Pandora's Legion

27

Three SSI operators spent nearly an hour combing the crest of the hill, easing their way down the far slope. They called frequently for Padgett-Smith, but got no response.

By the time Terry Keegan arrived in Helo One, the searchers were looking on the reverse slope. In order to coordinate the rescue effort, he landed briefly on the crest and the crew chief handed out two radios with frequencies compatible with the Hip’s gear. Then Keegan pulled pitch, lifted off, and pedal-turned down the face of the slope.

Lee, belatedly arriving at the crest, keyed his mike. “One, this is Lee. Copy?”

“Copy, Major.”

“Say status Helo Two. Over.”

Keegan’s voice crackled in the handset. “En route in three-zero… make that two-zero mikes. Hydraulic problem. Over.”

“Ah, roger that. Status of our casualties?”

“Dustoff was inbound when we took off, sir. Over.”

Lee double-clicked to end the discussion. He turned to Khan.

“The med-evac flight was about to land when Keegan left Quetta. Hip Two should be here in twenty minutes or so.”

Keegan slowed to forty knots and surveyed the terrain before him. He assumed that Dr. Padgett-Smith would take the easiest route downhill — assuming she went that way — and planned his search pattern accordingly. His Pakistani copilot used a colored pen to trace the Hip’s flight path, avoiding duplicate effort when Marsh arrived.

Ten minutes later the noncommissioned crew chief pointed to the right and called over the intercom. “Sir, what is that?”

Keegan turned to the heading and saw what he saw. Closing to one hundred meters, he gave a huge grin behind his lip mike. “Lee, this is Hip One. Over.”

“Ah, copy.”

“Call in your dudes, Major. I’m returning with Charlie Poppa Sierra.”

Padgett-Smith got out of the helo and walked briskly to the edge of the crest. She pulled her Browning, pointed it downhill, and pressed the trigger. The Hi-Power recoiled and the slide locked back. She holstered the empty pistol and looked at Steve Lee. There were tears on her dirty cheeks and a grim smile on her lips. “I just had to know…”

Lee wrapped his arms around her and felt her start to tremble. “I know, Carolyn. I know.”

He hadn’t a clue.

Sandy Carmichael read the email first. She emitted an Alabama shriek and dashed out of her office, bound for the board room.

“They found her! Padgett-Smith is alive!”

Derringer, Wolf, and some others turned in their padded chairs. Carmichael logged the different responses. Smiling broadly, the admiral pounded his right fist into his left palm. Joe Wolf crossed himself and briefly bowed his head. Everyone else hollered and congratulated one another.

Derringer broke in: “Sandy, what happened?”

“Well, sir, there’s an email from Frank. He’ll send an after-action report but here’s the short version. After the ambush last night, Dr. Smith found some high ground and stayed put. At dawn she started firing a prearranged signal. But the al Qaeda gang got to her first. Evidently there was quite a firefight. She held them off for quite a while and even killed a couple.”

“You go, girl!”

Carmichael turned to see Sallie Ann at the door. She had heard the excitement.

Derringer and Wolf exchanged knowing male glances. Nobody needed to state the obvious: two women affiliated with SSI now had shot for blood. The admiral made a mental note to caution his colleagues against making too much of that fact. Male or female.

“Anyway,” Carmichael continued, “she was out of ammo so she ran down the far slope of the mountain. That was when Steve Lee’s team arrived. They chased off the terrorists, and Terry Keegan lifted them back to base.”

Wolf spoke for many in the room. “I don’t care if I have to buy a ticket to London. I want to meet that lady.”

The sentiment was widely shared as the meeting disintegrated into animated conversation. Derringer decided to let it go for a while. Leaning back, both hands beneath his chin, he mused about the situation. Was it a good idea to take a woman into the field? Was it worth the risk? What if we’d lost her?

At length, he decided not to second-guess his field commander from the comfort of the nation’s capital. That’s how we screwed up Vietnam. But he was grateful that he could now pass good news to Phil Catterly, to say nothing of Charles Padgett-Smith.

As he watched his effusive staffers, Michael Derringer defaulted to his commanding officer programming. Yes, there was reason for gratitude, but not for celebration. In a way, the operation was similar to so many Vietnam episodes: a mission with a specific purpose had turned into an SAR exercise. The search-and-rescue phase was successful but the enemy was still out there — still undetected. He had been engaged and defeated tactically, but the strategic objective remained unmet.

We’ll have to try again.

Ali was happy to see Kassim.

And angry.

“I told you not to go,” the doctor intoned. “You defied me.”

Kassim was prepared. “In fact, Doctor, you prohibited me from the first operation, not the second.”

Ali grunted, acknowledging the truth of the matter but mentally sneering at the lawyerly evasion. “You were devilishly lucky to escape, Kassim. I have told you that I cannot spare you. I do not expect it to happen again.”

The veteran fighter accepted the mild rebuke with a slightly bowed head. Two seconds later he locked eyes. “We were within meters of her, Doctor! Meters!”

“The men we lost would have been worthwhile had they seized her, but they did not. What do you make of that?”

“It was not a lack of courage or desire, Doctor. The woman chose her position well. We would have needed twice as many men at the crest to kill or capture her.”

That was not quite true. Kassim knew that if he had been at the peak, he might have directed a successful enfilade. Given the strength of her position, it would have been difficult to capture her, but at least she would have been dead.

The Syrian was not given to self-pity for the foot he left in Afghanistan. But once in awhile he had reason to rue its loss.

Kassim decided to change the subject. “Doctor, what should we do now?”

Ali sat back and sipped his tea. “I have been thinking of your friend — Sial? It is time for me to meet him and his son and nephew.”

