Pandora's Legion

26

The Pandora Project had turned to hash.

Derringer read Mohammed’s email, then read it again out loud. “Lee’s SSI-Pak search team ambushed late yesterday border area near Chaman. One Pak KIA, one MIA, and Norton WIA serious. Padgett-Smith missing. Lee searching this AM and will advise ASAP. Interrogation of one POW indicates probable aQ connection. Helo extraction likely today depending on CPS results. Suggest withholding notification of NOK until later. Omar.”

Derringer shoved back from his console and stood up. Then he realized that he had no idea where he was likely to go. He sat down again, staring at the screen. He wondered if he should call Phillip Catterly to announce Padgett-Smith’s disappearance, then thought better of it. If she were not found today, there would be ample time to pass the word to her colleague in Maryland and her next of kin in Britain.

Dr. Carolyn Padgett-Smith awoke with a start. She did not know what had stirred her, but the knowledge came edging up with the gray dawn. I did sleep after all.

It had been a hard night, literally and figuratively. Though the rocky depression was mostly out of the wind, there was no way to get comfortable in her stony sanctuary. She scooted her bottom across the hard, flat surface and heard a faint ripping sound. She knew immediately that her favorite Gore-Tex parka had torn again but she barely gave a thought to the 180 Pounds she had invested in it. Her hideout was full of snags, and another ripstop hole could hardly matter.

The crest was growing more discernable in the faint light, but most of the hill remained hidden in shadow. With her knees drawn up, she realized that her pistol had fallen between her feet. She retrieved it and laid it beside her. In a little while the hillside below would become visible and she could deploy the Klimov.

Water. She realized that she was thirsty but she also wanted to rinse the night taste from her mouth. Having no canteen, she put the thought out of mind. As per her training and inclination, she reviewed yesterday’s events, cataloging her list of errors. I was such a twit. I wanted to keep up with the young men so I put most of my kit on the mule. Damn it! I know better than that! In terrain like this you always, always keep water and some rations on you. Imbecile. Idiot. Twit.

She began wondering what she would say to Lee and the others— assuming they found her. No, stop it, Carolyn! Figure what you will say when they find you.

Breezy. His short description of the gunshot signal forced its way to the front of her consciousness. She had not thought of it since beginning her climb last evening. She risked a glance around the corner of her hideout, trying to see into the narrow path below. It was still dark. She decided that when she could see the trail she would fire the shots, evenly spaced. Undoubtedly the SSI team would be looking for her by then.

Undoubtedly.

Kassim was taking no chances. False foot or not, he led the impromptu band of fighters toward the scene of the previous evening’s firefight. He had neither requested permission from Ali nor informed him. Sometimes a leader had to lead from the front.

The point man came across the spot where the infidels had been ambushed. He knelt down, as it was now light enough to read the evidence. Spent brass littered the ground, with occasional hoofprints where laden mules had left their mark. The soil was too hard in most places for mere humans to make an imprint.

The infidels had left the holy warriors’ bodies in a row. At least there was no desecration, and someone — probably a Pakistani — had covered them with blankets and a tarp. The scout pulled back one corner to study the lifeless faces of his fellow mujahadin. He recognized only two. Mohammed and Weanus had fought at his side a time or two. The others were newer recruits. One appeared to be about fifteen. Now, all were honored in Paradise.

Kassim followed the point man by less than five minutes. When he appeared, they briefly consulted on the best course to follow. The scout, a twenty-six-year-old laborer named Dualeh, noted where two mules had run off, frightened by the sudden gunfire. The third emerged from the hard ground onto a softer path, obviously walking rather than running. A few bootprints indicated that the animal had been under human control.

“This way,” Dualeh said.

The twelve men began following the trail northeasterly, keeping intervals with flankers on each side, according to Kassim’s orders.

A single gunshot split the crisp morning air.

The hunters stopped in place, then spread half and half to each side of the trail, rifles pointed uphill. They were somewhat slow, but Kassim was pleased with their response. A little training could go a long way.

Another shot. Kassim thought that it was a pistol. Somewhere behind them.

