Pandora's Legion

2

The doctor known as Ali swerved his Volkswagen bus to avoid potholes in the road, which he thought probably owed its origins to a caravan track across the Toba Kakar Range bordering Afghanistan. Smugglers had been using the mountainous terrain for longer than recorded history, which suited Ali’s purposes. He gave a rare grin that would have been nearly invisible amid his heavy beard. Let them search, he thought. I am smuggling what cannot be detected. He shot a sideways glance at the young woman in the passenger’s seat. She sensed the doctor’s gaze and turned to face him, her brown eyes peering above the dark-gray veil.

Ali allowed himself the intimacy of patting her shoulder. “Child, you are on your way to Paradise.” She leaned back, absent-mindedly rubbing her forearm. She had begun feeling slightly weaker over the past two days, but bed rest compensated.

Dusk was approaching and Ali turned on the headlights. He reckoned that three more hours on the rutted road would take him to the pavement and on to the rendezvous where other jihadists would take delivery of “the package.” From there they would forward it to Karachi and thence to the realm of the Great Satan.

Derringer’s intercom buzzed, preceding Peggy Singer’s announcement. “Colonel Main to see you, Admiral.”

Derringer depressed the switch. “Thank you, Mrs. Singer. Please send him in.” Lieutenant Colonel David Main knew enough about SSI to recognize the formalities. Having been around the office and attended a couple of holiday parties, he knew that between them, Admiral Derringer and Mrs. Singer were “Mike” and “Peggy.”

Main strode into the office, again bemused at the minimalist decor for a retired flag officer. Derringer stood up, reached over the desk, and shook hands. “Thanks for coming, Dave. I appreciate it on short notice.”

Main sat down, finding that the straight-backed chair resisted any effort on his part to slouch. Insiders thought that Mike Derringer believed in keeping visitors uncomfortable and thereby preventing the urge to linger and chat. “What can I do for you, sir? Sandy mentioned bio weapons.”

“That’s right, Dave. Uh, incidentally, she sends her apologies. Something about one of the girls.”

“Ah, yessir.” Main’s tone and body language hinted at something beyond disappointment. Privately, Derringer felt that Ms. Carmichael had found a convenient reason to be absent when her former classmate arrived.

Derringer leaned forward. “Dave, everything today is off the record, but you’ve worked that way before. Now, confidentially, we’re trying to track down the source of a Marburg virus that apparently was found in an American national visiting Pakistan recently. He collapsed at Heathrow a couple of days ago and he’s now comatose but we’re told that he indicated he was injected with the virus and there may be others.”

Main’s eyes widened slightly. His Been There Done That badges and ribbons testified to Ranger School, 82^nd Airborne, Grenada, Desert Storm, and Bosnia. He had walked the walk and done the deed, but anything related to Ebola was an instant attention-getter.

“Ah, yessir. I understand that you might want somebody with field experience as well as an immunology degree. I guess you needed to discuss it in person.”

“Correct. Now, Sandy’s already observed that State will not permit any active-duty military personnel on this job owing to the current sentiments in Pakistan. So, as you’ve done for us before, could you reach out and find somebody maybe in the Guard or Reserve who could fill the bill?”

“Well, I’ll try, Admiral. But you know, that’s a rare bird you’re hunting. And it might take some time. How soon do you need to know?”

Derringer sat back, his face passive. “Well, it’s now 1540.” Finally he grinned. “I realize you can’t get anything today, but we’re like 7-11. We never close.”

Main stood up. “I’ll let you know my initial finding by noon tomorrow.”

Derringer walked the Army officer to the door. “We really appreciate it, Dave. And, by the way, my offer stands. If you ever decide to put in your papers…”

Main chuckled. “Thanks, Admiral. It’s good to know I wouldn’t have to sell my soul as a beltway bandit. But I think I’m probably doing you more good as your liaison.”

Derringer patted Main’s shoulder. It was partly friendly, partly paternal. “That you are, son! Oh, by the way. Long as you’re here, would you mind talking to our chief pilot? I think you’ve met him: Terry Keegan. He may have, ah, one or two favors to ask. Frank will show you the way.”

“Certainly, sir. Glad to help.” It was a lie, smoothly accomplished. In truth, David Main wanted to see the start of his son’s basketball game for once.

