Pandora's Legion

20

J. J. Johnson tried to reason it out.

The Muslims had fed him and even tended the appalling wounds on his back and legs. That fact seemed to indicate a willingness to keep him alive, if only briefly. But the vicious, smooth-talking bastard who fancied himself a doctor was obviously a religious fanatic. Johnson had no doubt that the man’s threat with the knife was genuine. Maybe he was taking a dual role: good cop, bad cop all in one. Maybe he was just playing mind games.

Johnson had no intention of waiting to find out. He realized that, having given the sophisticated sadist the desired information, there was little reason to keep an American alive. The mercenary tallied his likely fate. Plan A: his captors would keep him indefinitely. Plan B: they would sell him back to his employer, or, Plan C: they would kill him.

Briefly he wondered about Plan B. How much is an ex-legionnaire worth on the open market? Admiral Derringer would meet any fee, but the odds of completing the deal looked slim.

He pondered Plan C: would they take time to cut off his head or merely put a 7.62 round through his cranium? Since neither Alfa, Bravo, nor Charlie were acceptable options, he went to work on Plan Delta.

Abdullah Hussain was restless. Like many of Kassim’s operatives, he was young and headstrong, feeling a need to prove himself among the veteran mujahadin. Too many of them treated the youngsters with something between tolerance and disdain. Abdullah had discussed that unfortunate tendency with his youthful compatriots more than once.

Here was an opportunity.

When Sheikh Tahirkheli went to relieve himself, the twenty-year-old guard decided to show his mettle. Pointedly ignoring the older man’s warning to delay feeding the prisoner, Hussain unslung his AK and opened the wire gate to the pen. He shoved the rice gruel ahead of him with a sandaled foot, keeping his distance from the reclining infidel. The man had barely moved all morning, leaving most of his breakfast untouched.

Hussain noticed the whip marks on the American’s back, the shredded remains of the shirt. As he rested on his side, the man’s slow, regular breathing showed that he remained asleep.

Despite nearly fourteen months with Kassim’s cell, the youngster had never seen an infidel so close before. This was too good a chance to pass up: a minor test of manhood, facing an enemy eye to eye. He poked the Kalashnikov’s muzzle into the prisoner’s back, ordering him to rise. The only response was a half roll onto the stomach.

Abdullah Hussain wanted more. He kicked at the prone form, again ordering the captive up.

J. J. Johnson shot a glance between the guard’s feet. As he expected, the young one was alone. Stupid kids, he thought. They all think they’re smarter than adults.

Now or never.

In the upward glance he permitted himself, Johnson took in two salient facts. The kid’s finger was on the trigger but the selector remained in the upward position. Still on safe.

Johnson had mentally rehearsed the disarming technique dozens of times during the night. In a fluid movement he used both hands and one foot to knock the guard down. Hussain hit the ground with a muted thud that briefly winded him. In that moment, Johnson was atop him, grabbing the AK and twisting it in a figure eight. The American’s position gave him superior leverage; the guard’s grip broke and the rifle was freed.

Johnson reversed the weapon, butt down, and stepped on the guard’s right arm. Three solid blows to the head rendered him immobile. Two hard vertical strokes, more carefully delivered, fractured the skull.

The SSI man knew time was crucial. He flipped the AK’s selector to full down — semi-auto — and pulled the bolt handle back. A live round was ejected. So it was loaded after all. He scanned the area, saw nobody else, and quickly removed the magazine. He guessed that it held about twenty-five rounds.

The legionnaire was breathing hard from the exertion. Forcing himself to concentrate, he pulled off the corpse’s sandals and scooped up both the meals in their tins. He combined them into one container, losing some gruel over the side. With one more glance around, he noticed a cheap ornamental dagger on the guard’s belt. Johnson took it and made for the rocks behind the hut.

Water. He paused, weighing the prospects of finding a bottle inside against the other guard’s likely return. He also realized that he needed a sack to carry his plunder. Well, here goes.

