Pandora's Legion

22

“Say again?” Leopole held the phone tighter, hardly daring to believe what he heard. After a pause he exclaimed, “My god!”

Mohammed caught the excitement in the team leader’s voice as Leopole hung up with a fervent “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.” His eyes were wide, fixed on his associate. “Johnson’s alive!”

Mohammed shook his head as if clearing a fog from his brain. “Jeremy Johnson? He’s been missing for three days!”

Leopole was on his feet, grinning hugely. “Damn straight it’s J. J.! Who else?” He clapped the reserved Muslim on one shoulder.

“Tell me!”

Leopole began pacing, uncharacteristically excited. “Buster Hardesty didn’t have the full story, but we can send one of our helos for him. J. J. should arrive later today.”

“Frank, tell me!”

“Oh, sorry, Omar.” After so many losses, Leopole felt part of the emotional burden drain away. “C’mon, let’s tell the others.”

Minutes later, Leopole convened an impromptu meeting in the hangar. About half of the operators were present.

Breezy leaned toward Bosco. “Frank’s smiling like the fucking cat that ate the fucking canary. What’s up?”

Bosco hunched his shoulders. “DamnifIknow, dude.”

Leopole stood at the front of the room. “Listen up, people!” The chatter and speculation instantly died away. “I just had some good news from General Hardesty in Islamabad.” He paused for effect, then grinned again. “J. J. Johnson is alive! Marsh is flying him here this afternoon.”

The room erupted in shouts, cheers, and male barks. Bosco and Breezy exchanged multiple high fives. Padgett-Smith, standing alone at the back, raised both hands to her mouth. Her violet eyes misted over.

Questions snapped toward Leopole, who had to wave down the increasing din.

“Alright, alright! Settle down!” When silence returned, he began the tale. “General Hardesty spoke to Johnson via land line, so all I know is what he told me. Briefly, J. J. was held and tortured in a remote area near Chaman. Somehow — I don’t know how yet — he killed a guard and escaped.” At that word, the calm evaporated again. Ooh-rah shouts and feral sounds erupted from young male throats.

Leopole allowed himself a grin at the sentiment. “After that, Johnson made his way overland to the border, which was closer than the next Pakistan town. The terrorists were waiting for him near Spin Buldak and it turned into a running gun battle. But he made it to the border station and was able to call the embassy.”

Jeffrey Malten stood up. “Colonel, what’s J. J.’s condition?”

“Well, he’s strong enough to climb hills and run some distance. Buster… General Hardesty… said he’d been badly whipped and will need a hospital. But J. J. wanted to come here before anything else. And we need to debrief him.”

More questioners waved for attention but Leopole decided enough was enough. Besides, he intended to treat himself to some discretely stashed Tennessee sippin’ whiskey.

“There he is!” Jeff Malten’s exclamation stated the obvious to the SSI crowd.

Jeremy Johnson appeared in the door of the Hip as Eddie Marsh shut down the engines. Wearing a borrowed flight suit, Johnson accepted help from the crew chief and descended to the tarmac. Stooped over, he walked carefully beyond the rotor diameter to a raucous reception.

As the troops crowded around him, Johnson raised his hands. “Hi guys. Don’t touch my back. It’s a mess.”

Taking his directions literally, some of the operators scooped up the returnee and carried him shoulder high to the hangar. The abrasions on his legs were rubbed painfully, but Jeremy Johnson, late of the Foreign Legion, did not care.

Once in the office, Malten and Padgett-Smith convinced Johnson to allow them to see his wounds. As he peeled off his flight suit and shirt, the giddy mood changed instantly. It seemed that the ambient temperature dropped fifteen degrees.

“Oh, Jeremy,” CPS muttered.

“Ah, shit, man.” Malten’s tone matched hers.

Johnson winced, then said, “I sorta got used to it. The back of my legs and… butt… also got worked over.”

The salve previously applied to the long, deep welts clung to the thin shirt. Malten exchanged glances with Padgett-Smith. “It’s best not to use salves on lacerations,” the medic said. “You can, like, use Neosporin but that’s usually for developed infections.”

Padgett-Smith offered, “Some soap and warm water is best to start. Maybe some Keflex for later, if it’s available. It’s a good antibiotic.”

As Malten worked on him, Johnson turned his focus to Leopole and Mohammed.

“Colonel, you need to know. I told them everything. I mean, not everything I knew, but everything they asked.” His voice turned to a croak. “I… I couldn’t take any more.”

“My god, J. J. Nobody could stand that. Not half of it.”

Padgett-Smith sought to alleviate some of Johnson’s grief. “Jeremy. You need hospital treatment. No wonder…”

He interrupted her. “The head guy put a knife to my eyes and said he’d blind me if I didn’t talk. I believed him, Colonel. I…” He began to sob.

Padgett-Smith wanted to hug the young American. But she merely placed a hand on his good shoulder.

