Pandora's Legion

21

Kassim had never seen Ali genuinely angry. Ordinarily reserved and composed, the doctor seemed to accept bad news as equitably as good.

This was different.

“The fools! The damnable, stupid imbeciles!” He kicked the leg of a chair and nearly tipped the seat backwards. Glaring at his colleague, he caught the Syrian’s defensive stance, the lowered eyes. Ali inhaled, exhaled, and regained most of his composure. “Tell me. Everything.”

“I must accept full responsibility, Doctor. I chose the men…”

“Enough of that!” The words were spit out like high-velocity rounds, more harsh than intended. “Brother, we need to know if we can recapture him.”

Kassim sat down, still angry with himself and saddened that his men had disappointed the cause. “I do not know the full story. When I returned there, I found Hussain beaten to death. There was no sign of Tahirkheli. At first I thought perhaps he fled, but he is a proven fighter. I have seen him destroy two Soviet armored vehicles and several Northern Alliance trucks. He would not run away.” He shrugged. “Perhaps the infidel took him with him for some reason.”

“Were there any tracks? Any indication of where the American went?”

Kassim shook his head. “None. I checked the entire area so he must have gone uphill in the rocks. It is impossible to track him that way.”

“So we must assume he has food and weapons.”

“Yes, Doctor. He took the boy’s sandals and rifle. As you warned, he was a dangerous man.”

Ali drummed his long fingers on the table. “I doubt that he knows where he was, but with elevation he can see the surrounding area. He will likely head east, toward the plain.”

“Possibly.”

The veterinarian lanced his colleague with a glare. “Why ‘possibly’?”

“The geography, Doctor. The nearest town of any size from the farm is Qila Abdullah, about thirty kilometers. The border is much closer, with Spin Buldak on the road to Kandahar. In any case he will avoid the roads. But we do not have nearly enough men to search the hills in either direction. As for the rivers, if he follows the Zhob or the Nari, which bank? Upstream or downstream?”

Ali asked, “But to the west the border is guarded. So what do you suggest?”

Kassim looked closer at the map, visualizing the topography. “Use our men as efficiently as possible. Have them watch the approaches here… and here.” His blunt finger stabbed the places printed Qila Abdullah and Spin Buldak.

The doctor regarded his partner admiringly. “Yes! Rather than searching hundreds of square kilometers, wait for the rat to arrive at the bait.”

Kassim’s fist struck the table with a resounding thud. “Then spring the trap.”

“See to it, brother. He has a wide start.”

Sandy Carmichael was going to knock on Derringer’s door when she heard his voice inside. “Okay, thanks, Frank. Keep me informed.”

She rapped politely before opening the door. “Excuse me, sir, but…”

He motioned to her. “It’s alright, Sandy. Come on in. That was Frank. He figured I’d be in this morning so he phoned rather than sending an email.” Derringer drummed his fingers on the desk. Paradiddle-paradiddle tap-tap-tap. He stared at the polished wood for a moment, then looked up. “One of our guys is missing. It looks like he’s been kidnapped.”

Carmichael slid into the chair nearest the desk. “Oh my god. Who?”

“Johnson. Jeremy Johnson. They call him J. J. I know him somewhat — good kid. He did a stretch in the Foreign Legion.”

“Well, what happened?”

“Johnson’s team was jogging around the perimeter to keep in shape. J. J.’s quite a runner, apparently. He got ahead of the others, turned a corner, and disappeared. Nobody saw anything.”

“When did this happen?”

“Yesterday. Frank didn’t want to worry us unnecessarily, but when nothing turned up overnight, he decided to call. He’s done all the right things: checked with the locals, police, and the embassy. He’s even dropped some hints offering a big reward, but nobody seems to have any leads.”

The professional in Sandra Carmichael nudged aside the caring female half of her personality. “Well, sir, I have a couple of recommendations. First, we should decide how much longer to wait before notifying Johnson’s family. That is, I assume he has some family. Then we need to prepare a response in case he turns up on Al Jazeera or some other media outlet.”

