Pandora's Legion

3

“Gentlemen, this is your initial brief on the Pandora Project.” As head of SSI’s foreign operations division, Frank Leopole had assembled the team for background briefing with other company principals on hand.

“We called this mission the Pandora Project because it’s like Pandora’s Box. Some radical Muslims apparently have injected suicide volunteers with Marburg virus, which is related to Ebola. There is no known cure for either. So, once the bug is out of the box — or the genie out of the bottle — there’s no going back.” He paused for emphasis, then said, “Dr. Catterly is our expert on the subject. I’ll let him explain.”

Catterly began. “Ebola can be eighty percent fatal, while Marburg runs twenty-five percent or more, if that’s any consolation. Anyway, our concern is the first carrier, who was found in Britain a few days ago. He was a young Californian, a convert to Islam, who collapsed at Heathrow Airport. When he was diagnosed with Marburg, the Brits contacted us and the job was offered to Admiral Derringer. Unfortunately, the host now has died without providing much information.”

The former ranger called Bosco was known for his flippancy. This time was no different. “So when did this California convert collect his seventy-two virgins?”

Leopole glanced at Dr. Mohammed. “That’s not funny, Bosco. The, ah, young man died three days ago.”

Leopole returned to pertinent matters. “Mission: to find and capture, if possible, the source of the virus. Mr. Wolf’s investigators have talked to the carrier’s family in California, and they learned that he was staying with a Pakistani doctor known as Ali. We don’t know if that’s his real name but we’re working both domestic and foreign intel sources.

“Op area: the most likely region is Baluchistan Province, on the Afghan border. Quetta, the capital, runs about 650,000 people. It’s headquarters of the Pakis’ XII Corps, nominally with two infantry divisions and supporting units plus police and border guards. I have street maps for everybody.”

The ops officer turned on his PowerPoint display and clicked on the first subject. Satellite imagery of the area appeared on the screen. “Terrain is what you’d expect: high and often steep. Median elevation is 5,500 MSL.

“Local situation: increased border security has gone into effect with some checkpoints as much as one klick apart. There’s usually long lines at the gateways but smugglers can nearly always get through. Drugs and weapons are the major contraband, though apparently some high-value assets have passed through. The border guards have been increased at each station but if the contraband is primo, it doesn’t add a lot to the overhead to grease two or three palms.

“Equipment: we’ll mainly take what the locals use. That means G3 rifles, Browning Highpower pistols, and some of our own special gear. Plan on suppressed MP-5s and a couple of precision rifles. Also nonlethal weapons including tasers and bean bags. Anybody who’s not checked out for their use, see Chuck. Night vision will also be issued.”

“Our contacts are supposed to provide suitable uniforms but we’ll have generic civilian clothes as well. Everybody start growing beards or mustaches. You’ll blend in better.

“Comm: two common channels plus one for each team. Standard voice-activated headsets to keep our hands free. The respirators have limited comm, so we’ll hold a couple of nonverbal refresher sessions. Because of the cross-border prospects, Dr. Mohammed is going with us. We don’t have anybody else readily available who’s conversant in both Urdu for Pakistan and Pashto in Afghanistan.”

Moahmmed interjected to pursue the linguistic concerns. “There are two Urdu dialects, northern and southern. The northern uses a kh sound as opposed to the southern sh. We will likely be operating within the southern, Kandahar dialect.” He gestured to a box full of manuals on the table. “I will distribute these Urdu phrase books after the briefing. They contain much useful information, such as how to pronounce ‘hello,’ ‘thank you,’ and ‘drop your weapon.’” The audience laughed appreciatively as Mohammed sat down.

Leopole continued. “Navigation: the usual GPS sets but I’m taking a British Army terrain map. We’ll add the known threat areas before liftoff.

