Pandora's Legion

4

Carolyn Padgett-Smith sat in Tony Williamson’s Austin while he chatted up the warrant officer in the armory. Fifteen minutes later he emerged with a soft rifle case and boxes of 9mm and 7.62x39 ammunition. He slid into the right-hand seat, put the car in gear, and drove off. “We’ve got about four hours,” he said.

“What did you tell them?”

Tony looked at the immunologist. “I took the course of last resort. I told the truth, love.”

She laughed and punched his arm. Though lacking specifics, she had told the SAS veteran all he needed to know when she said, “I am not going to be defenseless among people who cut off the heads of hostages.”

At a twenty-five-meter pistol range Tony set up two silhouette targets, one with a bull’s-eye and the other with the old “Charging Hun.” He placed Carolyn at ten meters from the bull and produced a Browning Hipower pistol.

“Right. Safety first, love. There are all sorts of regulations, but you only need to keep two rules in mind.” He held up one finger. “First, keep your finger off the trigger until your sights are on target. Always. Forever and a day. In close quarters sometimes you can’t avoid sweeping someone…”

“Sweeping?”

“Covering them with the muzzle of your gun. But if you keep your finger off the trigger, you’ll be safe and so will they.”

Carolyn nodded, regarding the Browning with ambivalence. She had never cared for guns, pro or con. Charles used to shoot grouse but that was ages ago.

Tony held up a second finger. “Two. If you can help it, never point the weapon at anybody you’re unwilling to kill, including yourself. Common sense, I know, but cemeteries are filled with blokes who got careless.” He handed the pistol to her.

“Right.” He pointed out the salient features. “Front sight, rear sight, trigger, hammer, frame, and slide. Forget everything you’ve seen in the movies, love. Pistols are shot at eye level with the front sight centered in the rear sight notch. This is a common pistol, one you’re likely to encounter… well, wherever. Most others work pretty much the same way. It holds a detachable magazine with thirteen nine-millimeter rounds but we’ll come to that in a bit. This one has some modifications.” He neglected to mention that it was his personal weapon, retained in violation of certain of Her Majesty’s draconian ordinances. He relied on his status as a onetime Territorial officer to cover that topic.

Tony demonstrated the grip and stance, and walked Carolyn through a quarter hour of dry firing. Finally he demonstrated loading, safety activation, and firing. After donning eye and ear protection, he raised the Hipower with both hands, got a quick sight picture, and put three rounds in the six-inch bull in two seconds. “Now you. But take your time.”

Tony called a break after thirty minutes. By then Carolyn was able to keep half of her rounds in the black at fifteen meters — better than he expected. “Too bad we don’t have more time, though it’d be hard to get this range again anytime soon.” He regarded her slyly. “Now, if you could get to America for a week you’d be safe as houses.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, those chaps can shoot almost anything they want, nearly anywhere. Especially schools like Gunsite and Thunder Ranch. Far different from here, you know.”

She grinned at her former in-law. “Something about a difference of opinion regarding eighteenth-century Crown tax policy, I believe.”

“Right. Here we go again. I’ve loaded some magazines with a few duds so you’ll have to clear malfunctions as I showed you. Also, I want you to start firing doubles at the heart followed by one to the head. It’s called the Mozambique Drill.”

She shook her head. “Mozambique?”

“It was popularized in Africa in the 1970s. ‘Two to the body and one to the head… every time… leaves ‘em dead.’ It’s what we call a failure drill. About half the time, two nine millimeters to the body don’t put the chap down. In that case there’s no point in shooting him in the body again, so the next round goes between the lights.”

Carolyn learned the procedure and did moderately well. However, her trigger control needed work, as she frequently pulled the third shot low and left. Tony checked his watch and made a decision. “I want to familiarize you with the AK-47 but we’ll stick with this a bit longer. From now on, love, after you shoot, move. At least three steps diagonally backward, left or right. Preferably toward some cover like a building or rock.”

After another rest, Tony produced the Kalashnikov. “This is the most common firearm on earth. You find it everywhere.” Carolyn had seen the Islamic icon on television, but had never been near one. It struck her as businesslike, devoid of elegance, wholly functional. “I’m going to show you how it works,” he explained, “and you’ll fire a couple of mags so you can use one if you need to.”

He demonstrated the curved magazine and how it was inserted and removed. He had her chamber a round and activate the safety several times. “This is a selective fire weapon, meaning it’s both semi and fully automatic. There’s no point in you trying to shoot full auto — that takes training. If you have to use one, push the selector lever to the bottom position, after safe on top and auto in the middle. If it’s fully loaded, you have thirty rounds semi-auto. Sighting is the same as before: front sight aligned with the rear.”

Carolyn snugged the stock into her shoulder, using rearward pressure with her right hand on the pistol grip as Tony had explained. With her sights aligned on the bull’s-eye, she pressed the trigger. The rifle barked and she issued a slight yelp. Tony’s hand steadied her from behind. “That’s an object lesson, love. Remember to lean into it a bit. This is not a heavy recoiling rifle, but it’s much more than the pistol.”

At the end of the session, Dr. Padgett-Smith was putting two rounds within five inches of each other at twenty-five meters, offhand.

