Pandora's Legion

30

Leopole checked his watch: 2317 on a night with a quarter moon. He keyed his mike. “Comm check. Three minutes.”

“Red. Check.”

“White. Check”

“Perimeter. Check.”

With everyone in place, Leopole scanned the target area again. The landscape and buildings glowed crisply green in his night-vision scope. The Litton showed nothing moving except a couple of goats in a nearby pen. Then a movement caught his attention. A dog uncurled itself from a hay bale it had been using as a bed. It rose, lifted a leg… and stopped. Leopole froze. He realized that the wind had shifted; he felt it on the back of his neck.

The dog — a mutt of indeterminate origin — raised its snout and sensed the wind. Leopole made a quick decision. He called White Team’s snipers. “White Scope, take the dog.”

“Roger that.” Furr’s voice was subdued, controlled. Six seconds later Leopole saw the animal drop. The effect of the 190-grain flat-tail bullet was dramatic, as if a switch had been thrown. There was almost no sound as the eight-inch AWC can on the end of the barrel absorbed the violently expanding gases of the.308 round. One hundred thirty meters out, prone behind the Robar SR-90, Robbie Furr ran the bolt and recovered from recoil, his crosshairs on the dog’s inert form. His spotter, Rick Barrkman, called the shot. “Shoulder, a little high.”

Leopole resumed his observation, listening as much as looking. As his illuminated watch flicked over to 2320 he made the call. “Red and White. Go!”

White Team deployed quickly, ghosting along the ground, moving smoothly toward the front door. Red went to the rear. Leopole was mentally congratulating his operators on their efficiency when lights snapped on in the house. A window opened facing Leopole’s overlook. He saw a man silhouetted there.

Gunfire erupted from the front and side of the house. Muzzle flashes competed with blue tracers slashing the darkness.

Things quickly turned to hash.

“Crusaders!”

The sentry would never have a chance to tell, but he had dozed off. However, when White Team’s lead pair stepped through the rough gate in the rail fence, the motion detector betrayed them. Its audible warble awakened the al Qaeda guard from his light slumber, and he shouted the alarm.

Ali had been asleep in the back room. Almost simultaneous with the front warning, the rear approach’s laser beam was broken as an American passed through it. Realizing that the house would be breached in at least two places, Ali rolled off his cot, grabbed his ancient .455 Webley, and dashed to the refrigerator. He took two syringes off the shelf, placing one in each vest pocket.

Silently, Ali gave thanks for the simple anti-intruder devices that Americans sold for less than twenty dollars.

Then he grabbed his cell phone and punched in the two-digit number for Kassim. Marvelous bit of technology — one had to hand it to the Americans. Speed dialing definitely had its advantages. For no particular reason, with gunfire all around him, rounds incoming and outgoing, Ali recalled a philosophical argument he once had with a fundamentalist imam. The holy man eschewed modern inventions, deeming them unworthy of The Prophet’s followers.

But the Muslim priest had never needed reinforcements against hostile ghosts that could see in the dark.

“Don’t stop in the kill zone! Don’t stop!” At the head of White Team, Breezy threw an M8 smoke grenade, knowing it would provide two minutes of screening from enemy view. The inevitable confusion had set in, however. Some men advanced without urging while others waited the order to keep moving. Breezy clapped one operator on the back of the helmet — he couldn’t tell who it was in the dark — as the man was vulnerable in the open, even while prone. Breezy aimed short, crisp bursts at window height, moving his muzzle horizontally in an effort to suppress the fire from the house. He had no idea how he avoided being hit during the dash to the building.

Five meters out he dropped on his side and rolled against the exterior wall, right of the door. He dropped his near-empty magazine, tugged another from his vest, and fumbled the exchange. Finally he forced himself to look at the MP’s mag well and completed the reload. A few feet away somebody was blasting with an AK. The muzzle flash was impressive, the high, sharp bark of the 7.62 rounds pained the ears.

Breezy decided against a three-foot shootout with the AK gunner. Instead, he lifted a cylindrical flash-bang from his harness, pulled the pin and let the spoon go. He counted one-potato, two-potato and made a sidearm toss on the third potato.

The stun grenade cooked inside for 1.5 seconds, then erupted like a miniature volcano. The flash — one million candela mixed with 175 decibels of sonic violence — blinded and stunned anyone within five feet.

The grenade burst with a concussive effect magnified by the building’s walls. Gunfire from the front room immediately slackened. By then Delmore was beside Breezy. He shouted, “Cover!” Breezy hefted his MP, aimed at the window, and responded, “Covering!” Seconds later Delmore slapped the charging handle with a palm-downward motion, chambering the first round off the fresh mag. “Ready!”

