Pandora's Legion

25

Kassim had doubts.

“Doctor, I understand your eagerness to eliminate these strangers, especially if they are as you suspect. But I have few reliable fighters anymore. It takes time to grow mujahadin.” He paused for emphasis. “As you know.”

Ali exuded cool confidence. In truth, he had anticipated his colleague’s objections and was prepared for them. “You are correct, my brother. Nor would I dispute your knowledge of… such things. But consider this: your new men are excellent at scouting and observation. This opportunity will give them small unit combat experience. Their numbers almost equal the infidels: with surprise they will surely succeed.”

The veteran muj slowly shook his head. “I have seen it work the other way too many times. These Americans are almost certainly experienced. If they survive the initial volley — and some of them will — it could go badly.” He was setting up his final argument. “Allow me to accompany them. I can make the difference between success and failure.”

Ali rose from his rough desk and placed his hands on Kassim’s shoulders. “My brother — my friend — I shall do you the honor of speaking bluntly. I cannot spare you, and with your wooden foot, you would be at greater risk.” The vet shook his head. “No, Kassim. You must remain behind.”

Kassim capitulated with atypical good grace. He was accustomed to having his way in tactical matters, but he recognized the wisdom of his superior’s argument.

He also realized that Dr. Ali was willing to lose every man the Syrian had recruited and trained in the past several months in exchange for comparable losses among the Americans. And their British she-devil immunologist.

Lee was going to call a halt for the evening when the RPD gunner opened fire from barely forty meters uphill. Ollie Norton went down hard with the radio. Depending upon their training, judgment, or inclination, everybody else returned fire, hit the deck, or assaulted through the kill zone.

The mules brayed in panic, whipped their leads from the handlers, and fled as fast as four hooves would take them.

Lee had been on the receiving end of an ambush before. He knew that delay could be fatal, so he shouted for the nearest men to follow him. Bosco, Breezy, and a Pakistani joined him, sweeping the nearest rocks and foliage with full auto fire, clearing a path twenty meters wide. Reaching temporary safety, they knew the drill. “Cover!” Lee shouted.

“Covering!” Bosco replied.

Lee dumped his empty magazine, speed reloaded, chambered a round, and yelled “Ready!”

Bosco and Breezy hollered “Cover!” simultaneously. Lee responded, “Covering.” He scythed a short burst in the direction of the RPD. Seconds later the two partners called “Ready!”

The Pakistani soldier drew a G3 magazine, then calmly reloaded. Bosco thought, Either he’s a hell of a mule skinner or he doesn’t have a nerve in his body.

Lee looked around, trying to assess the situation. He badly wanted to regroup his dispersed team, lest it be destroyed in detail. He called out. “Rustam! You there?”

Khan responded from fifteen meters to the right rear. “Back here! We’re covering Hendricks.” The firefight had quickly stabilized, neither side now possessing an advantage.

Low crawling, Micky Hendricks was first to reach Norton and pulled the quick release clasps on the harness. He saw that the radio set had taken at least two 7.62 rounds; it looked useless.

The PRDC-150 was a high-end piece of gear: ten pounds without batteries and barely a foot square. Voice and data encryption, frequency-agile VHF. Now it was several thousand dollars’ worth of assorted spare parts.

Hendricks safed his weapon, slung it around his neck, and began the laborious process of dragging Norton to cover. Occasional AK rounds spattered the hard earth around him, but Lee’s and Khan’s teams suppressed most hostile fire. Lee recognized a no-win situation and began formulating a plan. He leaned close to Bosco and Breezy. “You two flank ‘em uphill to the left. The Paki and I will keep ‘em busy.”

The two friends looked at one another, tapped right fists together, and began to move out. Lee grabbed Breezy. “They might be flanking us — be alert.”

Breezy nodded, then was gone.

Lee grabbed his notebook from a vest pocket, scribbled a message, and used duct tape to secure it to a rock. He told his new partner, “Shoot!”

As the Pakistani soldier began firing semi-auto, Lee raised up and heaved the rock at Khan. One of his men saw the message inbound and rose to catch it. He drew immediate fire, taking bullet fragments off a boulder, but hauled in the missive. Khan read the printed note:

Khan called out. “Message received!”

Glancing over his right shoulder, Lee saw two or more of Khan’s team disappear around some boulders.

Bosco and Breezy had their moves down. They covered one another, keeping eyes and guns swiveling through 190 degrees as they advanced uphill. They heard the RPD and some AKs firing from the crest of the hummock and swung farther to their left in order to approach from behind. Reaching the decision point, they paused long enough to coordinate their move onto the skyline.