Mohammed touched Johnson’s knee. “Jeremy, believe me. Nobody thinks ill of you. Nobody. We’re just glad to have you back.”

Johnson inhaled deeply, rubbing his watery eyes with one hand. “I know, sir. I know…”

Mohammed continued, “Do you feel like talking? We can debrief you later if you like.”

A decisive shake of the head. “No, Doctor. I want to get it out. All of it. Go ahead.”

“This head man, who was he?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me his name. He asked questions, not answered them. But he spoke good English.”

Leopole asked, “What did he look like?”

“Oh, mid to late forties. I think he was kind of tall, though he sat most of the time. Long, thin face with a full beard.”

“We’ll have some mug shots for you a bit later.” He stopped, then asked in as sympathetic a voice as possible, “J. J., what did they want to know?”

“They already knew about SSI, and they thought we’re involved in chemical or biological work. But…”

“Yes?”

Johnson turned his head toward CPS. “They wanted to know about Dr. Padgett-Smith.”

She sucked in her breath. A hand went to her throat. “Oh my god. How did they know my name?”

“They didn’t say, ma’am. But when I tried to stall, they whipped me even harder. Then the head guy grabbed my hair and said he’d cut my eyes out. So I told him what I knew.”

Mohammed sat beside Johnson, sensing the younger man’s self-imposed guilt. “Jeremy, this man. You said he spoke good English.”

“Yeah. He’s fluent.”

“Did he speak with an accent?”

“Sure, he’s Pakistani far as I know.”

“No, I mean, did he have a foreign accent? Something other than Pakistani.” Johnson stared at the floor, trying to conjure the tonal nuances. He raised his head. “He has sort of a British accent.”

Leopole looked at Mohammed. “What do you think, Doctor?”

“Just a moment. I’ll be right back.”

As Mohammed left the room, Malten continued working on Johnson. “J. J., can you stand up? I’ll see what I can do for your… lower back.”

Padgett-Smith took the hint. “I’ll see if I can help Omar.”

She caught him returning from the room that served as administrative office. “Omar, do you think that…”

“Great minds, Doctor. We’ll find out.”

When Malten finished his medical chores, Mohammed laid a file binder on Leopole’s desk. “Jeremy, this is from Major Khan. It includes photos of some known and suspected al Qaeda operatives and others of interest to us. Do you recognize any of them?”

Johnson flipped the pages, studying each face in turn. He paused at the eighth one. “This could be one of the bastards that whipped me. Kinda hard to say, though.”

As Mohammed made a note of the suspect’s name, Johnson continued looking, moving faster. Near the end of the file he came to an abrupt stop. He felt his pulse spike.

“I think that’s him.”

“The head guy?” Leopole asked.

Johnson looked again. “Yes, sir. He’s older, and he’s got more of a beard, but I’d bet that’s him.”

“How certain are you, J. J.?”

“Eighty-nine percent, sir.”

Leopole chuckled. “Well, that beats house odds anywhere I’ve ever been.” He turned to Mohammed. “Good work, Omar.”

Johnson turned the file to read the caption. “Saeed Sharif, DVM.”

Kassim brought a gift. In fact, two gifts in one package.

“Doctor, I would have a word.”

Ali set down the veterinary kit he was assembling for his day trip. “Surely.” He gestured to a chair.

Kassim did not bother to sit. “One of my men has approached me with an offer. His youngest son and a cousin both wish to join us. He says they are committed in the highest order.”

Ali blinked. “What does that mean?”

“One of the boys is sickly. He does not seem likely to outlive his father. Because of his faith, he believes he should offer himself to the jihad.”

“And the other?”

“They were raised together, much as brothers. The man — the uncle — says they wish to enter Paradise together.”

Ali thought for a moment. It seemed too good to be true: two volunteers presenting themselves at an opportune moment. No other bio couriers were readily available, and that fact made the veterinarian suspicious.

“You know these boys?”

Kassim shrugged. “I have met them; I have broken bread with them. If you ask me what is in their hearts, I cannot say. But I know the father and uncle, and I believe him.”

“Who is he?”

“Razak Sial. He fought against the Northern Alliance for perhaps two years, then returned to farming. He has two other sons to help him. The youngest is the weakest but the most devout. For that reason I thought you should meet him.”

“The father approached you?”

Kassim nodded.

“How much does he know?”

“He only knows that I am a fighter against the infidels. Nothing more.”

“How old are these boys?”

Kassim thought for a moment. “Eighteen and twenty, give or take a year.”

Ali thought again, weighing the options. “My friend, I thank you for your attention in this matter. I will see the father and the boys, but not in context of the jihad. I shall approach them as the veterinarian and feel them out.” He peered at the Syrian. “They must not know of our dealings. Not yet.”

“Brother, I understand your caution. But you will find that the boys are as I have said. They are willing to die in God’s service. They do not seem to care just how they enter Paradise.”