En route to the planning room, Leopole briefed Main on Keegan. “We keep a few critical personnel on full-time or retainer. Terry’s one of the admiral’s favorites.”

“I think he’d just become your chief pilot when I met him before.”

“Roger that. Terry’s a jack-of-all-trades. He’s rated for fixed wing, helos, and seaplanes: probably has more ratings than anybody I know. He and Derringer go way back.”

“Really? Derringer’s not an aviator, is he?”

“Nope, strictly blackshoe. But he made his name in ASW, and Terry was his star SH-3 pilot. I don’t know the full story, but Terry got snagged in the Tailhook witch hunt. He asked the admiral for help, and Mike really tried, but Bush 41 wanted a head count to pacify the feminazis, who were never going to be pacified. Between you and me, I think Mike still feels some guilt about not being able to save a fine young officer’s career, but it worked out for the best. Terry was one of the first hires when SSI stood up, and the firm has paid for most of his upgrades.”

Approaching the technical library, Leopole and Main nearly collided with an attractive young woman. Leopole said, “Hi, Sallie. Ah, have you met Colonel Main?”

“No, I would remember.” Main was briefly taken aback by the frank statement. His brain defaulted to the male ego programming that was linked to his emotional hard drive. She thinks I’m a stud flashed on his screen before he realized that Ms. Sallie might possibly be referring to an excellent memory.

She extended her hand. “Sallie Ann Kline,” she said with a Peach Street hint in her voice. At five-foot-eleven, her green eyes were level with the officer’s.

Main shook hands; Ms. Kline’s grip was firm and controlled. Her beige suit and dark hair gave her a professional appearance that Main found attractive. He noticed that she quickly scanned his ribbons and badges. Apparently she could decipher the esoterica displayed on his chest.

“I’ve been talking to Terry about more pilot applications,” Sallie explained. “He’s all yours, Frank.” She raised a manicured hand and waved bye-bye. “Nice to see you, Colonel.”

The army man turned to watch her walk away in long, purposeful strides. “Wow. I’m married, but man, how did I miss that?”

Leopole chuckled. “Sallie has that effect on a lot of men. She’s here for a couple weeks as a consultant. She won’t accept a full-time position because she’s the admiral’s niece.”

“Is she really as confident as she seems?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s spooky, how quickly she sizes up people.”

Main emitted a low whistle. “What’s she do for the firm?”

“Sallie’s background is marketing and personnel. She analyzes applicants and predicts their likely job performance. She tells some clients that she uses a special computer program, but mainly it’s her gut feeling. She’s highly intuitive; I’d guess she bats about.800.”

The army man chuckled aloud. “Maybe I should introduce her to our recruiters.”

They found Keegan perusing SSI’s technical library where Leopole reintroduced the men and left. Rather than speaking his mind— Whattaya want I wantta get going—the army man said, “Say, I understand that you and the admiral served together. That’s how you joined SSI?”

Terry Keegan nodded his crewcut head. “Yeah, I was in HS-2 when Tailhook blew up in ‘91. We were transitioning from SH-3Hs to SH-60s, and I really wanted to deploy with the Seahawk.”

Main leaned on a table strewn with aircraft and engine manuals. Women in combat was a subject upon which he held devout opinions. “I heard that the Tailhook thing caught a lot of you guys.”

“Hell, it caught everybody, including those who weren’t even there. Just the accusation was enough to ruin your career. It was, like, ‘ready, fire, aim.’ CNO and SecNav were both there, but they claimed they saw nothing, and the admirals ran for cover. You know, the Tailhook Association is a civilian organization with no authority over military personnel, but Hook became the scapegoat. Nobody was standing up for the troops, and I mean nobody. Except Mike Derringer, and he wasn’t even in the loop.”

“What really happened, Terry?”

“Well, I couldn’t stay for the whole thing and left Saturday morning. Next thing I knew, the JAG goons were beating down my door, saying they had ‘proof’ I was there. Hell, I never denied it. What I did deny — and it’s true — is that I ever saw any sexual harassment. Years later I learned that somebody said he’d seen a guy who looked like me with one of the women who complained. She was a pro, by the way; several of ‘em hopped on the lawsuit bandwagon. Anyway, that was enough to red-flag me for promotion. It happened to lots of guys. I know one who was in San Diego that whole weekend but his name got on the ‘suspect’ list and that was that. No due process, no nothin’.”