“Transport: most likely we’ll fly in and out, courtesy of the Paki army. We’re also trying to pre-position ground transport but that’s uncertain.” He smiled at J. J. Johnson, who had done a stretch in the Foreign Legion. “If we need to commandeer local vehicles, J. J. can hotwire anything from an ox cart to a T-72.”

“Casualties: Jeff and Jerry and Breezy are up to speed on combat medicine. We’ll probably have a guest medic for advice on the bio hazard but don’t know who yet. Personnel is trying to find somebody with scientific and field experience. Terry and his guys will be on hand for dustoff in case we need to air-evac. They’re studying the Hip manual and may get some stick time. At any rate, one of our guys will be aboard each Paki chopper.”

Leopole glanced at the screen and clicked on the next subject of his PowerPoint file. As an experienced staff officer, he preferred to show each topic in sequence to avoid his audience reading ahead of his commentary.

“Biohazard. As you’ve heard, the Marburg virus is a potential killer. We’re getting biological suits from Dr. Catterly and we’ll have a couple of trial runs so the entry teams know how to use them. We’re also taking a couple hundred gallons of bleach and disinfectant plus a portable generator to spray everything that enters a likely hot zone. We’ll burn the disposable portions of the suits as well as the hospital scrubs.”

Bosco raised a hand. “Uh, why scrubs?”

Leopole nodded toward Catterly, who responded. “Any bacteria can host a virus. So you’ll wear disposable scrubs with the bio suits but no underwear. I also recommend that you take several changes of clean clothes because there’s a slight risk in wearing the same material after possible exposure.”

The operators exchanged solemn glances. A few fidgeted in their seats. For once there was no joking.

“Friendly forces: we’ll take three teams. I’ll have Red; Steve has White, and Dan has Blue. Twelve men per team with six bio suits for each. The others will provide perimeter security and transport, and everybody helps with decontamination. Terry’s divided the flight crews into Black and Green.”

Steven Lee was a former army major with a two-inch-thick personnel file and two ex-wives. Other than Catterly, he was the only man in the room wearing glasses, which he described as “tactical eyewear.” Lee lived for action, forsaking his father’s computer fortune in San Francisco in favor of more exotic climes. He had operated in Afghanistan and spoke some Pashto. Leopole considered him the finest raid planner he had ever met.

Daniel Foyte was another divorced veteran. With two college-age daughters, he was originally drawn to SSI from the Marine Corps but soon found that he enjoyed working for Mike Derringer. His dossier showed seven years with Marine Force Recon, including four years as an instructor. Gunnery Sergeant Foyte and Lieutenant Colonel Leopole were closer than any other SSI operators. They had hunted, fished, hiked, and fought together. Every November 10th they observed their corps’ anniversary with quantities of adult beverages. SOP was to take a cab to their favorite bistro, tear a fifty-dollar bill in half, and give Ulysses S. Grant’s left half to the cabbie. He collected the president’s right half at the stroke of midnight.

Foyte waved a hand. “Colonel, who do we work with over there?”

Leopole almost smiled. In the presence of others, the former noncom was scrupulously formal when addressing former officers. In private, whether hunting in Nebraska or hiking the Blue Ridge, Leopole was “Frank” or “Hey maggot.”

“Coming to that, Dan. The admiral and Dr. Mohammed have contacts with our embassy and the Pakistani security force.” Intentional groans met that bit of intelligence. Nobody in the room had any faith in the United States State Department, and Islamabad’s ISI was known to sympathize with the mujahadin. “Pipe down, you guys. Our, ah, colleagues, are with the Paki army, not their intelligence service. Security is crucial if we’re going to catch these bastards, and nobody knows exactly what we’re after. But the admiral thinks we need the embassy for greasing the skids, and we might need the Pakis to get us out of Dodge. You’ll meet our friends on the other end.”

Leopole continued down his list. “Enemy forces: unknown. Our Pakistani doctor may or may not have a security detail. We’ll likely outnumber them but we can’t count on it. Anyway, the usual cautions apply. Take all the ammo you can carry and extra water. Local sources are always suspect.”

