Pandora's Legion

33

“Admiral, Secretary Burridge on line two.”

“Thank you, Peggy.”

Derringer punched the button and picked up the receiver. “Go Navy.”

“Beat Army” the familiar voice crackled back. “Ready to copy?”

“Affirm. Uh_; are we going discreet?”

“No need, Mike. I’m giving you a one-time pad — a password that’ll get you into one of our secure email sites. Each following message will contain the next password in case there’s updates. It’s open ended so you can check it as often as you like.”

Derringer tapped with his pencil. “Ready.”

“Okay. Our class year minus the hull number of your first ship, plus my varsity number, divided by nul.”

Michael Derringer chuckled aloud at the ingenious device. His first ship, USS Lindsay (DLG-48), and Burridge’s jersey cancelled one another; nul was German for zero. Anyone eavesdropping on the semi-secure line would spend at least several minutes chasing the information, by which time it would be useless.

Derringer rang off and swiveled to his computer screen. In two minutes he was looking at the secure email with distilled information from the interrogation recently concluded eight thousand miles away. Apparently the Syrian knew relatively little, but at least the hunters now could look for two names: Miam Ahmed and Hazrat Sial. Unfortunately, there was not enough difference in their descriptions to be useful. Both were young and slightly built, Ahmed somewhat taller and Sial with a beard. The latter distinction undoubtedly would have changed by now.

For a moment Derringer pondered how to use the information. Certainly Immigration and Transportation Security would be informed, but the hard-won intel probably was outdated. It was unlikely that either Marburg courier was traveling under his own identity.

Derringer reached for his console and buzzed Wolf’s office. “Joe, we have some names. That’s the good news.”

The former FBI man knew the drill. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the bad news?”

“We don’t know if those names are on their passports — if they have passports. But at least we can coordinate with INS and TSA and the rest of the alphabet. What do you suggest beyond that?”

“Well, nobody has enough agents to tail every young Muslim who enters this country, even with the artificial delays being imposed. Best we can hope for is enough of a pool from several agencies and plainclothes officers from PDs in the major metro areas.”

Derringer thought for a moment. “That’s a hell of a lot of people to keep a secret very long.”

“You got that right, Boss.”

“I’m headed for the cafeteria. Let’s huddle there.”

Joe Wolf was fifteen pounds overweight and could hardly care less. “Like I always said: you’re a great American.”

Buster Hardesty did not have time for the full report; that could follow. But Rustam Khan’s highlights received priority attention.

The Pakistani officer’s usual aplomb had worn thin in two days. Hardesty had never seen Khan with a pocket unbuttoned; now the major was almost disheveled. Not that it mattered. They found a secluded corner in a government building and got to work.

“General, we have a breakthrough. Kassim has slept very little since he was captured, and not at all in the past thirty hours. Sleep deprivation combined with the chemical agents produced this.” He handed over a notepad with Khan’s impeccable English script.

Hardesty scanned the lines, then glanced up. “Who are these?”

“The intermediate handlers. They delivered the infected men to the final escorts: the ones who put our suspects on their airplane.”

Hardesty blew an audible breath. “Good work, Rustam. Excellent. But it’s going to take awhile to follow…”

“Already done, sir.”

“What?”

“It’s in the rest of my notes, General. The pieces fell into place. One of the final handlers escaped but we caught the other. He was offered two choices: he could disappear or he could become wealthy.” Khan gave an ironic shrug. “Fortunately, he is motivated by personal gain rather than philosophy. The temptation of easy riches.”

“But, when did all this happen? We planned on coordinating with…”

“I must apologize for that, sir. But we had an unexpected opportunity and we took it. In the circumstance, I did not think it wise to follow protocol. There was not time.”

Hardesty risked a familiar tap on his colleague’s shoulder. “Well, you did exactly the right thing, Rustam. Thank you. On behalf of everyone in my country, thank you.”

Khan sagged into his chair, visibly exhausted. “Remember, sir: my countrymen also suffer from terrorists.” He did not need to mention the loss his family also had sustained. “But we cannot rest yet. Look at the travel itinerary.”

Hardesty read to the bottom of the page. What he saw created a chilling sensation that prickled between his shoulder blades and widened his eyes. He looked at Khan. “Oh my god.”

Rustam Khan nodded slowly. “Yes, it is worse than we thought.”

Hardesty read the summary again. “From Islamabad to Morocco to… Brazil?”

“That is how it looks, sir.”

Hardesty’s response was instant comprehension linked to surging distress. He met Khan’s obsidian eyes. “Oh, no…”

“Here’s the latest intel,” Derringer began. “Two young Muslim males matching the descriptions we got from Khan were on an Air France flight day before yesterday. They left Rabat, Morocco, for Santos Dumont Airport in Rio de Janiero.”