The hut’s contents were disappointing: two nearly empty water bottles and a burlap sack containing some grain. Johnson deposited his goods in the sack, unconcerned about spillage. Then he took a worn quilt off a cot, threw it over one shoulder, and checked outside through the cracks in the door. Seeing no one, he stepped out, the rifle shouldered, muzzle low.

Sheikh Tahirkheli came around the corner, fifteen feet away.

Both men stopped dead, requiring a heartbeat to absorb the situation.

Johnson held the initiative; he was ready to shoot, whereas the Muslim held his rifle at waist level. But a gunshot could be heard for a mile or more, and the man was too far away to take him with the knife.

Johnson’s mind raced, trying to retrieve the Urdu word. It came reluctantly, sulking amid the pain and fear inside him. “Taslim shal” Surrender!

Tahirkheli was an experienced fighter. He dropped his rifle and raised his hands, instantly changing the dynamics of the situation. Johnson nodded slightly in acknowledgment of his opponent’s intelligence. Smart dude: he knows if I’m gonna kill him he’s a goner no matter what he does. This way, he’s still got a chance.

Johnson stepped aside to let the Pakistani pass. Then, picking up the man’s rifle, the American pointed his prisoner uphill into the rocks where they could not be tracked.

As they began the ascent, the former legionnaire began musing whether he had it in him to commit murder.

Forty minutes from the farm, Johnson called a halt. He motioned for the Muslim to squat, then opened the burlap sack. The American drained the contents of one water bottle and part of the next. Then he offered the remainder to his prisoner.

Tahirkheli paused, then accepted the bottle. He raised it to the American, muttered, “Shukria,” and drained the water. He handed the bottle back, then reclined against a rock. Johnson maintained several feet between them, his AK pointed at the Pakistani’s belly, clearly indicating that the safety was off.

Since the escape, Johnson had tried to approximate his location. He had a general impression that safety lay to the east, but even in the hills behind the farm, he saw mainly more hills and rocks.

He picked up three stones and arranged them at his feet. From right to left, he pointed to them in turn. “Quetta, Chaman, Kandahar.”

Tahirkheli leaned forward, studying the arrangement. Slowly he raised his left hand and rearranged the stones in a northwest-southeast axis. He nodded. “Quetta, Chaman, Kandahar.”

Johnson made a circular motion, then pointed to the Muslim and himself. “Us? Where?” He suspected he was near Chaman but did not want to venture that option.

Tahirkheli cocked his head and rubbed his bearded chin. He picked up a pebble and placed it beside the middle stone. “Yahaan.”

Johnson assumed that the man meant here but was uncertain whether to believe him. Offering water and remaining unthreatening seemed more in keeping with the Muslim virtue of hospitality. Johnson remembered Omar Mohammed’s briefing: often in tribal cultures one was obliged to return a good deed. He realized that he was fortunate that the inquisitor had taken his two goons with him: the erstwhile ex-legionnaire would cheerfully have executed any or all of them.

Looking at the sky, Johnson assessed that it might rain later in the day. Not a bad thing: cover my tracks in the dirt and maybe get some fresh water. He had already decided to forego standing water except for emergencies.

Time for a command decision. Johnson realized that he could go directly to Chaman and probably find help, but he discounted that option. There were almost certainly people looking for him there, and in any case a beat-up westerner would draw attention. He thought again of the map he had studied on the previous operation: a road paralleled the border northeast of town while a rail line ran back toward Quetta. Spin Buldak was just across the border from Chaman: there would be a crossing station in between. Hell with it. If I can’t walk right up to the border, I’ll get myself captured trying to sneak across.

Johnson stretched himself upright, feeling the stinging pain in his back. He wanted to rub his knee but did not, lest his captive see an infirmity. As a military athlete, Jeremy Johnson knew his limits, and the vicious beating had taken its toll. I need a short walk downhill, he told himself. He handed the sack and quilt to his captive, allowing him to carry the load. Then they pushed on, heading west.