An armed man appeared twelve meters in front of Breezy. The former paratrooper raised his AK from low ready, got a quick sight picture, and pressed the trigger. Four rounds struck the gunman, who collapsed with his mouth agape. It happened before Bosco could react.

Both men realized what had happened. They had experienced what professionals call a meeting engagement: when two maneuver elements collide unexpectedly. The Americans were flanking the al Qaeda flankers.

Seconds later two more figures emerged from the boulders uphill. One saw what he saw, spun on a heel, and fled. The other opened fire from waist level, hip shooting on full auto. His burst went low and left. Breezy’s and Bosco’s sighted rounds left red gouts on his torso. He was a big man, probably 250 pounds, and somehow stayed on his feet. Breezy was aiming a head shot when the terrorist dropped to his knees and pitched forward, downhill.

Breezy called “Cover!” and dropped to kneeling. As he executed a tactical reload, Bosco replied, “Covering.” After Breezy stashed his partly used mag he nodded to his partner. Bosco said, “Set.”

Breezy knew the drill: he shouted, “Go!”

They continued uphill, pushing hard because they had been spotted.

Topping the crest, the SSI men saw the geometry of the ambush. The machine gun was sited improperly, perpendicular to the trail rather than at the head, where the gunner could have fired down the enemy’s route of advance. One or two riflemen were positioned over there, engaged in occasional fusillades with Lee. Farther “upstream” were at least three more shooters trying to keep Khan’s men pinned down.

“Look!” Bosco pointed out the survivor of the recent shootout, sprinting for the safety of the RPD nest. Both Americans began shooting at the running man at least fifty meters away. Bosco was first on the trigger, firing while standing. Breezy plopped into a hasty sitting position. Their bullets impacted ahead and behind the fleeting bandit. Breezy realized he was pumped; he forced himself to breathe deeply and concentrate. At a quartering aspect, he put his front sight one width ahead of the target and pressed the trigger straight back.

The man seemed to stumble, regain his balance, and continue ahead. Then he slowed. Bosco’s next round knocked him down.

Now aware of its peril, the MG crew swung toward the uphill threat. Before the belt-fed weapon could open up, more firing erupted behind the RPD. The loader was badly hit, rolling on the rocky ground. Then the gunner was cut down by 7.62 rounds from two of Khan’s team. The Americans recognized Blake O’Neil and a Paki, who waved from about 120 meters. They advanced cautiously on the gun crew, rifles pointed at the two “items” while covering forty meters of open ground.

Bosco began searching the enemy bodies for information. Finding only al Qaeda propaganda, he handed the papers to the Pakistani NCO.

O’Neil kicked one of the prostrate gunmen in the ribs. The man groaned loudly and O’Neil shouted, “We got a live one here.”Then he bound the man’s hands. Khan sprinted to the scene and pulled back the gunman’s robe and vest. “Femur, through and through. He can talk.” Khan motioned for the Paki medic, who went to work.

Breezy toed one of the corpses with his boot. “Man, they shoulda had us.”

Bosco held out his hands; the left was steady but the right had a tremor. “Bad setup, dude. I wonder why they put the belt-fed uphill. They coulda hosed the length of our column from the head of the trail.”

“Come on down!” Lee shouted from the trail, eager to regroup his small force. He could not assume that all the opposition had been killed or repulsed. The SSI men picked up the enemy weapons and alternately stepped and slid down the hummock.

Lee did a quick head count. One mule handler was dead and one was missing. Norton, the radioman, was seriously hurt and the radio was destroyed. “Our spare radio was on the second mule, and he’s long gone.”

Khan produced a hand-held radio. “Major Lee, not to worry. This is a short-range set but I can pass a message to the district commander. He can notify Quetta for us. It may take some time, however.”

Dr. Chaudhry pulled a blanket over the dead Paki soldier. “What about our casualties?”

Lee exhaled audibly. “We can’t bury the KIA in this soil, Doctor. Maybe our remaining mule can pack him and Norton off this mountain tomorrow. That leaves one handler missing as well.”

Lee looked around again. Finally he asked, “Where’s Padgett-Smith?”

Carolyn Padgett-Smith looked around. She felt a shiver between her shoulder blades. She was alone.

Not just alone, but stranded in remote, hostile territory: a European woman without communications or food, who spoke no local dialect. She spent fifteen fervent seconds berating herself. You stupid, stupid twit. You clot! You vain, unthinking female! Chasing after a mule — as if you could ever catch one. And if you did: then what? You can only hang on to the brute’s lead rope.