About one minute passed. A third shot, then nothing.

Kassim turned to Dualeh. “That is no coincidence. It must be some kind of signal.” Without waiting, the Syrian jogged to the rear of the column, his awkward gait evident but of little hindrance. He shouted, “Aana!” Come! The others turned to follow their leader, now up front again.

Half a kilometer northeast, Steve Lee and Rustam Khan heard a faint sound. Abruptly they stopped and listened. Bosco and Breezy were close behind. Bosco asked, “What’s up, dude?”

Breezy raised a hand for silence. He heard the next pop and checked his watch.

Sixty-one seconds later another shot cracked out, ringing off a canyon wall. Breezy paced the distance to Lee. “Sir, that’s gotta be her. Remember? I told her to cap off three rounds a minute apart.”

Lee regarded Mr. Brezyinski with newfound respect. Maybe he’s not such a juvenile delinquent after all. “All right, you convinced me. We’ll hustle off that way with six of us. The rest will stay here with the mule and the casualties.”

Breezy asked, “Should we shoot three in reply?” As soon as he spoke, he realized the answer.

“Negative, Brezyinski. There could be hostiles out there. No point in telling them where we are. Besides, she’ll repeat the signal in ten mikes, right?”

“Uh, yessir.”

Lee turned briefly to face his team. “Combat check, gentlemen. Round chambered, safety on, drop your rucks. We may have to move fast.”

Lee, Khan, Breezy, Bosco, Hendricks, and O’Neil set a quick pace with the rising sun at their backs.

Padgett-Smith waited nine minutes, then hefted the pistol again. She was disappointed in hearing no response but realized that her friends might not be within earshot yet.

Once again she ran the math. With ten rounds remaining she could fire the three-shot signal for thirty more minutes with one round left. Save the last one for yourself, she gloomed. Then she looked down at the shorty AK, mindful that it held thirty more rounds. At that moment, how any female could object to firearms was far, far beyond her.

She held her watch close, waited the final minute, and raised the Browning once more.

Another shot echoed off the rocks. Dualeh walked forward while Kassim raised a hand, signaling a stop. Again his men deployed to either side of the road, forming a rude skirmish line. Kassim thought to look at his wristwatch. He seldom gave much thought to time — it was either a precious gift or a useful commodity, depending upon circumstances. He had experienced events in which men literally lived a lifetime in a few ticks of the clock — and the celestial sweep hand came to an abrupt stop.

He had also witnessed strong men praying aloud to their deity for time to end.

However, there were occasions when one badly wanted chronological precision. Coordinating troop movements or noting the routine of guard changes could be most useful. In this instance, he thought he discerned a pattern. He stood to one side of the path, watching his Russian timepiece. The second shot came approximately sixty seconds after the first.

The third was exactly on schedule.

Dualeh was facing southwesterly, his educated ears sensing the compass arc of the gunshots. He raised his AK’s muzzle and said, “This way, brother.” Then he was jogging down the trail.

Kassim whistled to his men. He would lead them in a fast walk for the next several minutes, then stop to listen again.

Lee raised a hand. He sensed his five men kneeling in a semicircle behind him, weapons pointed outward. “You heard that?” he asked.

“Yes,” Khan replied. Both men checked their watches. “She is punctual, this lady.” He smiled beneath his well trimmed mustache. “Like clockwork.”

Lee grunted in appreciation of the humor. It was not what he expected of most Pakistani officers, who in his experience tended toward the studious. The team continued walking, gaining more ground before the next two shots.

At the third round, Lee stopped again and raised his pocket binoculars. He knew he was still too far to see the doctor but he wanted a better idea of the terrain. More to himself than to Khan he said, “She’ll probably be in the high ground where she can see us coming.”

“Or them,” Khan added.

With a start, Lee realized that CPS would have a hard time distinguishing friendlies from hostiles. Both sides dressed much alike and bore the same weapons. Without explaining, he broke into a trot, leaving the others to catch up.