“I shall arrange it.”

Ali called after his colleague. “Kassim! It must be done quickly. We may have little time, and I must arrange for travel plans and documents.”

Kassim knew from experience that the doctor seldom allowed himself to be overtaken by events. Most likely the passports were already forged, only awaiting the couriers’ photographs and signatures. As for airlines, Ali frequently made contingency reservations just to keep options open. It was a simple matter to cancel or provide alternative passengers as a continuing check on security measures.

Few opportunities were ever lost, if one knew how to exploit them.

Leopole knocked on the door at the Serena Hotel, a four-star establishment in the cantonment area. Briefly he wondered at Omar’s largesse in lodging CPS in such luxurious digs, but the onetime marine could not begrudge the Briton a couple of nights to recover. There was certainly no lack of dining options: a Chinese restaurant, barbeque, and coffee shop.

Proper ladies did not dine alone, so tonight Leopole had the duty.

The door opened and CPS smiled broadly. “Frank. Please come in.”

He returned the grin. “Wow. If I may say so, Doctor, you slick up really nice.”

She stepped back and let him in. “Well, thank you, Colonel. Of course, a black dress does contrast with baggy trousers and a vest.”

Leopole fingered his blue blazer. “I only brought this because I thought I might have to meet with some defense ministry people.” He laughed. “I can’t remember the last time I wore a tie. Must’ve been a wedding or a funeral.”

Padgett-Smith pondered the American’s appearance. His beard was gone but the mustache remained, and his haircut, while not high and tight, screamed “military.” She had learned that some men appeared uniformed regardless of what they wore. Like Tony.

Tony. What a story I shall have for him!

“Carolyn, I’d like to talk to you just a bit before we go down to dinner.”

She sat on the sofa. “Surely.” She knew what was coming.

He sat opposite her, across the glass table, and leaned forward, hands clasped on his knees. “I don’t want to discuss company business in the restaurant, so it’s best done here.” He cleared his throat. She thought: He’s nervous.

“Carolyn, do you really want to stay with us?”

She blinked. “You mean, complete my assignment?”

“Yes.”

“Well… of course I do! Why wouldn’t I?”

Leopole spread his hands-a helpless male gesture. “After what you’ve been through, and no end in sight, I just wondered if you’d like to be released from your contract.”

“No, of course not.” She recalled the conversation that had gotten her what she wanted — at rock bottom, a chance to be shot at. “Frank, what I said before was based on a lack of activity. As I see it, we’re closer now than ever.”

He nodded decisively. One time. “Okay, you’ve got it. I’ll inform HQ.”

“Thank you. Now, may I ask you something?”

He shrugged. “Shoot.”

“Frank, I deeply appreciate all this.” She waved a hand at the well-appointed room. “It’s marvelous to have a real bath and tuck up in a big, soft bed. But I was reluctant to accept Omar’s offer because…”

“Because none of the operators got a couple of days here.”

She nodded. “And I’m sensitive as a woman receiving preferential treatment.”

“Okay, I can understand that. So why’d you accept?”

The corners of her mouth turned up, and he admired Dr. Padgett-Smith’s dimples. “Because I’m a woman who accepts preferential treatment now and then.”

“Carolyn, if I read you correctly, you’re worried that you might lose some of your trust and good will with my door-kickers.”

“Exactly. I mean, I made such a good start, and then… well, I made such a shambles of things out there. We didn’t come close to completing the mission.” She bit her lip. “Because of me.”

Leopole leaned back against the cushion. He almost called her “honey.” Instead, he intoned, “Carolyn, let me tell you something. The mission went away the minute we were ambushed. It was a risky operation from the start: we knew that. Hell, I think you knew that.”

She swallowed hard, assembling her thoughts. “Yes, I thought so, too. And I should have done. But I learned the difference between intellectual knowledge of what’s possible, and the visceral knowledge that comes…” She inhaled.

He knew.

She swallowed again. Outwardly she was composed, those violet eyes steady and focused. But no words came.

Okay, I’ll finish it for you, babe. “That comes with combat.”

She looked down, nodding slowly. “Yes.”

He risked a touch on her arm. “Carolyn, everybody feels that way. Everybody. Well, just about. I’ve known a couple of guys who really were fearless. But they were abnormal. Down deep, they didn’t care if they lived or died.” He squeezed her forearm. “You feel like you do because you have so much to live for.”

She looked up. “Thank you, Frank. I tried talking to Steve and Omar but… it was hard, you know?”

“Well, sometimes it takes awhile to get it out. My god, Carolyn. Some people never get it out. They spend the rest of their lives second-guessing themselves or indulging in survivor’s guilt. So don’t you ever feel you’ve got to be strong all the time. Believe me, even Marines cry once in awhile.”

“You know, I’m trying to decide how to explain all this to Charles. We talked for ninety minutes last night but I told him hardly anything about what really happened.” She paused, then continued. “I wonder if I have it in me to go out again. But I don’t want to let you down.”

“Carolyn, whatever you decide, it’ll be fine.” On a hunch, he took a different tack. “There’s something else. I mean, if you’re worried about the guys and what they think. Consider the men you’re working with. Most of them are professionals — full-time warriors. They have what I call the red meat attitude. Believe me — and don’t take this wrong — but the fact that you notched three or four terrorists impresses the hell out of those boys.” He decided not to relate what he’d overheard. Hey, dude! Doc Smith’s a killer babe!

Padgett-Smith smiled inwardly. Odd, the terminology these friendly, violent men employed. Notched. Greased. Capped. Wasted. Hardly ever “killed.”

She patted his hand. “Thank you. Again. I’ll get my purse.”