Pandora's Legion

9

Ali bowed a final time to the southwest, giving homage toward Mecca. Then he raised to a sitting position, hands on his knees, eyes still closed. Sometimes when he prayed, the spirit enveloped him like a warm, comforting blanket. Those were the moments he savored, for he knew that he had prayed properly: with true humility and reverence. He had been praying for his forty-nine years on earth, but still he managed to pray satisfactorily less than half the time. He would have to concentrate more; work even harder to become a deserving servant of God.

When he opened his eyes Ali saw a man striding toward him, perhaps fifty meters away. From the figure’s awkward gait, the doctor recognized Kassim.

Ali gathered up his prayer rug and placed it inside the rude building. Then he went forward to meet his colleague. He knew the Syrian to be less than devout in matters of piety — Kassim certainly did not pray five times a day — but the man’s loss of a foot against the Russians and his dedication to destroying the Crusaders were unquestioned.

Allah would make allowances.

Kassim limped to the door, where Ali invited him in for tea. But the Syrian declined with a perfunctory thank-you. “There is interesting news from Quetta.”

Ali turned from the stove where the water boiled. “Yes?”

“Infidels at the old airfield. Working with government forces.”

Ali forgot about the tea. He sat down, beckoning his friend to join him.

“We have eyes inside the perimeter,” Kassim began. “Believers who share their knowledge with us.”

“Yes, I recall.” It was well known that the Pakistani armed forces had no shortage of al Qaeda supporters and sympathizers. Kassim’s organization threw a wide net: The Base was global.

“Two days ago one of the faithful saw Americans there. They stole a dog.”

Ali was slightly disappointed; he expected more. There were Americans and other westerners throughout Pakistan. “That is no secret, my friend. The Crusaders have contacts throughout our country.”

Kassim waved a hand. “No, no. This is unusual. The Americans were soldiers but had no uniforms.”

“Then how do you know they were soldiers?”

“My source works in the base facilities office. He says the soldiers are there disguised as security consultants. But they have the look and the bearing of soldiers: mostly young, very fit, with military haircuts, though most are growing beards. He saw weapons and…”

“How many men?”

“The corporal did not feel he could question them without raising suspicions. He saw six or eight, but he learned there are accommodations for as many as forty.”

Ali absorbed the information, wondering if the Crusaders could be so fast off the mark after his first two failed “deliveries.” While he was thinking, Kassim interjected.

“There is something else.”

“What is it?”

“A woman.”

Steve Lee was running White Team through some drills as Padgett-Smith finished some remedial pistol training. Jeffrey Malten had attempted to improve her speed with a manageable reduction in accuracy but finally conceded enough was enough. As the former SEAL cleaned the Hipower, Padgett-Smith regarded Lee’s men with something approaching professional detachment. Most were casually dressed — some in cutoffs and T-shirts — while incongruously wearing gloves. She turned to Malten. “Why do some of them have gloves but so little else?”

“Oh. I know, it looks funny, but some guys prefer wearing gloves on an operation while others go bare handed. Whatever they do, they practice the same way. There’s a saying, ‘Fight like you train.’ It can be a little hard to manipulate some guns or equipment with gloves so those guys practice with them on. There’s a compromise, though. Fingerless gloves protect the hands but allow full use of the fingers. It’s just personal preference.” He tried suppressing a grin and failed.

“What?” she asked.

“Well, there’s another reason for some of the young studs. The CDI Factor.”

She cocked her head. “CDI?”

“Chicks dig it.”

Padgett-Smith scowled at him. “That’s absurd. Do they really…”

“Hey, Doc, it got your attention, didn’t it?”

Ali and Kassim spoke in subdued tones. The other jihadists were men of proven commitment, but as the cell’s intelligence officer Kassim took nothing for granted.

Ali bent close. “What of the American woman?”

“It is difficult to say. Apparently she is the only female with the so-called security agents.” Kassim permitted himself a smile. “But I have learned her name.”

“Well done, brother! Your sources must be praised. What is it?”

“Smith.”

Ali’s smile melted before Kassim’s eyes. “My friend, that is of no use. Smith is as common among the Crusaders as Mohammed among the faithful.”

“Oh…”

The bio-engineer placed an assuring hand on the Syrian’s forearm. “Please tell your operatives that the leadership is pleased. Ask them to obtain more details, but not at risk of being discovered. Now, what else need we discuss?”

