Pandora's Legion

35

Terminal One at Sky Harbor Airport was typically bustling. Departing passengers unloaded on the north side while most arrivals awaited transportation on the south. Among the former were three SSI operators: Breezy Bosco, and Delmore. Each went to his assigned sector, knowing that the other on-duty teams were deploying in the other terminals.

Breezy took in the semi-modern ambience: Southwestern murals, bright lights, and industrial grade carpeting. The irony struck him: presumably the terrorist plan was designed to avoid heightened airport security but now the confrontation — if it came — would occur in an airport. He walked to a remote area and opened his innocuous-appearing suitcase. At the appointed time he made the comm check with his handset and received “up” responses from his partners and Leopole. He sat down, produced last year’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, and began his surveillance. The gorgeous mannequins’ forms had long since been etched in his memory.

Across the concourse, Bosco established his own routine. He took care to place his ticket folder in his front pocket, ensuring that his airline matched the appropriate gate. Two lines of travelers were queuing up at the security gate, indulging in the routine of removing shoes, emptying pockets, and placing their possessions in gray plastic trays for examination by TSA screeners. No Middle Eastern passengers were visible yet.

Bosco gave Delmore a subtle nod, releasing the body builder to patronize one of the fast food emporiums.

It looked like a long night.

“There, to the right.”

Jim Mannock nudged Sherree Kim, who looked out the window of the shuttle bus. She saw two targets among the throng of travelers entering Terminal Three: apparently Muslim males, one young and one mid to late thirties.

After five hours on their shift, the investigators faced a quick decision: should they make the call and continue riding the bus? Send one inside, retaining the other as the rover? Or should both disembark and tail the two suspects?

Mannock glanced around. No likely Muslims rode the inter-terminal shuttle. As the senior partner it was his call. “I’ll bail out, Sherree. Call Team Three and tell them what you saw. But watch for other suspects, too.” With that he unlimbered his six-one frame and stepped off the bus moments before it resumed its route.

Sial and Mohammed walked into the building from the north side and skirted the baggage claim area. With his long legs, Mannock had little trouble catching up. He noted that the two were together but trying to appear apart. The taller, older man stayed eight to ten steps behind the other. The youngster was focused on getting through the building; he exhibited no tradecraft. Mannock assessed the other as an escort: not terribly well trained, but possessing rudimentary skills. The man avoided obvious turning of his head, likely using his peripheral vision, and occasionally stopping to tie a shoe or check his ticket to look around him.

Mannock stepped to a phone bank and pulled out his radio. “Frank, this is Jim.”

“Copy, Jim.” Leopole’s voice snapped back from his command post in Terminal One.

“I’m in Three, looking at two suspects. Sherree is talking to Team Three from the bus. Our items of interest headed straight through, north to south. Looks like they’re trying to shake any tail.”

“Stand by, One.” Mannock suspected that Leopole was contacting Team Three in case Kim was unable to reach them. The gangly ex-cop scanned the area, looking for Ashcroft or Green, but did not see them.

Moments later Leopole was back on the air. “Jim, Frank.”

“Jim here. Go.”

“Three is on ‘em, Jim. They split up. Green’s tailing the older guy and Ashcroft is waiting to see what the other one does.”

“Where are they?”

“Stand by. We’ll go common in ten seconds.”

Mannock switched to the common frequency that placed Leopole, himself, and Team Three on the same channel.

“Green’s up.”

“Ashcroft here.”

“Mannock here.”

“Frank’s up. Bob, where’s your target?”

Ashcroft’s drawl came across the circuit. “He left the restroom, then went to baggage claim. He’s got a valise in one hand and a handkerchief in the other. Looks like he’s wiped it on some doors. Right now he’s on the shuttle island.”

“Roger that. Mark the spots for HazMat. Break-break. Phil, what about your guy?”

“He’s just walking around,” Green replied. “Looks like no threat.”

“All right. Stay on him. Jim, tail the primary and let me know where he goes.”

Mannock acknowledged, stowed his radio, and walked to the back of the line at the shuttle stop. From twenty feet away, he assessed the young foreigner. The skin had taken on a pallorous sheen, as if the man was perspiring from a temperature. Occasionally the target raised his handkerchief to his mouth, either to wet it or to keep down something that wanted to rise above the tongue.

While boarding, Mannock went to the rear of the bus and took an aisle seat. Discreetly, he tugged on a pair of latex gloves and watched his mark, seated three rows forward. The young Muslim kept his hankie in hand but did not seem to wipe it on the seats or rails. Too many people nearby Mannock thought. We’ll see what he does at the next stop. The jihadist did nothing for the next twenty minutes. He rode the shuttle, clutching his handkerchief in his right hand with his valise in his lap. Once he stood up as if to leave, but merely changed seats. Mannock stayed put, unwilling to commit to a move until certain of his mark’s intention.

Hazrat Sial turned in his seat and looked at James Mannock. Busted, the copper thought. It was bound to happen.

At the next stop the Pakistani exited the bus. Mannock resisted the impulse to chase his prey, instead calling Leopole with an update. “Frank, Jim. He’s just gone into Terminal One.”

