Pandora's Legion

7

CPS sat on a canvas and frame seat that folded up for stowage. The 727’s interior was optimized for utility over comfort, though six bunks were available for longer flights. She was re-reading the cargo manifest, keeping ahead of potential shortages. It was far better to know that the operators were lacking something before landing than minutes before they needed it. Leopole had insisted that most standard equipment could be obtained in Islamabad.

Satisfied with the inventory, Padgett-Smith turned her attention to personnel. She had been introduced to everyone and reckoned that she remembered about one-third of the names and faces. She was most interested in the medics: one fully qualified on each team plus at least one partially cross-trained. She had talked to that overage adolescent called Breezy and determined that he was probably competent — at least he could discuss medical vocabulary while sneaking glances at her chest. The thirty-something ex-Green Beret, Jerry Sefton, had impressed her as a near match for her ex-brother-in-law. How he would love this job! she mused.

That left the former SEAL, Jeffrey Malten. He seemed quieter and, whatever his age, more mature than most of the others. She waved to him and patted the seat beside her. That Bosco character saw the gesture and punched Malten’s arm in a comradely manner. He mouthed something unintelligible over the jet noise; two syllables. American soldiers were forever uttering ferral grunts and tones: Hoo-ah! and Ah-oo! seemed most popular. She had even heard the former expressed with a rising tone: Hoo-ah? evidently was an interrogatory as well as a declarative. Carolyn inferred that to the military cognoscenti, one or the other was favored by the Marines and the Army. Apparently fliers and sailors communicated on a higher plane, occasionally rising to polysyllabics.

Malten sat down, looking alert and composed. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Mr. Malten, we had so little time before leaving that I didn’t get to talk to you as much as I hoped. I should like to know a bit more about your medical experience. That is, if you don’t mind.”

Malten blinked. He thought of himself as a shooter who could keep WIAs alive long enough for a dustoff flight. “Well, ma’am, sure. I mean, I finished the combat corpsman school and got the refreshers along the way. But I don’t know about these viruses, other than what we were told about the bio threat, and that wasn’t much.”

“Yes, I understand that. Mainly I wondered if you received information on the symptoms. In the early stages it’s terribly difficult to distinguish between Marburg or Ebola and more common diseases, from malaria or dengue to the lesser hemorrhagic fevers.”

Jeffrey Malten slowly shook his close-cropped head. “Ah, no ma’am. I couldn’t tell the difference. To tell you the truth, Doctor, I know a lot more about penetrating and sucking wounds than anything else.”

CPS absorbed that information, briefly staring out the opposite window. The evening sunlight glowed golden on the cloud deck. Then she turned to the earnest young man. “I’ll see if I can organize a briefing for you and the other medics. Perhaps some of the nuances would be helpful. Until then, it’s best to assume the worst and treat any likely patient with isolation and barrier methods.”

“Yes’m. Gotcha.”

Padgett-Smith regarded young Mr. Malten for a moment. He returned her level gaze; he seemed to regard her as an equal, and considering their vast educational differences, she was surprised to find that fact appealing.

“Would you mind if I asked a personal question?”

“No ma’am.”

“Obviously you’re quite good at your work. Why did you leave the Navy?”

Malten grinned almost shyly. “Well…” He seemed to squint, as if concentrating. Then he looked back at her. “Do you know what ‘ruck up’ means?”

“I would guess it’s from climbing or hiking. As in ruck sack.”

“Yeah, that’s close. The guys say they ruck up by putting on their gear and sh… stuff. But it also means to get ready for an op — you know, a mission.”

“Ah, I see.” Tony would have a far better idea.

“Well, in the teams — in the SEALs — I was active for almost four years. We’d ruck up — and stand down. Ruck up — and stand down. Ruck up — and stand down. Ruck up — and stand down. I don’t even know how many times we were briefed for a mission and then had it cancelled. The only two ops I was on, practically nothing happened. It was just surveillance. I was going nuts. So were a lot of the guys.”

“So you were frustrated at the lack of… action?”

Malten nodded decisively. “That’s it. Frustrated.”

Padgett-Smith recalled only two such discussions with Tony. He had expressed similar sentiments. “Mr. Malten, my brother-in-law was SAS. He absolutely loved the regiment and would have stayed for fifty years if he hadn’t broken both legs and ankles. But he was in the Falklands.”

Jeffrey Malten almost grinned. “Cool.”

“So… you left the Navy to join SSI?”

“Well, not really. I just knew I didn’t want to spend more time training and training, and never really doing the job. Besides, I had no personal life. In the teams, the divorce rate is like eighty percent. I wanted to meet a girl and, maybe, you know…” He shrugged. “So I decided not to re-enlist. Then I heard about SSI and… well, here I am.”

“You’re happy with your work now?”

Malten’s eyes seemed to light up. “Oh yeah. I’ve been… well, ah, I can’t really say everywhere I’ve been. But the work’s steady and it pays well, and the admiral’s just a great boss. I even have time to chase girls again.” He laughed aloud.

Carolyn Padgett-Smith bestowed a large smile on Jeffrey Malten. “I hope you catch one, then!”

Sometimes it was hard for Kassim to remember that Ali’s degree was in medicine rather than theology. While the doctor practiced the former, he lived the latter. Had Kassim heard the word, he would have recognized Ali as a devoted evangelist.

Some of Ali’s cell lacked the Syrian’s ability to distinguish between lay teacher and cleric. Occasionally someone referred to the doctor as an imam, but only one time. Dr. Ali’s piousness could turn into a wrath of stunning proportions, lest he permit himself to indulge in the sin of false pride. He considered himself a scholar, not a priest.