Padgett-Smith capped her twelfth round thirty-eight minutes after the first. The sun was well up, but she had seen no indication of any people on the trail some 220 meters downslope. She holstered the Browning with its one remaining cartridge and picked up the AKS. She wondered how much of her precious ammunition she should continue expending with no result.

At the fourth set of shots, Kassim’s searchers had closed the distance toward the English woman’s rocky tor. His focus had increasingly been drawn to the most prominent overhang on the south side of the ravine. He turned to one of his men. “Koali, you speak English.” It was a statement but was meant as a question.

Achmed Koali, an erstwhile engineering student, stepped forward. “Yes, brother.”

“When they fire again, I will reply with three fast shots. You be prepared to call out.”

“What shall I say?”

Kassim’s face reddened in the slanting light. “Young fool! Just call to them. Ask where they are. Ask if they need assistance. Anything!”

Koali absorbed the mild rebuke with a nod and downcast eyes.

There they were!

Padgett-Smith caught the movement along the trail. Shadows appeared before the shapes of the men, their drab clothing blending with the surroundings. “Thank you, God!” she exclaimed aloud. She pointed the AK upward and fired three rounds spaced a few seconds apart.

Kassim stopped and turned his face upward to his left front. He could not see anyone but there was no doubt. The mysterious person or persons had to be somewhere near the military crest of the hill. He elevated his AKM and fired an identical response: three spaced rounds. Then he gestured to Koali.

The youngster raised a hand to his mouth. “Hello! Where are you?”

Padgett-Smith’s pulse spiked. She raised herself from the cramped position and waved both arms over her head. “Up here! Up here!”

From barely a klick away, the Americans heard three shots followed by three more. Steve Lee turned to Rustam Khan. “Oh, shit.” Both men took off at a dead run. The others pounded along behind them.

“Let them come to us,” Kassim said.

He deployed his men in a skirmish line, prepared to meet the strangers with numbers and firepower in his favor. Once the shooter or shooters emerged into the open he would have a much better idea of what he faced. Meanwhile, his men would have the advantage of cover. One or two of the fighters — new to the trade — showed an edgy mixture of eagerness and tension. They knew what had happened the previous evening and Kassim resolved to keep an eye on them.

One figure emerged from the outcrop near the crest. With irritating slowness it made its way downward in a cautious, tentative descent that piqued the Syrian. He realized that if this person belonged to the Americans — which seemed nearly certain — the others would be looking for him. They undoubtedly would have heard the gunshots and were likely to appear from any quarter. Kassim made an adjustment to his perimeter, turning his flankers to face outward.

Padgett-Smith reached a short stretch of almost level ground. She stopped a moment to get her bearings, as the easier way down took her angling away from the men below. She looked at them while inhaling, allowing her heart to settle down.

Something was odd.

The numbers were about right, but she could not identify anyone. From 180 meters faces were indistinguishable, but after weeks with SSI she knew the men’s stance; their tactical moves. She tried to pick out Steve Lee or Breezy Brezyinski. She could not.

There were no mules.

Chasing a runaway mule had got her stranded all night, but surely at least one of the animals would have been caught by now. Wouldn’t it want to rejoin its friends or masters?

She felt a coldness descending upon the original flush of hope.

Cupping both hands to her mouth, she carefully called out. “Who… are… you?” The words rebounded off the rock wall.

Kassim turned to Koali. “What did he say?”

The youngster shook his head. “I cannot tell.”

“Well, reply to him. Tell him to come down.”

Koali turned and shouted back. “Come to us. Quickly!”

Padgett-Smith heard the man’s tone better than his words. She looked to both sides, hoping for more familiar figures that did not appear. At least the people below spoke English. She proceeded slowly down the slope, keeping her Klimov slung around her neck; she would stay outside of easy shooting distance until she knew more about the armed men below.

Kassim was not pleased; the process was taking too long. He glanced at his men and noted more signs of nervousness. New recruits that they were, the youngest mujahadin realized their exposed position along the trail.

Kassim gestured to Koali. “Take one man and go meet this infidel. Tell him you are looking for some missing Americans.”