Wolf asked, “Names, photos?”

“Our INS and DoT contacts are working on that, and will share any intel. However, it’s a cinch that by the time our suspects get to this country they’ll have new identities.

“So, we can make some assumptions, or at least educated guesses. Once they’re on this side of the pond they’ll avoid regular transport. They’ll likely use a chartered plane to fly into Mexico, where they’ll meet their local guides—coyotes who know the smuggling business inside out.”

Wolf emitted a low whistle. “Gotta hand it to ‘em: it’s a beauty of a plan. In one jump they circumvent our entire airport security apparatus. All the agents and undercover people we alerted and put in place are useless. They’ll be focused on every young Muslim arriving by air, and it won’t matter. Meanwhile, our suspects will cross somewhere between San Diego and Brownsville. What’s that? Eighteen hundred miles?”

Derringer nodded. “Just about. But you know, they could just as easily enter by sea, on the Pacific coast or in the Gulf.”

Sandy interjected. “Just a minute, sir. Couldn’t they also fly in? Or take a boat to Florida or somewhere else? After all, they have at least a few days before—”

Derringer shook his head. “I don’t think so, Sandy. Under other conditions you’d be right to consider that, but time is crucial. Far as we know, this is the last chance to get infected couriers into the country. I think they’d take the most direct route possible. Besides, SSI can’t do much about port security or airline passengers — unless we’re put on somebody’s tail so the feds can maintain their anti-profiling charade.”

“So where does that leave us, sir?”

“It leaves us somewhere in the Sonoran Desert. We know for certain that al Qaeda has sent recon parties through various border areas. Hell, it’s entirely possible that they’ve already infiltrated terror cells that way. In any case, I think that Sharif or somebody in his organization would have contacts with experienced smugglers: professionals who will work for anybody if the price is right.”

Wolf said, “Mike, if I may play devil’s advocate: what’s the proof? As you said, if this was Sharif’s last chance. But we need to be right the first time, too.”

“Fair enough.” Derringer stood up and walked to the front of the room. He selected one of several pull-down maps and revealed the western hemisphere. Tapping South America he said, “The geography. If our two guys flew from Morocco to Brazil, and it’s almost certain that they did, ask yourself why.”

“Well, sure,” Wolf exclaimed. “The geometry of the situation points to the border. But there could be factors involved that we have no way of knowing.”

“Concur. But we have to start somewhere, and I think we can make some basic assumptions.” Derringer raised a hand and began ticking off points on his fingertips. “One: they’re on a schedule, and probably a pretty tight one. After all, some of their previous Marburg couriers fell sick or died en route. Two: we know about this entire scheme because the first case literally spilled his guts at Heathrow. So they want to avoid control points. Three: the current suiciders are both young, probably inexperienced travelers. It’s not even certain that both speak English, and I doubt like hell that they speak Spanish. That means they’ll need help. Four: all the foregoing indicate a likely covert border crossing.”

Derringer touched his thumb. “Five: they want to optimize their chances by placing both Marburg bombers in a major population center. To me, that means two likely targets: San Diego and Phoenix, maybe LA.”

Sandy Carmichael tapped her pencil against her chin. “Sir, I agree. But do we try to operate in both areas? We’re spread awfully thin…”

“I agree, Sandy. I’d feel better if we could pull Julio’s team out of Guatemala, especially since he has most of our Spanish speakers. But there’s no time to redeploy. So, lacking other information, how would you proceed, Joe?”

Wolf raised his hands, palms up. “Ya got me, Boss.”

Derringer scanned the room, visually polling the other staffers. Receiving no additional input, he raised the hemisphere map and pulled the one showing the western United States.

“Very well. Here’s our new theater of operations. It’s nearly two thousand miles across an east-west front. It’s the most porous border in the industrialized world. Thousands of illegals cross it every day, and not all of them are looking for work. Some of them want to destroy this country.

“So… we need maximum coordination, especially with intel. Frankly, that’s what worries me the most. Oh, we’ll get the info, all right, but maybe not in time to use it. There’s just too many irons in the fire: too many agencies that should be sharing information but don’t or won’t. The new intelligence hierarchy may be a good idea, but it needs time to mature…”

“Time we don’t have.” Carmichael completed Derringer’s thought.

“Correct. Therefore, we need to rely on our own resources as well as whatever the agencies send us.” Derringer looked at Wolf. “Joe, maybe we need to call in O’Connor. What do you think?”

“Well, he’s certainly well placed. But Mike, you know that…”

“Yeah. I know.” There were ironic grins and a few chuckles around the table. Ryan O’Connor had entered the State Department in the Carter administration and fervently clung to that naive world-view, despite decades of evidence to the contrary. But he was SSI’s point of contact at State, and that situation would not change.

