target. The man went down hard, twitching and screaming. The screams turned to loud, thick gurgles, then ceased.

Most of the other hostiles now were face down, hands over their heads. Green, the former cop, thought, They know the drill. They’ve done this before.

As the SSI men secured the prisoners, Breezy made a preliminary call to Leopole. “Control, this is White. Over.”

Only static responded. Breezy said, “We’re too far in.” He directed one of Foyte’s men to return to the entrance and radio a status report, adding, “And tell Frank we’re still searching.”

Fifteen minutes later most of the operators were back at the entrance with their prisoners. Breezy met Leopole, who wanted to see the results up close.

“What’ve we got, Brezyinski?”

“Five tagged, two bagged, Skipper.” Breezy knew that Frank Leopole disliked being called “Skipper.”

“Any sign of bio gear?”

Breezy shook his head. “Negative. I was talking with Jeff and Ken. They don’t think these gooners are al Qaeda. I think I agree.”

Leopole frowned. “Explain.”

“Look at their gear, their whole setup. No heavy metal — no RPGs or belt-fed stuff. Some of ‘em only have bolt-action rifles. They had piss-poor security, and for Islamic fanatics they gave up pretty damn quick.”

“So what do you think they’re up to?”

“Well, Skip, there’s evidently some drugs and other contraband but nothing like we want.”

“Are you saying they’re just smugglers?”

“Looks like, Boss.”

Breezy turned away, intending to start an inventory, when he bumped into Malten. “Hey, Jeff, how ya doin’?”

Malten patted his Benelli. “I was just thinking. Four years in the teams and I never popped a cap. Now I come ten thousand miles to whack one sorry gooner just so I can say I scored.” He shook his head. “Hell of a cover charge to get into this club!”

As the prisoners were led away by some of Major Khan’s men, Omar Mohammed consulted his notes. “It’s as Brezyinski suspected, Colonel. They are smugglers, though one of them has been wanted by local authorities for some months. He was a suspect in a couple of murders.”

Leopole nodded. “So that’s why he went for his weapon.”

“Surely. At that point he had nothing to lose.”

The ops officer tipped back his hat. “All right, then. We need to talk to Khan and maybe Buster Hardesty. Obviously these guys have nothing to do with bioterrorism. Looks like we were snookered… I mean…”

“I know what snookered is, Colonel.” Mohammed managed to excise most of the derision from his voice. “But it could be merely the result of poor intelligence.”

“Well, either way, we need to know. And damn fast.”