CPS looked back in the direction she had come. Or thought she had come. With her focus on the scampering pack animal bearing her supplies, she now realized that she had paid little attention to the terrain. You didn’t even make note of trees or boulders. Twit. Looking at the sky, she realized that daylight was an expendable asset: she could use it to search for Lee and company, or she could climb to a protected position before darkness descended. She decided to seek high ground and find shelter from the wind.

Padgett-Smith recalled Breezy’s comments: Fire three shots one minute apart. Sit tight and we’ll find you. She wondered if she should try the signal, but thought better of it. By the time anyone could reach her area, night would have descended, and she knew something of the risk in stumbling around a combat zone in the dark.

While scaling a rocky slope she took stock of her assets: a coat and gloves and the Klimov that Frank Leopole had insisted she take. Thank you, Frank. You were right, you sweet man.

Once settled beneath a protected outcropping, Padgett-Smith tried to get comfortable. She knew it was an impossible task but she wanted to sleep sitting up, if she could sleep at all. In the tight quarters she checked her AKS to ensure it was loaded and set it aside. Then she drew her Browning, chambered a round, and applied the safety. It was going to be a long, lonely night.

After securing the area, Lee deployed lookouts on each side of the ravine. He was discussing where to proceed when Khan ambled into the group, limping slightly. Most of the talk was about Padgett-Smith. “I saw her about forty meters northeast of me,” Khan related. “I was going after her when my foot slipped into a crack in the shale. My ankle won’t support my full weight for a while.”

“What was she doing?”

“I do not know. I just looked up and saw her out there…”

“She was chasing the damn mule,” Hendricks exclaimed. “It must’ve broken loose from its handler when the shooting started. I guess she was worried about her microscopes and stuff.”

Lee focused on the former policeman. “If you saw that…”

“Well, sir, I was kinda busy. You know, shooting and reloading and shooting.” Hendricks kept a level tone in his voice. “I saw Major Khan headed that way and figured he’d catch her. I didn’t know he twisted his ankle.”

Lee checked his watch. “That was barely thirty minutes ago. She can’t be very far away.”

O’Neil interjected. “Well, we can’t go stumbling around in the dark, calling her name. The gooners would find her… or us.”

Lee rubbed his bearded chin. “Concur. She’s a smart lady. She’ll fort up somewhere and stay put. We’ll go find her come sunup.” He looked around. “Meanwhile, let’s leg it out of here while we still have some light. We’ll find another spot for a night defensive position. Cold camp: no fires, no lights, and damn little talking.”

Kassim sized up the mule handler as a man who would respond to reason.

“Son of a whore! You take the Americans’ money and lead them to us!” The Syrian made a show of drawing his knife. Eight inches of honed, rusty steel glinted before the captive’s eyes.

The Pakistani noncom watched the blade waving before him. He almost admired the way the steel weaved and danced. He found himself speaking freely, completely, and honestly. The interrogation lasted less than ten minutes before the man’s knowledge was drained.

Ali, who had remained concealed during the process, consulted with Kassim after the prisoner was led away to an uncertain fate. “What do you think?”

“I believe that he held nothing back.” Kassim gave his wolfish grin. “Bare steel and loud voices frequently produce results.”

“Well?”

“The team is composed of a Pakistani major, a doctor, medic, and two other animal handlers. There are six Americans and the English woman. That vermin”—Kassim nodded toward the departing noncom—”says the mules carried very little medical supplies. Mostly camping equipment, food, water, and some fodder.”

Ali shifted his weight and folded his arms — a sign of agitation. “Kassim, what is their purpose?” His voice was flat, urgent.

“Presumably they were providing medical assistance to the poor in this area. The bought dog believes they had another purpose related to the woman but he says he was not informed of the details. I tend to believe him.”

“Surely he must have overheard something more.”

Kassim leaned slightly forward for emphasis. “Brother, I have much experience in such things. I tell you, he held nothing back.”

Ali accepted his colleague’s professional judgment. He began thinking ahead. “You say we lost six men?”

“Seven, counting Loal. He will live but he is useless for now.”

“You realize that we must press them tomorrow. As hard and as fast as possible. They can be flown out almost any time.”

Kassim spread his hands. “More men are on the way here. They should arrive before morning, but as I have said: concentrating against the Americans leaves us weak elsewhere.”

Ali nodded his understanding. “Yes, I know. But this is the decisive point at this moment.” He jabbed a bony finger earthward. “If we kill more Americans tomorrow, they will almost certainly leave. It will give us more time to send the next couriers to their destiny.”

The Syrian veteran bobbed his head in assent. “I hear, brother, and I obey.” He turned to go.

“Kassim!”

“Yes?”

“I want the woman. Alive if possible, but dead if you must.”

“As you wish, Doctor.”