The former engineering student called to a partner and took a quick pace uphill. He stopped occasionally to wave in friendly fashion to the stranger, calling generic greetings.

Padgett-Smith allowed the two men to get within eighty meters— she thought it one hundred. That’s close enough. She stopped beside a four-foot boulder that afforded good cover. “Who are you?” she shouted again.

Koali heard the words more clearly this time. It was odd: the voice was almost feminine. He raised his hands to his mouth. “Pakistani Army. Searching for the Americans.”

CPS was taken aback. The response made sense — surely Lee or Khan would have called for help. But the apparent rescuers were dressed like tribesmen. Why no uniforms? And they mostly carried Kalashnikovs instead of the Heckler-Kochs she had seen with Paki troops.

She backpedaled uphill, working behind the boulder while un-slinging her rifle and extending the folding stock. “One of you. Come closer!”

Koali spoke to his friend, who dropped into a shallow defile. Keeping his own weapon pointed low, the erstwhile engineer walked within fifty meters of the stranger.

“That’s far enough!” she shouted. Now he was certain. She.

The young Pakistani thought fast. “Please come. It is dangerous here.”

“Who… are… you… looking… for?”

“Americans. Missing from last night.”

“Who… are… their… leaders?”

Koali heard the question plainly. He shook his head, playing for time. “I do not understand.”

She knew this game could last indefinitely. If they were hostile, it would give the others time to get behind her. She called, “Drop your weapon and come closer.”

Koali looked back toward Kassim, who stood with obviously growing impatience. The young man laid down his AK and walked forward.

At thirty meters he could see her face. Quite an attractive face.

“Stop there/’ she said.

He raised his hands. “Lady please come. No time.”

“If you’re from the army, why don’t you wear uniforms?”

Koali was quick on his feet. “We are special unit. No uniforms.”

That seemed barely plausible. But if the searchers were looking for SSI people, some names would be known. “Who leads the Americans?”

“I do not know. My leader knows.”

“Then who is the Pakistani officer with them?”

Koali shook his head. “I do not know. But please. Come.” He gestured in a friendly manner.

Keep him talking. “Then go to your leader. Come back with the name of the American or Pakistani officer.”

With little option, Koali bowed politely, turned and walked downhill, retrieving his AK-47 along the way. His partner remained in place.

“What is happening?” Kassim asked.

“She wants to know the name of…”

“She?”

“Yes, yes. A woman.”

“English?” Kassim demanded.

Koali thought for a moment. “Probably.”

Kassim looked uphill nearly 150 meters where the lone figure stood behind the rock. “Allah be praised. The doctor will have his wish.”

“She does not believe we are with the army. She wants me to tell the name of the infidel leaders we seek.”

The Syrian paid tacit tribute to the British woman’s caution. This was no trusting female to be cajoled or bullied. “Return to her. Say that headquarters knows the names but our radio is in a truck nearby. Say that al Qaeda fighters are in the area. We will escort her to safety or we must leave.”

As Koali turned to go, he heard Kassim giving orders to three men. “Keep low but work uphill behind that boulder. The doctor wants her alive.”

Come on, come on, you twit. Padgett-Smith mentally urged the young Pakistani to walk faster. She realized the incongruity: the longer she stalled the men below, the more time for Lee and Khan to find her. But the tension grated on her.

At length the Pakistani was back in talking distance, carrying his AK muzzle low. “Lady, my leader he does not have names. We can call on radio in truck.” He gestured vaguely to the east. “We call when you come down.”

A thought pushed its way to the front of her mind. “Who is your leader?”

The sharp, unexpected question caught Koali off guard. “What?”

“I said… who is your leader?”

Koali was nonplussed. He decided to take the path of least resistance. “He is Kassim.”

“What rank?”

“Rank?”

“Yes, rank, you clot! Sergeant, lieutenant? What rank in the army?”

“Oh, he is… captain.”

“Captain Kassim.”

“Yes, yes. Please, lady. Come.”

Nor bloody likely. Padgett-Smith flicked her safety to semi-auto. “Thank you for your offer. I believe I will stay here.”