Steve Lee raised his pen. “How do we get to Pakistan? SS Air?”

Soft laughter tittered through the room.

“Affirm. We’ll use the company 727 and we’ll lease another bird, half the operators on each plane.” Nobody had to ask about the division of labor when SSI’s “Jurassic jet” could easily handle the full team with room left over. Too much was at stake for the Pandora Project to lose all its personnel in one plane crash.

“Now, obviously we need more information but time is crucial so we’re planning on wheels in the well day after tomorrow. Once the team is assembled in-country we’ll have updates from Mr. Wolf and his domestic ops staff. In fact, they’re in California right now, talking to the carrier’s family.” He surveyed the room. “Any other questions?”

Trying to redeem himself, Bosco asked, “Colonel, what about the medical aspects? I mean, if we’re dealing with some really bad shit, how do we handle it if we find these guys?”

Leopole sighed, almost audibly. What he was about to impart was a sore point. “The government won’t allow active-duty personnel on this job so our Pentagon liaison tried to find a Guard or Reserve member who’s knowledgeable about the disease and able to keep up with you guys. We ran out of time, so Dr. Catterly contacted the British immunologist who notified him. Apparently Dr.”—he checked his notes—”Dr. Padgett-Smith is a skier and mountain climber and she’s willing to go along.”

A low buzz flitted through the room. Bosco leaned over to Breezy. “Did he say she?”

When the meeting broke up, some of the operators gathered around the coffee pot, thumbing through a U.S. Army manual from the Monterey language school. A former cop named Phil Green was the self-appointed linguist of the SSI door kickers; he could say “don’t shoot” in twenty-two languages. “Lessee,” he murmured.” ‘Hands up’ is laasuna portakra. ‘Stop’ is wodariga, and ‘Don’t move’ is harakat makawa.” He shrugged, then deadpanned, “That seems simple enough.”

Nearby, Mohammed overheard Bosco’s partner, Breezy Brezyinski. “Seventy-two virgins? Man, I thought it was twelve.”

“And I heard it was, like, twenty.” Slouching against the table, ex-SEAL Jeffrey Malten was suddenly attentive.

Bosco shrugged. “Maybe it’s virgin inflation or somethin’.”

Breezy had just taken a gulp of coffee, unfortunately timed with the sudden ingestion of air in response to Bosco’s irreverence. The result was a two-minute laughing-coughing fit.

Bosco pounded Breezy on the back until the affliction passed. Then he noticed Dr. Mohammed. “Uh. Sir, what’s the Koran say about all those virgins, anyway?”

Mohammed shook his head in bemusement tinged with disgust. “Not that it matters to any of you… gentlemen… but it’s not in the Koran. It is from a collection of traditional beliefs or sayings, the Hadith. It is similar to the Apocrypha for Christians, though there are different interpretations. The Prophet apparently referred to the righteous receiving eighty-thousand servants and seventy-two wives. But in French the passage reads des belles aux seins arrondis, or beautiful women with round breasts.”

Regaining his breath, Breezy focused on the celestial plane. “Hey, I wonder if you could, like, switch the numbers, you know?”

Malten, uncharacteristically sensitive for a SEAL, elbowed the erstwhile paratrooper. “Quiet down, you jerk. Doc Mohammed will hear you.”

Breezy would not be deterred. “Wow, man. With eighty-thousand virgins you could have one a day for, like, three hundred years! Besides, seventy servants would be plenty for me.”

Bosco did the math. “Uh… more like 220 years.” Whatever his social failings, former Sergeant Jason Boscombe predated outcome-based education. Friends knew that his penchant for numbers included baseball stats and Vegas odds.

Straightening up for a change, Malten asked, “Doctor, no offense, but does that paradise stuff apply to converts like this American kid?”