Main shook his head. “My god, I didn’t know it was that bad. What else happened?”

“Well, I remember in 1996 Muhammad Ali went to Cuba to meet Castro, who he said he admired. That same year some politically correct captain invited Ali aboard USS George Washington, but the Tailhook Association — composed of naval aviators — was forbidden aboard navy vessels.”

“You gotta be shittin’ me!”

“No lie, GI.” Keegan gave a sardonic grin. “The U.S. Fucking Navy catered to a brain-dead celebrity who seeks out communist dictators. Finally Clinton’s SecNav decided enough was enough and gave his blessing to Tailhook in 2000.”

“The admiral tried to help you?” Main could easily envision Derringer supporting people he valued.

“Yeah, he really did. I wrote him, not really expecting very much, but we’d had a good relationship on deployment. When he wanted somebody to follow a contact at night and maybe a high sea state, my crew usually got the call. By ‘92, almost a year after Vegas, it was obvious I had nothing to lose.”

“Could he help?”

“Not much. He saw the handwriting on the wall and was already starting SSI. But my point is, he tried to help me and a couple of other pilots. Far as I know, Mike Derringer did more than any three active-duty flags. He called in markers, bent arms, and generally kept up the heat. I’ve heard that some admirals still resent him because he made them feel like wimps.”

“I guess a lot of aviators are still bitter.”

“Damn right. I was so disgusted that I changed my registration to Democrat and, so help me, I voted for Clinton in ‘92. I don’t care who knows it.”

Main grinned. “What about ‘96?”

Keegan shrugged. “Why bother? The difference between the parties is more a matter of degree than substance.”

“Geez, you sound like the man without a country.”

Keegan thought for a moment. “Yeah, there’s something to that. Not many guys will say so, but what th’ hell — I got no retirement at stake. Some of us feel that we have a government more than a country. That’s why our loyalty goes to SSI. If the UN do-gooders are worried about PMCs taking the place of established governments, maybe they’re right. Not that it’ll happen, because at least forty percent of the population has been co-opted by perks and benefits. But I tell you what: in this outfit, loyalty up gets loyalty down. Mike Derringer says that his people come first, and he walks the walk. I could tell you a couple of stories—” Keegan slipped a knowing grin and left the sentence hovering.

Which reminded Main of his mission. “The admiral said I might be able to help you.”

“Oh! Yeah.” Keegan laughed at himself. “I get spooled up about what happened to us and the whole female thing.”

“Roger that.” Main was enjoying the male bonding, even with a squid.

Keegan picked up a manual. It was a translation of the pilot’s instructions for the Russian Mi-17 helicopter, code name Hip H. “Reading the book is one thing but flying the bird is another. I know this is a stretch, but do you know if Fort Rucker or anyplace else has one of these machines? If we have to use ‘em in… well, wherever we go, it’d be a big help to have some stick time beforehand.”

Main leaned back, rubbing his chin. “Geez, Terry, that’s a pretty big request, especially on short notice. It’s also out of my league. If you wanted to drive a T-72, I could probably arrange it.” He thought for a moment. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”

“That’d be great, Dave. I really appreciate it, and so would the admiral. Oh, by the way, the Mi-8 would be almost as good. The 17 is the export Hip with the tail rotor on the starboard side. I’d be happy with either one.”

The Lamunyon house was a low, rambling residence, a style that once would have been advertised as “ranch,” but that description had long fallen into trendy disfavor. The rental car exited off Route 24 onto Alvarado and turned onto Hillcrest Road. Apparently the Lamunyons lived in the political-cultural no-man’s-land between the Clairemont Country Club and the Berkeley-Clark-Kerr campus.

SSI’s investigators were former bureau colleagues of Wolf’s. James Mannock had finally resigned in disgust over repeated scandals in the crime lab, choosing to sell his skills in the private sector. Sherree Kim had graduated in the top ten percent of her academy class and, in the politically correct era of the ‘90s, seemed destined for success. But she had bumped against the FBI’s glass ceiling and decided to look elsewhere rather than spend her most productive years fighting an entrenched male culture.

“Think they’ll still want to talk to us?” Mannock asked.