Over drinks at a nearby pub, she asked, “So tell me, Tony. How’d I do?”

“For a complete novice, unusually well. But then you’re more motivated than most. I could increase your speed with a couple more sessions, but that’s tough. I owe the colonel a big one just for today.”

She leaned close. “You know, it’s sort of… fun.”

Tony Williamson leaned back, regarding his beautiful sister-in-law. “I tried to convince Lydia of that, you know. Not much luck there, and my career was in the regiment.”

“So… are you seeing each other again?”

He drained the last of his ale. “You know damned well we are!”

“Well…” She arched her eyebrows.

Tony set his empty glass down on the table with a forceful thud. “Well, as I was saying, pistol shooting is a highly perishable skill. If you get any chance at all, be sure to have your chums get you another session.”

“How’s the voyage shaping up, Magellan?” Leopole seldom missed a chance to toss a jibe at his ex-navy counterpart.

Keegan glanced up from his aeronautical charts. He tried to appear nonchalant, but the ten-thousand-mile trip had him more interested than any recent event. “Pretty routine, actually, Frank. We’ll be lightly loaded so we can use the 727’s long-range tanks. Depending on the winds, we should make Dulles to Goose Bay no sweat, then Reykjavik to London. I guess we’ll be there for a day or so to pick up the Brit babe.”

“Uh, you mean Dr. Padgett-Smith, the prominent immunologist.”

“Yeah, the Brit babe. Then on to Athens and Islamabad via Oman. Too bad we can’t overfly Iran. It’d cut half the time off our last leg.”

“Well, we might ask permission but the admiral thinks we…”

“I know. And I don’t disagree. Now, the 757 has a three-thousand-mile range. We could cut out most of the fuel stops. With the Jurassic Jet we’re limited to two thousand miles nautical with any reserve.”

Leopole laughed at the moniker. The Boeing 727–200 was still popular with some companies because it was relatively inexpensive, and SSI’s had long since been amortized. “Take it up with the board of directors.”

“Maybe I should. I mean, we might consider a lease-to-buy arrangement.”

“Well, go ahead and work it up. Hell, I’ll even support the idea. But remember, Terry, sometimes security outweighs the finances. If we want to lease a jet, and provide our own crew, and decline to say where we’re going, the owners are going to get nervous.” He shrugged. “I can’t blame ‘em.”

Keegan laid down his old-fashioned Jeppesen E6B flight computer with its rotating dial and printed grid. There were easier ways to do the navigation but he enjoyed the way he’d been taught. “We’re still splitting up the teams?”

“Affirmative. You’ll take Red and White while the leased Falcon takes Blue and another flight crew. Everybody meets in Islamabad in three days.”

“It might be tight with fourteen bubbas and some gear in a Falcon 200 but they should be okay since I’m packing most of the equipment. I already checked with maintenance. Our bird is good to go.”

Leopole nodded. “Okay. Uh, how about the choppers?”

“I asked Dave about getting a Hip checkout but we’re running out of time. I wish we had another helo pilot, too. That Guatemalan job took Dave and Morrie and we can’t get them back soon enough. The new guy, Eddie Marsh, is fine but there’s no backup. We’ll have to rely on the Pakis to some extent.”

“Concur. But I endorsed your memo to Pat Finch for two more rotorheads on the staff. He hasn’t got back to me officially but I think that Personnel will recommend approval to the board.”

Keegan grinned self-consciously. “Yeah, that’s what Sallie said. I told her it might help if they recommend dual-rated guys. Uh_; you know… like me. Fixed wing and helos. Bean counters like getting more bang for their buck.”

Leopole saw an opportunity. “Hey, Sallie made quite an impression on Dave Main.”

The pilot smiled broadly. “Sallie makes quite an impression on everybody.”

Leopole eyed his counterpart. He suspected that Ms. Kline and Mr. Keegan might have socialized at one point. If so, they were an odd couple: she was a spiritualist and he an agnostic. But as Mike Derringer always said, it takes all kinds to fill a battleship.

Ali reached his rendezvous almost two hours late. Nobody objected.

The doctor stepped out of the VW van, leaving his passenger inside. Ali was greeted by his reception committee, headed by a Syrian expatriate named Kassim. “My brother, peace be with you.”

“And unto you,” Ali replied. He held few men in absolute trust, but Kassim was among them. If nothing else, the man’s loss of a foot to a Soviet mine had earned him trust on earth and a seat in Paradise.

Kassim gestured behind him. “I have two good men, mujahadin who have proven their worth many times. We shall escort the woman to the airport and one of them will be her traveling companion.”

“The papers are prepared, then?”

Kassim nodded gravely. “They are genuine. We have certain… friends. They travel routinely to Amman and then will enter the Zionist zone.”

Ali’s teeth showed as he smiled in the dark. “All is proceeding as planned, then. The first, ah, package, departed Islamabad a few days ago. When the westerners and their Jewish masters look into this case, they will have an even wider area to cover.”

Kassim glanced at the van again; the woman’s dark shape blended into the night. “Does she truly understand what awaits her?”