With little else to do, Terry Keegan and Eddie Marsh arrived early to relieve Team One and received a radio briefing from Leopole. Then they made visual contact with Bosco and Breezy, who had just seen a young Muslim enter near the ticket counter. Marsh asked, “Is that the guy? By the Great Southwestern sign?”

“Yeah,” Bosco replied. “He’s wearing what Jim Mannock described.”

Keegan did not want to take chances. “Have you seen any other Muslim-looking guys?”

“There was a mama with some young ‘uns,” Breezy said. “They wore white turbans but I’m not sure if they were Muslims or Sikhs or something.”

Keegan’s blue eyes parsed the lobby, searching for other suspects. “Well, I don’t see anybody else right now. You guys go get some rest. Eddie and I will take it from here.”

The new team dispersed to begin surveillance, watching Target Alpha while remaining open to others. Minutes later Leopole was back on the air. “Be advised, there are multiple items in Two but they’re currently no threat. A mixed pair in Four, apparently leaving. However, a single is exiting the bus at One, north side.”

“I’m there,” Marsh replied. In a few moments he was back: “Got him. Mid thirties, heavyset, no beard, tan jacket and dark pants.”

Leopole checked his notes. “Ah, roger, Ed. That’s Target Bravo. He was tagged as escort for the primary before the shift change.”

Mohammed was back.

In Terminal One’s security office, Leopole summarized the situation for his TSA liaison. “We have two targets, both in the main lobby, ground floor. The younger one is the likely threat; the other seems to make eye contact with him about every thirty to forty minutes, wherever they are. Obviously they’re on some sort of rotation. They’ve met in two terminals now.”

Dennis Meagher watched the TV monitor, picking out the two Muslims amid the crowd. “Have they done anything unusual?”

“Target Alpha has rubbed his handkerchief on some railings and doors, but that’s it so far.” The SSI operative shrugged. “Of course, that’s all it might take to spread the virus.”

“You know I can’t initiate action against someone without probable cause.”

“Well, that’s why we’re here, Mr. Meagher.” Leopole smiled. “Deniability.”

“What do you propose, Colonel?”

“I’d like to press Alpha a bit. Let him see one of our guys obviously tailing him and watch what he does.”

Conscientious professional that he was, Supervisor Meagher declined comment.

Mission-oriented operator that he was, Frank Leopole accepted silence as consent.

“Comm check,” Leopole called.

Keegan, Marsh, Mannock, and Kim all checked in.

“Okay, here we go,” Leopole began. “Alpha’s already tagged Jim, so we’ll use him to goad the target. Terry and Eddie maintain a roving perimeter around him. Sherree, watch Target Bravo. We will not act until he breaks off again. Acknowledge.”

“Keegan, roger.”

“Marsh, roger that.”

“Mannock, right.”

“Kim, okie-dokie.”

When Mohammed left the terminal, he failed to notice the young Oriental woman tracking him.

However, Hazrat Sial immediately became aware of the towering presence of James Mannock, six meters behind him. After three abrupt direction changes, the Pakistani realized he could not lose the big infidel who had ridden the bus with him. Sial returned to the men’s room and entered a stall.

He was perspiring more freely now, and the obvious surveillance heightened the churning in his stomach. The headache was persistent, and growing worse. He felt himself failing physically; his heart beat faster to maintain blood pressure. He could walk normally, but he realized that he no longer possessed the strength to run very far.

In the rare moments when his body had permitted him some equanimity, Sial absorbed the enormous contradiction called America. The infidels’ technical marvels were plain to see: huge airplanes that spanned continents and oceans; bright, gleaming buildings of steel and glass; a communications system previously undreamt of. Yet the place was built upon determined decadence and studied stupidity. Every magazine rack paraded beautiful young women who exposed themselves to the world through a camera lens. It seemed that one-sixth of the young men slouched through life, so addled that they were incapable of wearing a cap properly.

Yet for all its varied faults and contradictions, the land that spawned the twenty-first-century Crusaders had somehow overwhelmed the world. Its mongrelized, hedonistic culture had become the global standard. How did that happen? Violent, unclean motion pictures and unhealthy fast food emporiums cropped up around the planet, including places such as Baluchistan. It was appalling. And for that transgression, America would suffer long after Hazrat Sial’s pain had ended.

His time had come.

Sial unzipped his valise and withdrew a spray bottle. He pressed the plunger twice, directing the contents onto the toilet’s handle and the lock on the door. From his pocket he drew a three-inch switchblade. Once his actions drew attention, he could fend off the Zionist lackeys long enough to spread more of his lethal essence onto doors, railings, and people.

The martyred doctor had explained that the virus did not live long outside the body, so the contaminated places had to be refreshed. Sial had widely deposited his saliva in two terminals but he remembered the big American who had so obviously dogged his trail. Had the balding giant noted the spots and cleaned them up? If so, at least he could not neutralize what was about to happen.

Sial opened the door to the stall and glanced around. Three infidels were cleansing themselves, paying him no attention. He went to the next stall, sprayed the door and the toilet, then went to the next. He was repeating the process when he heard a voice.