Koali had enough of the foreign woman’s damnable games. He took two steps closer. “You come! You must come! Danger here!”

She kept her voice clear and firm. “No. I will stay.”

The gunman felt his hackles rising. “Woman! Enough! You must come!” He started uphill.

Padgett-Smith raised the Klimov’s muzzle and placed the front sight on the man’s chest. “Go away.”

Koali had been shot at but never threatened by a female, armed or otherwise. His eyes went saucer-wide as the 5 .45mm bore seemed to expand to 12-gauge diameter. Reflexively, he raised his own AK.

His guardian, still crouched in the depression fifty meters downslope, saw the apparently deadly pantomime. He responded as a fighting comrade would.

The first 7.62 round snapped past Padgett-Smith’s head, eight inches left. Frightened and angry, her own reflexes kicked in. She pressed her trigger twice.

Lee’s team heard the first three shots. After that, the hillside a few hundred meters ahead of them erupted with gunfire.

The SSI men deployed into a skirmish line and advanced as fast as the contradictory concerns of urgency and prudence dictated.

For the first time, Carolyn Padgett-Smith had made a life or death decision on behalf of herself. She briefly registered the fact that she felt coolly detached after shooting the young man with whom she had conversed. Then she was concerned with his partner, firing at her position from fifty meters downslope. The incoming fire from the group on the trail did not immediately bother her; it was rapid and ill directed.

Kassim hobbled on his prosthesis, trying to control his men’s fire. The distance was greater than normal and about thirty degrees uphill. He hoped that at least it would pin the she-devil to her boulder, allowing his flankers to gain position. He sent two more men wide to the right. He knew that the two teams might shoot one another, but it was worthwhile if it delivered the female scientist to Dr. Ali.

Though relatively safe from frontal fire, CPS realized that she was vulnerable on both sides. I’ll go back uphill, they can shoot at me in the open. But if I stay here they’ll surround me. She leaned out the left side of the rock and fired two rounds at the nearest gunman. Then, keeping the rock between herself and the shooters, she scampered uphill toward the next defensible position.

Dodging left and right, hearing rounds cracking past her and ricocheting off rocks, Padgett-Smith flopped into a depression sixty meters above her previous site. She tried to control her breathing, knowing she was doing a poor job. Fear aggravated the physical effort of running uphill, spoiling her concentration. She knew that the ammunition remaining in her rifle was as important as the blood in her veins: the curved magazine was growing lighter as she fired cautionary shots at vague figures even as her lungs experienced oxygen debt. She breathed in mouths full of mountain air, willing her heart to settle down.

A round snap-cracked from the right front, farther downslope. She looked over the top of her berm, trying to spot the shooter. He was well hidden. Her focus swung back to her previous boulder, where she thought that the English speaker’s partner might appear. So far he remained out of sight.

I’m so… winded. But can’t stay here. Must reach my night position. Last stand there. With an athlete’s ego, she willed herself onto her feet and moved again.

Kassim was almost livid. The men he had sent uphill to flank the English woman were acting like females themselves. Whenever she fired at them, the fighters went to earth. The uphill chase was taking far too long. He had to move two men to his rear to watch for the Americans who must have heard the shooting by now.

Padgett-Smith reached her goal with seventeen rounds to spare. Sliding beneath the rocky outcropping, she almost felt at home. Though she had never heard the term, she had chosen the military crest of the hill — the last defensible position before the physical peak. The overhang that had helped keep the wind away meant that the pursuers could not shoot at her from behind. They would have to approach from the front or sides, where she had a decent view from sixty to ninety meters.

Kassim’s two flanking teams converged on the outcrop from left and right. They had no way of coordinating their movements but realized that while one group fired at the woman’s position, the other could advance.

It worked — up to a point. The teenager rushing forward from her left was as healthy as he was young, and he dashed straight uphill toward a protected position.

Padgett-Smith swung on him, got three seconds’ tracking time, and pressed the trigger. The boy took an A-zone hit below the notch of the sternum and went down hard, his spine broken. For an instant he raised his head and the enemies locked eyes. From thirty-five meters the British doctor saw the Pakistani youngster mouthing unheard words. Then he went limp.