Ali nodded vigorously. “It is one thing to pull a pin or push a plunger and vanish in an instant. Before the warrior knows it, he awakens in Paradise. But this…” he nodded toward the young woman in the van. “This method requires vastly more courage and devotion.”

Kassim’s companion joined them, a carpenter known as Farrukh Awan. Ali had noticed that they spent more time together of late.

Looking at the woman, Kassim said, “Perhaps she will become a vestal virgin. She shames us all.” Ali suspected that he offered the sentiment for Awan’s benefit. The young man had potential.

Ali placed a bony hand on his colleague’s arm. “She was going to die anyway, you know. And I would not save her if I could — she is far too valuable this way. Just remember, we cannot all be messengers, my friend. Some of us must prepare the message. But God will know his servants, and all shall receive his blessing.”

Before handing over the woman to Kassim’s team, Ali beckoned to her. She stepped from the van, moving slowly and with apparent difficulty. When she approached him he raised a hand in benediction. Obviously quoting from memory, he intoned,

“Pledge. O Sister, the following against the unbelievers:

“Covenant, O Sister… to make their women widows and their children orphans.

“Covenant, O Sister… to make them desire death and hate appointments and prestige.

“Covenant, O Sister… to slaughter them like lambs and let the Nile, al-Asi, and Euphrates Rivers flow with their blood.

“Covenant, O Sister… to be a pick of destruction for every godless and apostate regime.

“Covenant, O Sister… to retaliate for you against every dog who touch you even with a bad word.”

The female jihadist placed her right hand on her forehead, bowed toward her benefactor, and walked toward the other vehicle. The rough-hewn men of Kassim’s team stepped aside, watching her with reverential curiosity.

Meanwhile, the Syrian leaned close to Ali, speaking softly. “When shall we expect the next, um, shipment?”

“Most likely within a week. Such volunteers are rare, and I am adjusting the dosage to provide some overlap, but it is an inexact science. I would prefer to release all the carriers at once, but the most willing have terminal illnesses and their condition dictates the schedule. However, God willing, we shall have some to disperse among the Crusaders’ accomplices as well as in the West itself.”

“Inshallah,” Kassim exclaimed in his native Arabic.

“God willing,” Ali translated in Urdu. Whatever the language, the sentiment was exactly the same.

Mike Derringer felt that he walked a fine line before the teams left. He wanted to bid his operators good-bye and good hunting, but he did not wish to overstate the matter. Therefore, he decided on last-minute handshakes at the airport. Meanwhile, he convened a final meeting with his braintrust.

Inevitably, Derringer launched into one of his favorite subjects, ironically, one that usually left him depressed. He began, “The problem with the global war on terrorism — well, all right, there’s a lot more than one. But in comparison with conventional war, there’s no way to get a grip on the size of the problem. A few days ago the news reported that coalition troops killed or captured about seventy combatants in Iraq. A few days before that, twenty or so Taliban were killed in Afghanistan. Okay, let’s take those numbers at face value. What do they mean?”

There was silence in the room.

Derringer nodded his balding head. “Exactly.” Then he grinned. “You don’t know, and neither do I. Hell, I suspect that nobody knows— maybe not even our enemy. The point is, we have no idea what the loss of ninety or a hundred men represents. Is it a lot? A few? Does it matter at all?” He shrugged. “Nobody knows.”

Leopole rubbed his high-and-tight haircut — an unconscious sign of irritability. “Admiral, I see your point. But shouldn’t we be careful about a body count mentality?”

“Yes, Frank, we should. And I would be well down the list of those who would ever endorse Robert Strange McNamara’s approach to anything: from Edsels to Vietnam. Hell, the bastard didn’t even believe in his own war. But at least in Vietnam we had a rough idea of the enemy’s strength. Now…” His voice trailed off.

The retired marine picked up the retired admiral’s thought. “Yes, sir. Apparently EOB estimates still run from several hundred to maybe twenty thousand.” Establishing enemy order of battle had long been a sore point in the Pentagon; it still was.

Derringer found his voice again. “Let’s look at it another way: reverse the numbers. If we or the coalition lost seventy men in Iraq and twenty more in Afghanistan in a couple of days, what would be the result?”

“Some kind of policy change,” offered Wolfe. “We might even pull out.”

“I tend to agree. But we know our force levels. One hundred dead represents, what? A fraction of a percent. In the overall scheme, it’s tiny. But in a country where the press lives by the motto ‘If it bleeds, it leads,’ that tiny number could have enormous effect.

“Which is why this Marburg project is so important. In Clauswitzian terms, it’s elegant: economy of force writ large. Sacrifice a handful of suicidal hosts in exchange for tens of thousands of casualties, and not just on the battlefield. People dying in droves in Heartland, USA. But you know what? The human cost would not be the decisive factor. The knockout blow would be economic. Let a pandemic loose in this country, and maybe Western Europe as well, and the Western economy would tank. It might take decades to recover.”

Knowing he had made his point, Derringer surveyed the audience. He was met with level gazes of planners and operators who already shared his tacit sentiment. But he spoke the words anyway. “Find them, gentlemen. Find them and kill them.”