Sporadic gunfire resumed from inside the house. Several rounds punched through the wooden wall above their heads. More rounds splintered the boards on either side — additional suppressive fire from Leopole’s perimeter team.

Breezy made the call. “Control, this is White. We’re goin’ in!”

Seconds dribbled past. Then Leopole’s raspy voice was on the air. “Roger that. We’re lifting our fires. Wait my word, over.”

Breezy knew that the perimeter shooters would raise their aim points to reduce chances of friendly fire casualties. Then Leopole was back in his ears. “Red Team, ready, ready, ready. Go!”

At the rear, Red Team met less resistance. Only two of Ali’s men were stationed there, hosing long, optimistic bursts at the shadowy figures in the barnyard. Jeff Malten noticed that they were disciplined, however, alternating their shooting so that only one had to reload at a time. They’ve done this before.

Malten tossed a smoke grenade and prepared to lead his team to the rear door. He stood up to go, looked back — and saw Olsen take a hit and go down. Malten was momentarily stunned. My god, where’d that come from? Then he saw muzzle flashes from the small barn fifty meters to his left.

Pace low-crawled to Olsen and checked him. A.303 round had struck the ballistic chest plate near the bottom. Three inches lower and it would have hit flesh. Olsen was breathing hard, bruised but otherwise unhurt.

Malten made a snap decision. He motioned part of his team to deal with the unexpected threat from the barn. He watched as Ashcroft, Green, and Jacobs threw more smoke grenades and scrambled wide to the left. Henderson and Pace swapped gunfire with the shooters in the barn while Malten turned his attention back to the rear of the house.

The occupants of the barn expected a flanking movement and deployed to meet it. They nearly hit Jacobs but he had been a track man in school and sprinted across the open space left by the smoke. When the three reached the rear of the barn, they quickly scouted the layout: there was no rear access. Ashcroft reloaded his G3 rifle and prepared to assault around the corner when Green grabbed him. “Never fight anybody when you can execute ‘em.”

“What?”

Green held up an M34 grenade, light green with a yellow band. He had been hoarding two of them since leaving Arlington. “Cover me.”

With his friends watching left and right, Green dashed ten strides along the wooden wall and threw the white phosphorous grenade inside. Rather than dash back, he withdrew several steps, holding his rifle at shoulder height. Seconds later a garish white flash erupted inside, setting a smoky blaze that burned at five thousand degrees Fahrenheit. It spewed particles on the walls and roof, and in barely a minute half of the barn’s dried wood was burning.

Green heard Ashcroft’s HK around the corner. Three, four, five rounds. Jacobs swung that way to lend a hand, but it was unnecessary. Ashcroft held up his left hand, two fingers extended. “They ran out on this side. One of ‘em was on fire.”

Jacobs asked, “Where’d they go?”

Ashcroft pointed in reply. Twenty to thirty meters away lay two bodies, one smoldering.

Green reappeared, hefting his second grenade. “Damn!” Jacobs exclaimed. “I gotta get me some of them.”

Between the barn and the house, Malten threw his last smoke, waited for the cloud to expand, and watched the suppressing fire drive the shooters from the windows. Then he led his half team to the rear of the house. Henderson placed a breaching charge on the door, twisted the dial for a quick fuse, and turned away. The small charge exploded with a loud, hollow noise, and the door swung on its hinges.

Pace tossed a flash-bang. So did Henderson. Malten was instantly inside, the others two steps behind. One of the shooters lay on the floor, rolling in pain from the horrific noise of the stun grenades. Malten kicked the man’s AK away and watched the entrance to the next room. Henderson dragged the casualty outside where Pace secured him by the simple expedient of sitting on him.

The second shooter was deafened by the grenades, but retained most of his vision. Kneeling behind the doorsill, he extended his AK sideways and triggered a long, unaimed burst that went high and wide. Malten raised his fourteen-inch Benelli and fired two slugs from fifteen feet. The first one-and-a-quarter-ounce projectile splintered the doorsill, sending wood pieces into the shooter’s face. Reflexively, he turned to avoid the shotgun blast, exposing his torso in the process.

The second slug took him in the notch of the sternum. He went down hard. Malten covered him, reckoned he was dead, and by feel thumbed another slug into the five-round tube.

“Clear!”

Two more of the rear entry team joined Malten while the rest guarded the rear approaches.

At that point they heard gunfire from the front of the house.

After White Team’s flash-bangs detonated, Breezy and Delmore led their sections through the door. Breezy went left, Delmore went right. Two al Qaeda men rolled in agony on the floor, deaf and blinded by the stun grenades. The rear man in each section immediately secured them.

Three other Muslims chose to fight.