This evening the “sermon” turned on seeming contradictions in the Qur’an and the Hadith, though Ali insisted that The Prophet’s compilations contained far fewer than the Christian holy book.

One surah in particular troubled Miam Tahirkheli, a youngster who wanted to follow his teacher into medicine. “Doctor, Sunan Abu Dawud quotes The Prophet that we may not harm any old person, any child, or any woman. If it is prohibited to make war upon women and children, how then can we use methods that destroy the innocent?”

Ali had never known a Jesuit but he had a seminarian’s knowledge of polemical questions. “I believe there are no totally innocent victims among the Crusaders. Yes, children are blameless in and of themselves, but their parents are at fault for failing to protect them. Worse, for failing to guide them on the true path. America and the other Zionist nations all are ruled by democratically elected officials. Yet their governments are opposed to Islam and kill our believers in large numbers. Therefore, America and its lackeys constitute a legitimate target. If the populations would overthrow the Crusaders and the Jews, we would have little argument with them.”

Tahirkheli, who had some schooling beyond the elementary level, accepted the logic. “Then we must strengthen ourselves to act in ways that might offend The Faith?”

Ali folded his arms and rocked back on his haunches. “My brother, what would you have us do? Either we can defend The Faith or we can watch it wither and die. World conditions permit nothing else.”

Miam Tahirkheli realized that the other men and boys were watching him. Thrusting out his chin, which bore the beginnings of a fine beard, he forced his voice an octave lower than normal. “I will be a defender.”

As the 727 braked to a stop and the three engines spun down, the parking ramp was dimly lit. Clearly the Pakistanis did not want to draw undue attention to the new arrival. Keegan knew that two hangars had been allotted to SSI: one for the company plane and another for the teams. The Falcon would unload and depart almost immediately.

A limousine was waiting from the American consulate as Frank Leopole and Omar Mohammed descended the stairs. Though the limo bore diplomatic plates, it flew no flags and showed no sign of the passengers’ prestige. A tall American emerged in mufti with a uniformed Pakistani.

Brigadier General Bryce Hardesty was known as “Buster.” As military attaché to Islamabad, his position carried more responsibility than his rank indicated. Mohammed had gleaned some useful information from the officer’s bio, filling in the gaps with a couple of phone calls. SSI knew that Hardesty’s previous experience and fluency in Urdu had gained him the position before he pinned on his star.

Introductions were made as the men walked to the office. Buster Hardesty made a point of pronouncing the Pakistani’s name slowly and carefully, though SSI already had the information via fax.

Major Rustam Khan were a green uniform with the star and crescent of his rank on the epaulets of an immaculately pressed blouse. Leopole assessed him in one glance: mid-thirties, five-eight or — nine, generally fit. Professional-looking. He spoke English with a hint of a British accent.

Hardesty was businesslike but personable. He laid out the situation in more detail than SSI had seen previously. “This is a pretty secure facility, gentlemen. It was a training base until a couple years ago when the PAF consolidated some facilities. You have more than adequate barracks for forty men, and in fact you’re welcome to spread out if you wish. Major Khan has already provided for chow and laundry services from the caretakers here.”

Leopole took SSI’s lead in the discussion, focusing on Hardesty while being careful to include Khan. The erstwhile marine considered the Pakis an odd bunch. Their army used conventional ranks while the air force was RAF. Their navy had ensigns and lieutenants junior grade but above the 0–2 level they used army ranks. He tried to imagine majors and colonels commanding ships. He couldn’t.

Keegan and Padgett-Smith arrived, having supervised parking the 727 and unloading medical kits. Hardesty and Khan rose to their feet as Leopole made the introductions. “Dr. Padgett-Smith is the immunologist I mentioned. She’s really the reason we’re here.”

Carolyn extended a manicured hand to Hardesty. She was amused when Khan kissed her hand in a most un-Islamic gesture. With a sideways glance, she thought that she saw Leopole register mild disapproval. She was pleased.

Administrative matters took about forty minutes. At that point Keegan interjected. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Ah, I have another helicopter pilot with me. We hoped for some flight time in a Hip before we left the States but it wasn’t possible…”

Khan nodded briskly. “Yes, yes. We have arranged to begin day after tomorrow. You shall have an Mi-17 with an instructor pilot and engineer.”

Keegan expressed obvious pleasure. He arched his eyebrows at Leopole, who interpreted the message: I’ll be damned! “Ah, thank you, Major. We’ve already read the manual so we should be able to transition pretty quickly.”

As the meeting broke up, Khan introduced the base liaison officer who would care for the Americans. The two Pakis obliged Mohammed and Steve Lee with some Urdu conversation while Leopole commiserated with Hardesty. “General, I’d say that Khan is a capable officer. But isn’t an 0–4 kind of junior for a project of this priority?”

“Well, remember that in this part of the world a major carries more weight than his western counterparts. Besides, Rustam would be my choice in any case. Most of the senior officers here owe their allegiance to the ruling clique, and frankly some of them are suspect. They may not overtly support al Qaeda but they won’t try very hard to defeat it, either. In a way, you can’t blame them. They know that if the current regime is overthrown, they’ll be at risk.”

“So what’s Khan’s motivation?”

“He’s a decent man and a good officer. But, just between us, he has more reason than most. A couple of years back there was a string of car bombings near military and government facilities. Rustam’s wife was injured and their daughter was killed. There isn’t much he wouldn’t do to track down those people.”