“I should start making plans for the next package. When do you expect the messenger?”

“Within one week.”

The Hip lifted off the ramp, dipped its nose during translational lift, and chugged off to its pad across the field. Keegan and Eddie Marsh watched it with helmet visors lowered. They both relished the sound and smell of helicopters.

“Well, I feel pretty good about it,” Marsh volunteered. He was a former Army warrant officer, several years younger than Keegan but with a comparable amount of helo time.

The Navy pilot lifted his visor. “Yeah, I do, too. Captain Mir knows what he’s doing. Good stick, good instructor.”

“They’ll be back tomorrow, right?”

“Affirm. And likely every day after. We can use all the time we can get, and Frank’s door kickers need to practice dismounts, too.”

Marsh unzipped his jacket, which reminded Keegan of something. “Eddie, you’d better take that flag patch off the sleeve. Either that or don’t wear the jacket.”

“Hey, you know me. My theme song is ‘Proud to Be an American.’”

“Well, that’s fine, but we can’t go waving the stars and stripes over here. We have to keep a low profile.” He nudged the army flier. “You know that.”

Marsh’s tone became defensive. “Well, I care about what it means.”

“C’mon, Eddie. It’s just a flag.”

“What do you mean, ‘just a flag’?”

“It’s only a symbol. Most people look at the starry spangled banner and see what they want to see. I know what it represents. Or doesn’t represent. Not anymore.”

Marsh felt his hair bristle on the back of his neck. “Like what?” There was more edge in his voice than he intended.

“Oh, hell. Forget it.”

Marsh jabbed a finger at Keegan. “No, man. You raised it. Let’s hear it!”

Keegan inhaled, exhaled, and briefly closed his eyes. He knew exactly what was going to be said in the next thirty seconds. “All right, Eddie. You’re a good guy, straight arrow, red, white, and true blue. You look at Old Glory and you see Mount Rushmore or something. I see the federal thugs raising that flag over the ashes of Waco. And a lot more.”

Marsh was incredulous. He almost stammered. “Well, to hell with Waco, man! Besides, it’s not the flag’s choice where it’s raised.”

Bingo. Gotcha, kid. “That’s right, Eddie. It’s not Old Glory’s fault if it’s raised over Waco or My Lai or Wounded Knee. Not any more than it’s the swastika’s fault it was raised over Auschwitz or the hammer and sickle’s fault it flew over the gulag.”

Now Marsh was visibly upset. The veins stood out in his head. “By god, Keegan, if you’re comparing the American flag to those…”

“You’re reacting emotionally, Eddie. Try thinking with your brain instead of with your glands.” He resisted the urge to add as usual.

Frank Leopole strode within earshot, intending to get the pilots’ assessment of their second day flying the Hip. As he drew nearer he saw Marsh’s animated gestures and rising tone. Keegan, as usual, was calm and composed.

“What the hell’s going on?”

Leopole’s voice had the practiced tone of a Perturbed Marine Corps Officer. He reckoned it lay somewhere between an ordinary Parris Island DI and an outraged Catholic nun. Either way, it was a daunting performance.

Keegan thought fastest. Which meant he allowed Marsh to speak first.

“Colonel, I’m just about…” Keegan saw the light flick on in Marsh’s eyes. The kid knew he’d been had.

“Yes, go on.” Leopole had defaulted to Parade Ground Marine: hands touching behind his back, torso slightly inclined forward.

Marsh looked down. “Well, um. It’s about the flag. The American flag.”

Leopole gave an exaggerated shake of his head. “Say what?” He looked at Keegan. The Navy sumbitch is almost grinning.

“Frank, I was telling Eddie that he needs to take the patch off his flight jacket or wear something else. For obvious reasons.”

“That’s it? After all that?”

Keegan shrugged. “The rest is poetry.”

Leopole’s gunmetal gaze returned to the former Army rotorhead. “Mr. Marsh, this is a covert operation. We are in a foreign country, wearing foreign clothing, using foreign weapons, operating foreign aircraft. The American flag is a dead giveaway. I suspect you already know that. So what’s the shouting really about?”

Edward Marsh, late of the 160^th Special Operations Regiment, realized the consequences if he lapsed into a he-said-I-said defense. “Just a difference of opinion, sir.”