Derringer slumped in his padded chair, one hand on his forehead. “Both accepted, Sandy. I’ll call a meeting so we can hash out other options. But…”

“Yes, sir?”

He inhaled, then blew his breath out in a long, audible whisper. “I’m visualizing an on-screen decapitation, or something just as bad.”

Carmichael had seen two such videos; she could not envision anything comparable. The first had taken thirty-five seconds, and she wondered at what point in the process the victim had died. She had not bothered to time the second one. Finally she asked, “Is there anything we can do here, maybe with the Pakistani embassy? I mean, anything that Frank and Omar can’t do in-country?”

“I doubt it, but we need to consider all angles. I’ll call Mark at Moritz and Moritz to see if they have any legal suggestions.”

“Yes, sir.” Carmichael stood up and turned to go. Then she caught the look in the admiral’s eyes — something she had seldom seen before. He’s scared. Really scared. She knew why: Michael Derringer always assigned himself the dreadful task of delivering terrible news in person.

The sun was setting and Jeremy Johnson had to make a decision.

Overlooking the approach to the border crossing, the fugitive American with his erstwhile captor figured the percentages. If I go straight down there, I’ll save time. But I gotta assume the terrs know I’m missing, and they can read the map. They could be waiting.

He turned toward his prisoner. The man was impassive, as usual. They now knew one another as “Yonson” and “Kelly.” Without seeing it written, Johnson could never get his tongue around “Tahirkheli.” Again the question arose: how much to trust the Pakistani. He probably can’t go back to his people, hut I don’t know that for sure. He might give me away if things get tense.

Looking at the topography again, Johnson sorted the odds. He would be harder to spot after dark, but he would also be more vulnerable to ambush. A close-range firefight against multiple enemies was a nonstarter. And he doubted that he could expect help from the Paki border guards. To them, a shootout would likely be interpreted as an outright attack. Anyone beyond the perimeter fence would be considered hostile.

And the guards might be on somebody’s payroll.

So many questions; damn few answers.

He decided to try having it both ways. He would work within a klick or so of the border and proceed to the checkpoint with about half an hour of daylight remaining. That way, presumably he could spot any interlopers and, if necessary, evade into the gathering dark. A few rounds toward the guard station should elicit further interest.

It looked like six or seven hundred meters, maybe a bit more. Hard to tell in this terrain. Johnson turned to “Kelly” and made a shooing motion. “Go. You go away!” Whatever the man’s previous faults, he had been more a companion than a captive. He deserved a chance. Tahirkheli nodded, apparently in comprehension of the generous sentiment, but pantomimed his intention to stay with Johnson.

They set out at an easy lope, approaching the border crossing from the southwest. That seemed the least likely avenue of approach from the starting point east of Chaman.

Johnson kept the AK at high port, holding the magazine from Tahirkheli’s rifle with his left hand. They had left the sack and quilt at their starting point in case they had to move fast. At 4,300 feet the evening air had an edge; both men saw their breath as they exhaled.

A few moments along the way, Tahirkheli pulled up. Johnson almost overran him. The Pakistani squatted, shading his eyes against the sunset. To his left the American took a braced kneeling position, the AK’s selector on semi-auto. The Pakistani said something that sounded like “dish man,” looking at Johnson and gesturing to their right front.

Johnson did not know that dushman was Urdu for enemy.

“Bhagna!” Tahirkheli bolted from his squatting position like a sprinter. His exhortation to run required no translation. He began eating up the ground toward the checkpoint.

Semi-automatic fire erupted from the gathering dusk. Johnson glimpsed muzzle flashes, guessed the range at 250 meters, and held slightly high. Damn! Shoulda taken the chance to check zero on this thing. He fired two rounds to let the terrs know that he was armed, then took to his feet. But Johnson was slowed by his injuries and ill-fitting sandals.

The Pakistani showed surprising speed, quickly pulling away from the mercenary. He’s one tough sumbitch; spent his life in the mountains.