“Mike, J. J. Johnson’s back in Quetta. He’s pretty beat up but okay.”

The expression on Joe Wolf’s face magnified the heartfelt gratitude evident in his voice. He raised the email printout that followed Mohammed’s preliminary phone call. “Frank and Omar are debriefing him right away. Apparently he wants to tell his story before he goes to the hospital.”

Derringer shook his head. “If he’s okay why’s he need a hospital? Observation or something?”

Wolf referred to the printout. “Omar says they used a fan belt on him. Severe lacerations of the back, buttocks, and legs. There’s concern about infection.”

“Okay, Joe. Thanks.” The SSI executive flexed his fingers, forcing himself to relax. He had been composing a letter to Johnson’s parents, but in truth it would have been used as reference notes for the phone call. Now Derringer scribbled some additional comments in the margin. Wolf could see the relief on his face. When Derringer finally talked to Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, he could assure them that their son was safe and would return to Montana as soon as he could travel.

The admiral put down his pen and regarded Wolf. “Joe, I’d like to convene a meeting about this episode, maybe as soon as tomorrow. Depending on what we hear from Frank and Omar, I think we should draft a corporate policy for the future. We always anticipated losing people, but hostages and MIAs are another matter. What do you think?”

“I agree.” The ex-FBI man gave a sardonic grin. “One thing that occurs to me is long-term hostages or, as you say, MIAs. How long can we keep missing operators on the payroll? I mean, of course we’re going to look out for our people, but the board will want to have some input. Undoubtedly Marsh Wilmot and Regina Wells and Matt Finch will all have a say about policy and finances.”

Derringer almost flinched at Finch’s name. Matthew Finch, guru of the administrative support division, had allies on the board that backed many of his personnel decisions. Derringer and Wolf exchanged knowing glances. We should’ve dumped him when we had the chance. Now he was firmly entrenched.

Wolf looked for the silver lining. “At least Regina sees things more or less from Frank’s perspective. She almost seems to understand operations lately.”

“Yeah. You remember how Frank bitched and moaned when the board insisted on assigning him a budgeteer? To tell you the truth, I think she’d approve almost anything he proposed but she has to recommend denying some requests to satisfy the bean counters. Frank won’t say so, but I suspect he’s making some big-time equipment proposals that he knows won’t fly. Then it’s easier to get what he really wants.”

Wolf winked. “And they say marines aren’t very smart.”

Derringer raised his hands. “Not me. I never agreed with Sir Walter Scott.”

“Scott? What’s he got to do with it?”

“He wrote, ‘Tell it to the marines. The sailors won’t believe it.’”

Padgett-Smith checked on the patient the next morning. She found him bare-skinned on his stomach, sheet pulled up to a modest level. “You look much better,” she said. “I brought some tea and rolls.”

Johnson rolled onto one side. “That’s British hospitality. Tea in bed.” Only thing better would be you in bed, Doc.

“I understand you’ll be transferred to hospital today.”

Johnson sipped from the small cup merely to be polite. He had never cared for tea.

“Yes ma’am. That’s what Colonel Leopole said.” He reached toward the plate but she picked up a scone and handed it to him.

“Jeremy, I probably won’t have a chance to say a proper good-bye later. But I did so much want to see you… alone.”

Johnson perked up. Then he mentally slapped himself. Down, boy. “I appreciate that. Carolyn.”

“You’ve been through so much. But I remember that you said you might consider writing a memoir. I hope you do. Even if it’s not published, it could be…”

“Therapeutic.”

She glanced down. Then those violet eyes were on him again. “Yes. Quite right.”

“Well, I haven’t thought about it much. But I’ve learned a few things.

“Yes?”

He cleared his throat. “I meant to talk to Dr. Mohammed about this, because of the Muslim connection. But… I, ah…” He coughed, taking his time. “I took a prisoner with me when I escaped. One of the guards. I could’ve killed him no sweat, but he dropped his rifle and… well, there were other factors, but I just couldn’t cap him, standing there with his hands up.”

“He didn’t try to escape?”

“No, ma’am. We sort of became, like, friends. It was weird. We couldn’t really talk but we got to understand each other. I shared what water I had with him and he gave me directions. When we got within sight of the border, I said he could go. I tried to chase him away but he stayed with me.”

“So he’s with his own people?”

“No ma’am. He was shot protecting me in the firefight. When it was over, and the Pakis arrived, he was hurt bad. I went to him and he grabbed me and said something over and over. One of the guards spoke fair English and he translated.” Johnson’s voice trailed off.

“Jeremy, can you tell me what he said?”

A tear tracked its way down the ex-legionnaire’s cheek. His voice cracked as he said, “The debt is repaid.”

She patted his arm. “Well, maybe you can see him again.”

“Not in this life, ma’am. Not in this life.”