Kim shrugged. “I dunno, Jim. Mrs. Lamunyon sounded more interested than her husband.”

Mannock looked down at the five-foot-five Kim. He winked. “You’re good on the phone, Sherree.” She gave him a slight nudge in retaliation. It was a matter of faith in SSI that Ms. Kim had the silkiest voice in the firm.

Kim rang the doorbell as Mannock stood behind her. Without discussing details, both realized that a young Asian woman with an appealing manner would be more warmly received than a six-foot-one, balding ex-wrestler with a Joe Friday demeanor. Just the facts, ma’am.

The door opened partway and a matronly woman’s face appeared behind the screen. “Yes?”

Kim took the initiative. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Lamunyon. I’m Sherree Kim. We talked on the phone again last night.” She did not need to mention that Mr. Lamunyon had ended their first conversation on his wife’s behalf.

“Oh, yes…”

Kim allowed Mrs. Lamunyon no chance to end the discussion so abruptly. “We really appreciate your taking time to talk to us, ma’am. This is my assistant, Mr. Mannock.” Before the burly former athlete could kick her from behind, Kim pressed on. “May we come in for a moment?”

Marian Lamunyon opened the screen enough to look up and down the street. She’s worried that hubby will come home, Kim realized.

“I promise we’ll only be a few minutes, ma’am. And we’ve had such a long trip.” Sometimes a little guilt went a long way.

It worked.

Mrs. Lamunyon invited the visitors into the sitting room. While Kim worked her people skills, Mannock pretended to be interested in the family photos on the wall. Apparently Jason had a teenage sister — something of a babe — and the family swarmed with pets. In truth, the ex-fed knew that there were ways of gaining information without asking questions.

“I don’t really know what more I can tell you,” Marian began. “We already talked to those government investigators.”

“Yes, ma’am. We’re just trying to be thorough and maybe pick up some details that could help tell you more about Jason’s, ah, last few weeks.”

“Well, Keith talked to the detectives more than I did.” She leaned close, feeling more comfortable with the friendly young woman. “He’s still embarrassed that Jason went and joined those Muslims.”

“Detectives, ma’am?”

“Well, I guess they were detectives. They had badges and everything. They wore suits, not uniforms, you know.”

“Were they local police or federal agents? Maybe FBI?”

Marian sat up straight. “Oh, you’re right. They were FBI men. I’m just used to those TV shows. Like Barney Miller and Hill Street Blues.”

Kim and Mannock exchanged knowing glances. Both managed to avoid smiling.

“Mrs. Lamunyon, we think we can help you the most if we know more about Jason’s time in Arabia and Pakistan. For example, where did he stay? Who did he see?”

“Keith gave those detec… er… FBI men a list of where Jason went. At least what we knew. But really, Miss Kim, I don’t know much beyond that. We hardly heard from him after he left. Just a couple of notes.”

“Did the other investigators take them?”

“What? The notes? Oh, no. Keith wouldn’t talk about those. He told me not to mention them.”

Mannock abruptly turned from the photo gallery and sat beside Kim. She decided to go for broke. “Ma’am, would you mind if we looked at those notes?”

Mrs. Lamunyon’s composure, never serene, visibly tightened. She began rubbing her hands unconsciously. “You know, my husband is due…”

Kim reached across the settee and placed her own hand on the mother’s. “If we could see Jason’s notes, we’d be able to leave right away.”

Without speaking, the grieving woman rose and left the room. When she returned there were tears in the corners of her eyes.

Mannock produced a notepad and copied everything: postal marks, type of paper, and exact spelling with errors. Kim scanned them twice; one was a single sheet, the other one and a half. There were references to a couple of obscure villages, and both letters mentioned “Dr. Ali.”

Kim carefully refolded the papers and laid them on the table with the envelopes. She rose to go and Mannock stepped back to the picture gallery.

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Lamunyon. You’ve been very helpful.”

Mannock, who had hardly spoken, seized one last chance. “I see that animals are popular in your family, ma’am. We have two dogs and some cats ourselves.”

Sherree managed to keep a straight face. She knew that Mannock was allergic to most animals.

Marian Lamunyon beamed for a change. “Oh, yes. Jason just loves… loved… animals. He wanted to be a veterinarian, you know. He volunteered at the animal clinic.”