Keegan folded his arms and rocked back on his heels. He was not enjoying Marsh’s discomfiture as much as before. “Well, Frank, we were discussing the difference between symbolism and substance as it relates to national emblems.”

Inside Frank Leopole’s brain housing unit the mental tumblers clicked into place. So that’s it. Young Mr. Marsh met the Terry Monster. Gotta hand it to the squid. He sets ‘em up and knocks ‘em down every damn time.

Leopole lanced Marsh with a gaze. “I don’t give a flying fuck about your philosophical differences, gentlemen. You’re paid to show on time and fly where you’re needed. Everything else is secondary… or less. Is that clear?”

Marsh nodded earnestly. “Yes, sir.”

Keegan straightened in a mockery of military protocol. “Sir. Yessir!”

Kassim stood at a respectful distance, waiting for Ali to finish the afternoon prayer. It occurred to the intelligence operative that he might profitably exercise his own prayer rug — wherever it was these days.

When Ali finished, Kassim quickly approached. “Doctor, some more information arrived today. I consider it urgent.”

Ali paid close attention. Kassim seldom exaggerated. “Yes?”

“The woman at Quetta. She is probably British. Passport information confirms that a white female arrived the same day as the soldiers. Her full name appears to be Padgett Smith.”

Ali figuratively shook his head. “Kassim, that cannot be her full name. Not unless her parents were extremely unconventional. ‘Padgett’ must be her middle name; perhaps her birth name.”

Kassim consulted his notes, still hand-written by the cell’s contact at the passport office. “My information is Dr. Padgett Smith.” He looked up. “Does that make it any clearer?”

Ali’s reaction was a tiny tremor across the back of his shoulders. “A doctor! You are certain?”

“Brother, I cannot be certain of anything other than the contents of this message. But the source has always been reliable.”

Ali turned away, forcing order upon a jumble of new possibilities. “A doctor. A female doctor with a group of Crusaders. A British doctor with a group of American mercenaries. Why would they bring a foreign doctor instead of one of their own? And why a woman?”

“Perhaps she has special skills.”

Ali spun on his heel. “Or perhaps she is not a medical doctor. She may be a scholar of some sort. A doctor of philosophy.”

“It will take time to find out. And it looks as if the Crusaders are preparing to leave. Several soldiers were observed loading weapons and boxes into helicopters yesterday.”

“Kassim, I must get into town. Tonight if possible. We need more information.”

The Syrian’s antennae sensed a risk, and risk assessment was his department. “Surely someone else can check on the details.”

“No, not without undue attention. I need access to a computer.”

“A computer?”

“Ten minutes on the internet should be all I need.”

Leopole corralled Keegan after dinner.

“Another debate about patriotism, Terry?” The former Marine was chewing a cigar before lighting it.

“Actually, it wasn’t much of a debate. I had him on facts and logic from the get-go. It was pretty much a slam-dunk.” Keegan grinned wryly. “The benefits of a Jesuit education.”

Leopole let it go. He knew that Keegan had been molested as a youngster and swore off religion for life. After an op that had gone south the two had stayed up late-late or early-early — Leopole forgot which — and Keegan had tied one on and vented his rage at the church. Leopole inferred that it was not the first time that an offending priest had been transferred to avoid prosecution. It was the only time Leopole had seen the pilot drunk.

“Terry, why in hell do you do it? Most of us understand your viewpoint. Hell, some of the guys agree with you.”

The aviator grinned. “I guess because it’s so easy.”

“Cut the bull, mister. You’re smarter than most of these guys but you’re making a mistake. More than that, it’s an avoidable mistake. You think that because logic is on your side, and because you got a raw deal, that you’re untouchable. But damn it, Terry, this is a team. We have to rely on each other, which means we have to trust each other.” He bit off the end of his cigar. “Do you think Marsh is as willing to fetch you back from deep serious as he was yesterday?”

“Hell, I don’t know, Frank. But yeah, he probably is. He doesn’t have to like me. But if he’s really a pro, he’ll come fetch me. And you know something more?” He didn’t give Leopole a chance to respond. “When he’s the one who needs a dustoff from a hot LZ, I’ll man up and fly the lead bird.” Now the Navy man grinned. “As long as he doesn’t wave his damn flag at me!”