The boy’s death affected Kassim’s flankers in different ways. Of the four remaining, three were enraged and one grief stricken. The trio kept firing at the infidel’s position but she had proven herself: they had to respect the threat. The fourth sobbed aloud, repeatedly calling his brother’s name.

By alternating rushes, the three effective fighters tried to gain a favorable angle on the flanks. Each time one of them appeared, the English woman fired single shots, halting the advance or forcing a move to cover.

During a lull, CPS withdrew the rifle’s magazine. She saw three rounds, with one in the chamber.

Plus the salvation round in the pistol. Then she had a dreadful thought: What if it’s a dud?

No time to speculate. The mujahadin were moving again. She focused on her front sight as Tony had drummed into her so long, long ago at Credenhill. She decided to ignore the bullet impacts on the surrounding rocks. Two men were rushing her at once. She put her sight on the nearest one and fired twice. He ducked or dropped; she couldn’t tell. She swung on the other. He was so close. She fired once, twice, and felt the bolt lock back.

Carolyn Padgett-Smith dropped the AKS and grabbed her Browning, knowing what she needed to do.

What if it’s a dud?

A sonic wave swept uphill from the trail: a surging, roiling volume of gunfire.

Lee’s team arrived within range of the al Qaeda men with mixed assets: good position, almost equal numbers, plenty of ammo, and short of breath.

Kassim’s rear guard had seen them coming, fired several hasty shots, and dashed back to the trail. The Syrian was turning his remaining force to confront the newcomers when aimed 7.62 fire began reducing his numbers. Two men dropped almost immediately. Another scrambled down the trail; had there been time Kassim would have shot him in the back.

With a hostile force of unknown size behind him, Kassim recognized a no-win setup. He organized a fighting withdrawal, leapfrogging his remaining men into the rocks and boulders on the near side of the trail with a steep dropoff. He cast a longing glance uphill where the English woman had held out so long. May Satan take her. His men up there would have to fend for themselves. Then he was gone.

Bosco and Breezy had plopped into hasty prone positions as soon as they had targets. Like everyone else, they were out of breath but at sixty to eighty meters, they made good use of the steady position. It was over in seconds. Hendricks, the least fit of the military athletes, felt jilted: trailing by forty meters, he never got a shot.

Khan took Blake, pursuing the mujahadin to the rim of the trail. Once the fighters were over the lip, they could slide and roll downhill for a few hundred meters. There was no point pursuing.

Lee had his binoculars out, scanning the uphill slope. “I don’t see any… wait!” He pointed to a prominent boulder about eighty meters away. “Looks like a body there. You, you, you — check it out. Search to the top if you have to.”

Bosco, Breezy, and O’Neil eagerly complied. They began the climb, calling for Carolyn Padgett-Smith.

Bosco was back twenty minutes later, carrying an AKS. He handed it to Lee. “Sir, this was in the den near the crest. Lots of brass and two muj. One dead, one crippled. Breezy’s working on him. No sign of her.”

Sick at heart, Lee accepted the Klimov, noting that the magazine was empty. She didn’t want to carry a reload. He nodded glumly, then turned to Khan. “Major, I suggest that we search the reverse slope. She might have gone downhill from the top.”

Khan tweaked his mustache. “Of course, we should look. But we may still be outnumbered, and our force is divided. I suggest that we send a runner to bring the others here in case the terrorists regroup. The med-evac helicopter should have picked up our casualties by now.”

Lee considered his colleague’s argument and decided it made sense. “Very well. Can you contact Quetta and request one or both of our Hips?”

“Surely, Major. It shall be done.”

Lee sat on a flat boulder and gathered his thoughts. He was still fighting the queasiness in his gut — the gnawing thought that he may have lost Dr. Carolyn Padgett-Smith. Damn freaking stupid thing to do — bring a civilian female out here. What in hell was Frank thinking? He caught himself. Hell, what was I thinking?

He pulled his canteen and took a long gulp of water. Whatever happened, he was going to taste something stronger back at base.