Kim shook her head. “No, we didn’t know that. Ah, what else was he interested in?”

“Oh, he used to like girls and cars and music. A California boy, you know.” Her smile faded. “Then a couple years ago he got into that Islamic thing…”

Sherree Kim managed to keep a level tone in her voice. “Yes, ma’am. We know.”

The next afternoon Derringer convened a conference in his office. Typically, he went straight to the point. “Dave Main called me during the noon hour. He says we could probably get somebody who’s professionally and physically qualified if we had more time. The AMRIID civilians were a good suggestion, but it’s no go. He checked at Fort Detrick. A couple of the ones we’d consider are essential personnel. Others are out of the country or not interested in our, uh, adventure.”

Derringer turned to Wolf. “What did you find at CDC, Joe? Don’t they have some ex-military types?”

The domestic ops chief shook his head. “I talked to the assistant director myself. They have about 5,500 people just in Atlanta but that includes everything from admin types to birth defects and accident prevention. She didn’t know of anybody with Marburg background and the kind of field experience we need. At least not in the time available.”

SSI’s founder leaned back in his chair, tapping his right-hand fingers in a rhythmic tattoo. Nobody but his few intimates knew that the young Michael had won a state championship playing snare in his drum and bugle corps. Flam-flam paradiddle; flam-flam paradiddle; paradiddle-paradiddle, tap-tap-tap.

“Very well. I’ll call Phil and see if he can get his British friend. If it were up to me, I’d take the best-qualified military immunologist we could find and just keep our mouths shut, but the firm’s reputation is on the line.

“Frank, you should talk to Phil, too. Your guys can start assembling the medical gear we’ll likely need. I doubt if we have much of it in stock, especially biohazard suits and decontamination equipment. Check with Terry about loading the aircraft, because you’ll be better off taking what you need rather than trying to get it from the locals.”

“Roger that.”

Dr. Carolyn Padgett-Smith checked her emails before dinner and found an intriguing message from Phil Catterly. She phoned him immediately.

“Phillip, Carolyn here.”

“Oh, thanks for calling, Carolyn. Ah, you can probably read between the lines, but is your passport up to date?”

“It is. And I have appropriate inoculations for Pakistan.”

“Well, I’m authorized to ask on behalf of a U.S. Government contractor if you would be, uh, available for as much as a couple of weeks…”

Dr. Padgett-Smith did not want to assume too much. “Are you offering me the chance of a lifetime, Phillip? A view of barren vistas in the company of bronzed, hardy young men?”

“CPS, you’ve read too much Kipling. This could be damned dangerous, and…”

“Why, I should love the opportunity to climb some new rocks. Do tell me more.”

Padgett-Smith never did get a proper dinner.

After ringing off, she phoned an unlisted number in Sussex. A familiar male voice resonated in her ear. “Why, Carolyn! What can I do for my favorite ex-sister-in-law?”

“Now, Tony. Don’t be so cynical. Why do you always assume that I want something?”

“Because you always do, love.”

Carolyn was reminded why Lydia had divorced the former soldier. He was inevitably so damnably right about everything. Not to mention that he was inevitably so damnably gone. If only the parachuting accident had occurred a few months earlier, their marriage might have survived. Tony insisted that he saw his ex more since the divorce than during the two-year duration, and Carolyn suspected that the once-unhappy couple had renewed conjugal relations.

“Tony I need to ask a big favor, but I can’t say too much. You understand how it is. Well, suffice to say that I shall be traveling abroad in areas where the locals are decidedly restless, and they do not take kindly to western females.”

“That could cover a great deal of geography. The wogs begin at Calais, you know.”

CPS relaxed. With Tony lapsing into the old, familiar banter, she was halfway home. “Ah, Tony, you recall when I addressed your colleagues about the emerging bio threat about a year and a half ago?”

“Certainly. You were a hit.”

“Well, I wonder if the colonel’s offer still stands.”

“What offer was that?”

“He said, ‘Dr. Padgett-Smith, if ever I may be of assistance in your counter terrorism efforts, do not hesitate to contact me.’ Of course, I’ve long since mislaid his card.”

Tony did the mental gymnastics. Foreign travel, exotic climes, hint of danger. SAS assistance. It was getting interesting. “I can call him tonight, Padgers. But what do you need?”

She told him.