Derringer sought the silver lining in the diplomatic cloud. “One thing about this case: it’s largely apolitical. No human rights abuses or questionable governments to muddy the waters.” He nodded at Wolf. “Okay, give him a call. But only tell him as little as necessary. What we want from him is back-channel contact with the Mexican government, especially their transportation and public health people. Emphasize the medical aspects, and get gruesome if you have to.”

Wolf scribbled himself a note, smiling all the while.

Sandy Carmichael raised her pencil. “Sir, speaking of the medical aspects, who do we have for bioterror advice now that Padgett-Smith’s sidelined?”

“Gosh, that’s a good question, Sandy.” Derringer had not thought about the stricken immunologist lately. “I don’t have anybody in mind except Phil Catterly. He’s professionally qualified, but he’s no field operative. However, since he’s already read in on the Marburg threat, I’d say he’s our man. I’ll phone him today.”

Wolf looked up from his notepad. “That still leaves us to find enough operators.” He turned to Omar Mohammed, who had sat quietly through the meeting thus far. It was obvious that he was still tired.

Taking the cue, Mohammed sat upright. “Frank and Steve’s teams are inbound. We got them out of Pakistan as fast as possible, but they’re going to be tired and jetlagged. Most of the shooters are looking forward to some down time; they figure they’ve accomplished their mission.”

Derringer asked, “Any Spanish speakers among them?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I should know, but I don’t. I’m sorry, Admiral. I’ll have to check the computer files.”

“Well, we can’t assemble another team and bring it up to speed in less than a week. Looks as if we’re forced to recycle the Pakistan crew.”

Wolf leaned forward. “Uh, technically, none of them are required to conduct more work. Their contracts were written for the overseas job, though I can check with Corin for specifics. But I’m sure I’m right.” He spread his hands. “We might not have enough guys to field a useful team.”

Derringer finally sat down. He wanted to rub his temples but he suppressed the urge. Image counted for a lot at such times. Instead, he cleared his throat. “All right, looks as if I’ll be working the phones tonight.” He punched his right fist into his left palm. “Damn! I wish we had in-flight communication with our bird. I floated a SatCom proposal to the board last year but they thought it was a nice-to-have rather than necessary. Now we’ll have to spring this news on the boys when they land.”

Sandy Carmichael ignored what could not be helped and focused on upcoming contingencies. She flipped through her briefing book but did not find what she sought. “Sir, what can our people expect in Mexico? I don’t see that data here.”

“There wasn’t time to include that in the packet but the research department has some basics.” He nodded to Sharon Carper, who knew her way around the internet as few people did.

“I focused on likely Muslim contacts in the country, but there’s not much evidence,” she began. “Mexico has a very small Muslim population — probably under two thousand or so. Apparently most are converts to the Muribatun movement.”

“Anything else?” Carmichael asked.

“Well, there are relatively few embassies in Mexico, and the only Islamic country there is Malaysia.”

Wolf felt the information was of marginal utility. “It doesn’t take many operatives to handle two people. Hell, they don’t even have to be Muslim. In fact, I’d bet the contacts are local smugglers.”

Carper added, “It’d make sense for them to proceed via Mexico City. It’s the third largest metro area in the world: eighteen to twenty million. They could hole up there for quite a while without being noticed.”

“Yes, they could,” Carmichael responded. “But they’ll want to get to the border as soon as possible.”

Joe Wolf was tired and irritable, yet he wanted to get to work. “Well, that’s right. After all, the clock’s running.” He stood up.

Derringer rapped his pen on the table. “Meeting adjourned. Until after dinner.”

It had been a long, tiring trip. Neither young man was accustomed to air travel — let alone from Pakistan to Morocco to Brazil and Ecuador. Dealing with strangers who could only converse in the infidel language was a constant strain, but at least the current handlers were members of The Faith; new friends who managed some Arabic in addition to English.

The elder host called himself Aamir: a handsome trader in his thirties, He did not explain his connection to Doctor Ali’s organization, nor did Sial or Ahmed inquire. He did, however, express concern for Ahmed’s health. It was apparent that the youngster had not endured the charter flight very well from Quito to Chiapas. The dawn landing at an outlying dirt field had been exciting enough — the pilot nearly clipped the treetops before flaring and dropping the twin-engine turboprop onto the packed earth — but now the couriers were within range of their target. Officially, they ceased to exist in Quito, where their forged passports ended the paper trail.

Now the travelers had only a vague idea of their location: somewhere in southeastern Mexico, with the Pacific to the south and Guatemala to the east.