Abruptly the other man stopped, throwing himself prone. Johnson looked ahead and saw the reason. Two men raced toward them from a cluster of rocks. Johnson took a glance toward the border crossing. No visible motion yet.

Johnson looked again to his right. Two more gunmen had emerged from cover. They gotta get me before the guards arrive.

Both hostile pair were about 150 meters out. Johnson felt relatively safe at that distance: Most of ‘em can’t shoot for shit. He squirmed into a prone position, facing the right-hand threat first. With no idea where his rifle shot, he took a center hold on the nearest opponent, focused on the front sight, and pressed the trigger.

The 7.62mm round snapped out — and vanished. Johnson could not tell where it went, other than it had missed its target. Briefly he wished that he could get Kelly to spot for him, but there was no time to pantomime it.

Both the gunmen approaching him were upright, alternately firing and running. Ballistic cracks popped over his head; a few rounds hit the earth around him. Johnson’s mind was racing: There’s still time. Try something else. Reckoning that his first round likely went high, he held on the target’s knees. He pressed the trigger and the Kalashnikov bucked in recoil. Johnson’s focus went from his sights to the target and saw the man flinch. Nicked him or it’s real close. Applying Kentucky windage, he held low on the target’s right side and fired twice.

The terrorist staggered, turned away, and tumbled sideways.

Immediately Johnson shifted targets. The second opponent was inside seventy meters, now kneeling. Johnson applied the same sight picture and pressed the trigger twice. No good. The man kept shooting.

He’s not as tall a target. Hold lower. Johnson put his front sight on the man’s left foot and fired again. Nothing. I think I flinched. Try again. Two more rounds went downrange. One connected. The target rolled onto his side and began crawling away. Johnson let him go.

More firing erupted from the second pair, now dangerously close. Johnson estimated they were no more than fifty meters out. As he swung on them, he felt a sharp impact. I’m hit — keep shooting. He put his front sight on the right-hand man and fired. No good. He fired again. And again. Sweat blurred his vision and the gathering dusk degraded his sight picture.

The rifle jammed.

Johnson’s pulse, already elevated, hit high C. He recognized the physiological signs: tunnel vision; short, shallow breaths; leaden feeling in the arms; fine muscle skills diminished. He glanced down at the AK and was appalled to see a neat hole in the magazine. That was the hit! The wonderfully reliable weapon had continued functioning until the warped follower and deformed cartridge had reached the chamber.

Immediate action drill. Johnson released the magazine, pulled the charging handle twice, and scooped up the reload. Belatedly he remembered to roll the rifle on its right side and repeated the drill again. Small metal particles were ejected downward.

Johnson’s trembling hands reseated the new magazine and he chambered the first round. Firing now was heavy and close. Rock fragments and clods of earth spattered his face. Rolling away from the impacts, Johnson was vaguely aware that he had wet his trousers.

“Kelly” leapt to his feet and began shouting frantically at the assailants. One paused, uncertain of the Urdu speaker’s intent. The other continued firing from twenty yards. Johnson put his sights squarely in the shooter’s middle and pulled the trigger two, three, four times.

Kelly screamed and went down. More gunfire split the dark.

Johnson shifted his aim to the remaining threat. The man was getting close — terror close. Firing from an under-arm assault position, the gunman hosed a long, scything burst at the prone American. Johnson felt the sonic pain as 7.62 rounds barked past his head. He wanted full auto — now — but there was no time. He raised his muzzle toward the assailant’s middle and began mashing the trigger. He kept firing until the man dropped. The conventional wisdom came to him: Shoot until the threat goes away. He fired some more.

When he came up for air, Johnson looked at Kelly, who was trembling visibly. He’s in shock. Gotta get help. The legionnaire rose to his knees and scanned the darkening landscape. He saw three men jogging toward him, perhaps seventy meters out. They were armed, rifles at high port.

Johnson went prone again, wondering how many rounds he had left, and asking the most important question of his life: Are they friendly or hostile?