Mohammed almost welcomed the query as intellectual discourse. “Well, yes, I suppose so. You see, some believe that the surest way for a devout Muslim to enter paradise is to die in a jihad.” His dark eyes swept the audience. “Any takers, gentlemen?”

SSI did not own a shooting facility, but Frank Leopole had a friend who did. Lock, Stock & Barrel often rented its indoor range to corporations, but this evening Leopole requested access after hours. It would not be politic to have the public observe men in “space suits” wielding submachine guns.

The door kickers tried on the Racal suits for Biosafety Level 4 protection. They had battery-powered oxygen systems with positive internal pressure to deter contaminated air from entering. The most obvious feature, apart from the bright orange color, was the futuristic plastic helmet. The “bubble” design permitted the user full range of head motion and all-round vision.

It was not meant for riflemen.

Dr. Phillip Catterly, who had hauled within three strokes of Admiral Derringer’s golf handicap, did not share his partner’s enthusiasm for firearms. But after explaining the workings of the Racals, he supervised each shooter’s initial fitting, offering practical advice as he went.

Catterly held up a roll of duct tape. “Before you enter a potential hot zone, I recommend that you tear off a couple of strips and stick them where you can easily reach them. If you get… well, if you rip the suit, or something, you can slap on a temporary patch right away and probably be okay.”

Leopole had complete trust in the other team leaders and allowed them to make their own assignments. Dan Foyte decided to remain with the perimeter guards to coordinate Blue Team operations while Steve Lee relished being first man through the door. He would lead White Team’s door kickers and began wedging himself into the Racal.

Breezy was already suited up. He ambled around the room, impersonating Neil Armstrong on the Sea of Tranquility, though The Eagle had landed six years before Mark Casimir Brezyinski was born. Once accustomed to the fit of the Racal, he picked up an MP-5, cycled the bolt three times to ensure it was empty, and tried hefting it into firing position. As expected, the “space helmet” got in the way.

“No cheek weld, man. Bummer.”

Leopole had long since tried to expunge the hey-dude argot from SSI’s operators. Though most were in their thirties, some like Bosco and Breezy clung to the adolescent vocabulary of a bygone era.

“It’s what I told you would happen,” the former marine exclaimed. “That’s why we’re putting lasers on every long gun we take. You can shoot from a mid-chest position with good accuracy. Or you can shoot normally with a pistol.”

He patted the three-magazine pouch on his duty belt. “Ordinary web gear won’t fit very well with the pressure suit so we’ll have to gin up something else. Best thing that occurs to me is a couple of bags slung over the shoulders: one for reloads and the other for grenades and a pistol.”

Then Leopole raised his MP-5 from its tactical sling, stepped to the firing line, and called over his shoulder. “Lights.”

As the building’s lights dimmed, he inserted a magazine of 9mm frangible ammunition and called, “Going hot.”

Leopole was already wearing pale blue Dillon hearing protectors. He glanced sideways at Breezy, who reflexively raised his hands to cover his ears. His palms collided with the plastic helmet.

Extending the Heckler-Koch straight forward against the limits of its sling, Leopole leaned forward slightly, pressed the laser switch on the forestock, and tracked the bright red dot onto the fifteen-meter target. Breezy had just shouted “Wait!” when Leopole pressed the trigger.

The MP-5 spat out three rounds on burst control. A cluster of hits appeared in the center of the cardboard target. Leopole then raised the aiming dot to the squared-off head and fired again. Two rounds punctured the nostril area.

Bosco stepped to the line beside his partner. “Way cool. The noise isn’t so bad inside this helmet, ya know?” He held his weapon in his right hand, a loaded magazine in his left.

“Fershure, dewd.” Breezy inserted a magazine in his HK and waited for the command from the rangemaster. In a few minutes their lasers were zeroed at twenty-five meters, and the rest of the team took its turn.

A dozen shooters went through two cases of ammo before midnight. At the end of the session Breezy exclaimed, “Man, I’m set. Six mags and I’m stress-free all week.”