“Hey, man, what’re you doing?”

A Hispanic gentleman approached Sial; one of the oppressed victims of the Jewish power structure. Well, there was nothing else to be done. The living martyr raised his bottle and sprayed the pitiful wretch in the face.

Hazrat Sial dashed for the exit, determined to empty his weapon onto as many westerners as possible. There! The big, ugly American blocked his path; latex covering his hands and a respirator with goggles on his face. The hands came toward the Pakistani with surprising speed. Instinctively, Sial sprayed his enemy but the mist only struck clothing. A hand closed on his right forearm, controlling the bottle. Sial reacted instinctively, bringing his left hand up and forward. The serrated blade sliced into James Mannock’s ribs, causing the American to release his grip. Sial spun away, half turning to the right where he saw an opening near the food court.

Mannock registered a deluge of emotions: pain, anger, and fear. He felt warm blood running down his side but that did not bother him immediately. What’d the bastard put on his blade? Momentarily taken aback, he could only call, “Stop that guy!”

Sial sprayed and slashed his way into the crowd. Men shouted; women screamed; children wailed. The closest people tried to flee, colliding with others. The result was a milling, noisy pandemonium.

Keegan and Marsh had staked out the restroom. Whichever way Target Alpha turned, one of the SSI men would be on him. But in the noise and confusion, neither kept sight of him. They knew that Leopole would have a god’s-eye view from the security office, but tracking the target’s movements on remote cameras and relaying the information via hand-held radios in a panicky crowd was a major challenge.

Terry Keegan motioned with his left hand, directing Eddie Marsh to loop wide to that side of the aisle. Then the senior pilot sprinted toward the center of the churning crowd.

A middle-aged woman blocked his path, sagging to her knees and holding her abdomen. Keegan veered around her, knocked over a shrieking child, and swept his eyes methodically left to right.

Opposite the men’s room entrance, Keegan noticed something odd: women fleeing the ladies’ room. He spun on his heel, shoved a rabbi out of the way, and reflexively uttered, “Excuse me, Father.”

The women’s facility was empty. Mirrors shone; tile gleamed; blood drops tracked the floor. Keegan looked behind him—Always check your six in a combat zone—but he seemed alone. He eased against the wall, protecting his back while willing his breath to abate. He used the opportunity to pull on his respirator, then lowered his valise to the floor.

Deep breathing; almost sobbing. Far end of the room.

Keegan backtracked to the entrance and took a quick look. He saw neither Marsh nor Mannock, and no cops or security people. The crowd was still writhing inward upon itself. Keegan took off his shoes and padded to the last stall. The door was closed but no one seemed inside. The strained breathing told him that Alpha was there, probably perched on the commode, catching his breath.

Two college-age women came in, chattering animatedly about the mysterious confusion. They saw the gloved and goggled male and stopped in their tracks. Keegan’s first instinct was to raise a finger to his face, signaling silence, but he had a better idea. He crooked a finger at them in a come-hither gesture. They screamed and ran for the exit.

Keegan backed into a stall, left the door mostly closed but still ajar, and waited.

Hazrat Sial appeared from Keegan’s right. Drawn by the prospect of more infidels, he broke cover and stalked carefully down the line, proceeding past Keegan.

Shoes on the floor. Men’s shoes. In the women’s room.

Sial pivoted on one foot, raising the spray bottle as Keegan tackled him. They went down hard, rolling once. Keegan felt a stabbing pain as the back of his head impacted the tiled floor. Damn! Hurts! Gotta keep in the fight. He shook off the blow, increased the pressure of his grip on Alpha, and began leveraging an advantage. Though younger, the terrorist was smaller and weaker than the American. But Sial possessed an inherent advantage: he fought to die while his opponent wanted to live. Keegan got hold of the Pakistani’s wrists and rolled him onto his back. Now on top, the aviator had neutralized the fight. It occurred to him that he was like the proverbial Great Dane that chases sports cars — what to do when you catch one?

Keegan could not release either hand without giving Sial a no-miss shot with the bottle or the knife. His mind racing, the erstwhile sub hunter decided to accept the lesser hit in order to prevent the greater damage. He shifted his right hand to his opponent’s left, and began a heartfelt effort with both hands to snap the younger man’s wrist. The spray bottle was constantly in motion. Keegan felt the mist against his exposed skin, behind the respirator and below the goggles. At some point in the fear and rage and violence, he realized that the bottle was empty.

Gotcha, ya little bastard.

Without intellectualizing it, Keegan employed an engineering concept: opposite torsion. He twisted in different directions with each hand, finally forcing the knife from Sial’s grasp. The terrorist now was spitting into his assailant’s masked and goggled face, and when the knife hit the floor, Keegan used his right fist to smash the man’s nose. Momentarily stunned, Hazrat Sial did not see the infidel scoop up the knife. The living martyr only glimpsed its arcing descent an instant before its point entered his trachea.

Hazrat Sial, age twenty, transitioned to full-fledged martyrdom on the floor of a women’s restroom far from Baluchistan.