Aamir showed the travelers to their room in his house. They took in the whitewashed walls, rugs on the floor, and two inviting beds. “It is still twenty-five hundred kilometers to the border,” their host explained. “You will rest here tomorrow and fly by private plane to Sonora the next day. I shall explain the procedures after prayers and dinner.”

“Hey, lookit. There’s the admiral.”

Breezy’s observation turned heads in the leased hangar. Hidden from outside view, the operators were beginning to unload critical gear from the 727 when Derringer stepped into the access door with Omar Mohammed. Some of the door kickers had never met the firm’s founder and CEO, who warmly greeted Terry Keegan. Then Derringer motioned for the men to gather around him.

Frank Leopole stepped inside the circle and approached his employer. “You didn’t need to pay us a visit, sir. We know how busy you are, but the guys sure appreciate it.”

“Thank you, Frank. But I’m not here just to say welcome home.” He turned his head, searching the recesses of the building. “I don’t see any Charter people. Are we alone?”

“Ah, yessir.” Leopole knew the admiral’s intent. SSI shared the hangar with Charter International Airways; otherwise the rent would be prohibitive. The firm’s initials were a perennial cause of mirth.

“Good. What I have to say is close hold.”

Steve Lee turned to his team. “Hey! Listen up!” A tentative silence fell upon the operators. A few looked around, and Lee read the signs. Thirty-six left; about twenty-eight returning healthy.

Derringer began. “Guys, welcome back. It’s really good to see you again. I wish I could treat all of you to an extended vacation, especially after you did such a fine job. But the fact is: Pandora is not over.”

The operators exchanged querulous glances. Some expressed concern; a few betrayed dismay.

“This is close hold,” Derringer continued. “Even though you broke up the Marburg cell, the doctor sent two more suiciders our way. They left just hours before you took down the farmhouse.”

Leopole waved down the rising voices. Derringer gestured to Mohammed. It was a calculated move: the training officer had bonded with the shooters over the previous weeks. Many of the men felt closer to the naturalized Iranian than to the retired admiral who wrote the checks.

Mohammed stepped two paces forward. “Gentlemen, we’re asking you to go one more round. The intelligence is firm: our two suspects did get away and flew to South America. We are convinced that they will enter this country via Mexico.”

Gunny Foyte grasped the implications; frequently he could read between Frank Leopole’s lines. “But our Latin American team is committed, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. We have discussed pulling Julio’s people back but even if we did, they would need days to reposition, get briefed, and learn the bio gear.” He motioned around the hangar. “Whereas each of you…”

“Already knows about Marburg.”

“Quite correct, Gunny.” Mohammed rarely used the familiar title, but this time he wanted to make a point: unit cohesion. “You… we… have worked together and we know each other’s moves, as you say. That is why SSI is asking you to extend your contract for as much as two more weeks.”

Bosco raised a hand. “Excuse me, sir. I mean, does the same scale apply over here?”

Omar Mohammed was fluent in colloquial American. He smiled to himself: Gotcha. He looked to Derringer.

“Yes, Mr. Boscombe. Everyone who re-ups will work for the same bonus: foreign pay, combat pay, and the bonus for exceptional hazards. Full insurance coverage continues. That’s definite.”

Leopole and Mohammed exchanged knowing glances. They knew that Mike Derringer would wrest the extra funds from the board of directors if he had to mortgage the Arlington building to do it. However, both felt it far more likely that the United States Government had already committed to the extra funds.

Foyte looked at Leopole and winked.

Bosco glanced at Breezy and grinned hugely. Both imagined themselves on a clothing-optional beach carpeted with Victoria’s Secret and SI models.

Jeffrey Malten thought of a comfortable house with one woman: The Woman. Whomever and wherever she was. He said, “When do we need to decide, sir?”

Derringer was ready for that. “Before you leave this hangar, son. We need a team in Arizona tomorrow.”

Derringer turned his attention to Terry Keegan again. “I understand you’ve flown about fourteen hours in less than two days. How are you guys holding up?”

“We’re okay, Admiral. Legally there’s no problem because we’re under Part 91 regs. As long as we’re corporate rather than commercial we can pretty much set our own hours.”

“Would it help to hire another crew just as backup?”

“Well, that could be a problem on short notice. Not many corporate guys are current on the Jurassic Jet these days. Maybe I can find some freighter dogs, though.”

“Okay. Tell them we’ll pay top hourly rate and buy their return fare.”

As Derringer walked away to consult with Leopole, Keegan turned to his copilot. “You know, Eddie, in all my time in the Navy, nobody ever asked if I felt okay to fly. I was expected to down myself, but nobody ever asked.”

Marsh grinned. “Nice to know somebody cares, ain’t it?”