One popped up behind a wicker chair fifteen feet from the door. Breezy’s front sight settled on the man’s torso and the operator pressed the trigger. Six rounds impacted the target. Got ‘im!

The AK shooter slid down the back of the chair; Breezy’s muzzle followed him, as per doctrine.

Across the room, another jihadist was already shooting. His suppressed Uzi clattered a long burst at Delmore. Two 9mm rounds clipped the big man, but were stopped by his Kevlar vest. He returned fire, advancing in a combat crouch: two bursts. One to the chest, one to the head. The target collapsed and sprawled in a spreading pool of blood.

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

The entry team followed its well-rehearsed minuet, two pair “running the walls” while the third duo secured the first room. Breezy and his partner held the survivors at gunpoint, ensuring that the men on the floor made no furtive movements.

With weapons raised, the operators spread out, searching behind furniture and opening doors.

A thin, bearded man emerged from the middle room. He raised a revolver toward Breezy, who saw him one second too late. Breezy’s adrenaline spiked as he realized he could not beat the drop. He did the only thing he could: he fell to the floor and rolled for cover.

Bosco saw the threat at the same time, but distance lent options. He shouted “Wodariga!” as he raised his MP-5.

The target ignored the stop command.

Bosco got a flash sight picture and held the trigger down. It was a quick and dirty burst, and he knew that it went high. But two rounds connected as the man was turning to the greater menace. Gouts of blood erupted from the Pakistani’s left arm and shoulder and he stumbled backwards, losing his balance and falling on his back. The Webley clattered to the floorboards.

“Clear!”

“Holy shit!” It was Breezy’s tail man, checking the first shooter near the door. “Six torso hits and this dude is still breathing.”

“Cuff him!” Breezy was on his knees, fighting his way back to standing. He did not realize it yet, but he had not breathed in fifteen seconds. He forced himself to inhale, bringing fresh oxygen to his bloodstream.

More “clear” calls came from the back of the building. The second team emerged, slung weapons, and began cuffing the prisoners.

Breezy bent over the bearded man with the shoulder wounds. Looking at Bosco, the ex-paratrooper murmured, “Thanks, man.”

The victim lay on his back and raised a bloody hand. “Friend,” he rasped. “I am a friend.”

Breezy was taken aback. He did not expect anyone to speak fluent English. Then he recovered. “Yeah, everybody’s my friend when they been shot.” Breezy whipped out a tie wrap from his belt.

The man raised himself on an elbow. “Dr. Padgett-Smith. I must talk to her.”

Sharif saw that the English woman’s name registered with the American. Keep the initiative. “Please! I know about the Marburg virus!”

Breezy stood up, still holding the tie wrap. Obviously the man at his feet had valuable information. The operator spoke into his headset. “Frank! We got a virus connection here. Send in Doc Smith!”

Fifty meters outside the house, Leopole turned to CPS. “Doctor, you’re wanted inside. Evidently there’s some information about the virus.”

As the immunologist trotted toward the building, Leopole alerted the entry team. “CPS is inbound. Copy?”

“Copy that,” Breezy replied.

Moments later Carolyn Padgett-Smith stepped inside. She made her way around the corpses and the bound prisoners being searched. Breezy motioned to her. “Over here, Doc. This guy knows you!”

“What?”

Sharif looked up at the figure approaching him. Despite the full biohazard suit, he saw that the features were feminine.

He held his left shoulder with his right hand, propping himself on his left elbow. Apparently he was in pain. She knelt beside him.

The veterinarian inhaled deeply, savoring the moment. He lowered his voice, knowing she would have to come closer. “Dr. Padgett-Smith?”

She was on both knees, leaning toward him. He saw the large, violet eyes that had caught his attention on the website. I have her!

“Yes. I am Carolyn Padgett-Smith. Who are you, and how do you know about the Marburg?”

The wounded man gave her a crooked smile. She wondered why he looked at her that way. She began to turn toward Breezy, standing behind her.

“My name is Saeed Sharif. But I am known to you as Dr. Ali.”

Before she could react, the man raised himself more, reached behind him with his right arm, and brought it forward.

Carolyn Padgett-Smith felt a sudden, sharp pain below her left hip. Startled and confused, she looked down. She saw a 3cc syringe protruding from her suit and realized what had happened. Then she looked closer. It was a large-gauge needle and the plunger was three quarters of the way down.

Without thinking, she drew the Hi-Power from its holster and pushed the muzzle beneath the man’s right eye. She pulled the trigger three times, then dropped the pistol.

She looked up at Brezyinski, who was astounded at the previous few seconds. His MP-5 was still at low ready. Her voice was a whisper. “My god, he just killed me.”

Carefully, Padgett-Smith withdrew the syringe from her hip. The resistance told her what she already knew: her muscle had absorbed the contents, creating suction that resisted withdrawal.

CPS called over her shoulder. “Jeffrey! With me!”

Holding the syringe level with her left hand, she levered herself off the floor with her right and slowly walked to the rear of the house. Malten followed, uncertain what the doctor wanted him to do.

“Close the door,” she said. As he did so, she laid the syringe on a wood table. Then she said, “Help me off with this.”

Malten set down his weapon and stepped to her. He noticed that her hands trembled as she rotated the bubble helmet. He said, “I’ll get it, ma’am.” He wanted to call her Carolyn but thought better of it.

With the helmet off, she pulled the tape from her left wrist and Malten removed the right. She pulled off the outer gloves, then turned around. He tugged the orange suit off her shoulders and freed her arms. “All the way down,” she said.

Malten undid the tape around the ankles and pulled off the lower half of the suit. Down to her scrubs, she quarter-turned again and untied the pants, pushing them to her knees. With her left side to him, she covered herself with her right hand and pulled up the scrub top with her left. “What’s it look like?”

Jeffrey Malten realized that CPS had probably chosen him because he was a medic, but he still had to force himself to concentrate. He knelt down, looking at the reddening skin where the needle had penetrated, three inches below the hip bone. “It’s intramuscular, Doctor. I don’t think it got a vein.”

She rubbed the spot; it still stung. “Small blessing,” she said. “If only I… I hadn’t…” Her voice cracked and she stifled a sob.

Feeling vastly helpless, Jeffrey Malten reached down and pulled up her scrub pants. He tied the strings for her and stood up. Her arms went around his neck and the tears came. That was bad enough. Then she began crying openly, without any effort to hold back.

The former SEAL hugged her close, feeling the hot tears run down her cheeks.

Leopole made the call to Black Team. “We have positive items for pickup. Start your approach now.”

In the lead Mi-17, Terry Keegan descended toward the designated LZ, marked by yellow smoke. He told Eddie Marsh to remain in the holding pattern: no sense risking both birds on the ground at once. There was little wind so he set the Hip down with the nose pointed north, port-side door facing the house about seventy meters away. With his Pakistani copilot staying on the controls, Keegan unstrapped in anticipation of a quick briefing.

Leopole scrambled aboard and picked up a headset behind the cockpit. He gave Keegan a thumbs-up. “We have three items and one priority passenger.”

Keegan’s eyes widened in the red light. “We got the doctor?”

“Well, yes and no. Let’s go discreet.”

Leopole pulled off his headset and exited the helo. Keegan double-checked with the warrant in the left seat, then joined the ops officer thirty yards from the Hip.

“What gives, Frank?”

Leopole leaned close. “We got Ali alright, but he’s dead. He stuck Padgett-Smith with a needle and she thinks it’s Marburg. She’s pretty shook.”

“Holy shit! How’d that happen?”

“I’ll tell you when we RTB. Main thing is, Terry, we have three prisoners and I’m sending Carolyn back with you. There’s nothing we can do for her because of the incubation period. But I want to get her out of here ASAP in case she shows symptoms sooner than expected. She said she wants to talk to a colleague in London as soon as possible — apparently a homeopathic researcher. In any case, we need to get her to London immediately.”

Keegan nodded. “Concur. I’ll make arrangements as soon as we offload at base.”

Breezy and three other operators emerged from the house, herding the captives. The men were bound and blindfolded, directed to the Hip and helped aboard. Two were wounded, requiring extra assistance. Finally Jeff Malten appeared with Padgett-Smith grasping one of his arms.

Feeling like an intruder, Leopole caught her attention. “Doctor, we’re going to get you to London just as soon as we can. But we need to know if you found any biohazard in there.”

She took a moment to focus on the American. In the Hip’s strobing light her face alternately flashed red and dark, red and dark. Leopole felt as if her eyes were sunk in deep sockets like trapped animals regarding a dangerous world from their dens. “I found two syringes, including the one that…” Her voice trailed off. She cleared her throat and added, “Both are in the transport box with Omar.”

Leopole patted her arm. “Okay, thanks… Carolyn.”

She walked past Leopole and boarded the helo. Keegan noticed that Malten had to fasten her seat belt for her.

As the twin Klimov turboshafts spooled up and the Hip got light on its wheels, Omar Mohammed sprinted to the LZ. He lurched to a halt and waved animatedly. “I wanted to say good-bye to her.”

Leopole regarded his Muslim colleague. “You can say good-bye back at base.”

Mohammed looked at the receding Hip. “Perhaps.” He turned to Leopole. “I wonder if I will ever see her again.”