Ali leaned back in his chair, at once pleased and disturbed. The two al Qaeda bodyguards that Kassim had dispatched with him caught his mood but tried to appear nonchalant. The internet cafe was nearly vacant at 1:30 A.M. but the jihadists had long since developed professional paranoia. It was why they were still walking around.

Ali considered printing out the information but decided against it. He had a lengthy drive back to his base camp, and there might be surprise checkpoints. Besides, he was not about to forget the information he had gleaned.

He looked at the photo on the screen. An unusually attractive woman by western standards, with large, violet eyes. Dr. Carolyn Padgett-Smith, one of Britain’s foremost immunologists.

She’s after us, Ali repeated to himself. We shall have to kill her.

He mused at the wondrous ways of Allah. Simply because of a runaway dog.

Kassim usually reported to Ali without others present. It was the best way of preserving the security essential to longevity in his line of work. But this time was different.

Kassim made the introduction: “Qazi, this is Dr. Ali. Doctor, Sergeant Qazi is stationed in Quetta. He has information that I consider worthy of your ears.”

Ali gestured for his guests to join him for tea. They sat at the rude table in his office, waiting for the kettle to boil.

Ali nodded to the visitor. “Proceed, brother.”

“Doctor, I am a noncommissioned officer in the base facilities office. I have access to certain… information.”

“Yes?” Ali sensed that the man was leading up to something. He glanced at Kassim, who appeared slightly on edge. That knowledge sent tingles up and down the doctor’s spine. The Soviet Union had rarely made Kassim edgy.

Qazi proceeded. “Sir, I have obtained information about the foreigners on the base. They are not soldiers, as Kassim suspected. They are hirelings, sent here because their government does not wish to draw attention to American troops.”

Ali nodded again. “Yes, yes. Go on.”

Qazi looked at Kassim, then back to Ali. “I have full information on their organization, their equipment, their capabilities. Everything.”

Ali recognized a salesman when he saw one. He decided to put the sergeant on the defensive. “Then you are a servant of God.”

Qazi spread his hands on the table. “Alas, I am but a poor servant…” He allowed the sentiment to dangle in midair.

As I thought, Ali told himself. He looked at Kassim, who nodded slowly.

Ali stretched a bony hand across the table. Touching Qazi’s sleeve, he intoned, “Any information you share with us will be rewarded as befits you. We have many ways of expressing our gratitude.” He smiled an ingratiating smile.

The NCO produced a notebook from his pocket. It contained a business card with the name of Lieutenant Colonel Frank Leopole, United States Marine Corps (retired). The man’s title was Head, Foreign Operations Division, Strategic Solutions, Inc., in Arlington, Virginia, USA. Hand-written notes expanded upon the SSI arrangement at Quetta.

The kettle whistled and Ali turned to his assistant. “Tahir, please tend to our guest. I need to obtain some suitable gifts for his trouble.” With that, he nodded at the door.

Outside, well away from the building, Ali said, “You did well to bring him here.”

“He must die, of course. But first I thought that you should see him. He knew that I was not the chief of our district. He would not give me all the information he possessed.”

“Offer him ten thousand rupees. If he balks at that, offer him two thousand American dollars. The man’s greed will ensure his compliance. Then arrange to have his body found in ordinary circumstances.”

Kassim almost smiled. “I favor traffic accidents. They happen every day.”

“One more thing, brother.”

“Yes?”

“You have contacts in America?”

“No, not directly. But The Base is worldwide, as you well know.”

Ali thought for a moment. “Well, perhaps it is best if we have no direct line. It will be more difficult to connect us to any… incidents.”

“You are thinking of direct action against the Great Satan?”

“They came here, hunting us. It is only fitting that we hunt them in their lair.”

Kassim’s wolf smile was back. “I shall see to it.”

Officially, alcohol did not exist for SSI personnel in Muslim countries. Unofficially, the leadership invoked a policy based on “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” Without realizing it, Terry Keegan brought attention upon himself when Leopole found him sipping something smooth in the cafeteria. He was alone, which Leopole recognized as a bad sign. He put an avuncular hand on the pilot’s shoulder. “Come on, Terry. Time to turn in.”

Keegan’s eyes raised to meet his supervisor’s. The pilot’s eyes were bright blue; Leopole’s were gunmetal blue-gray. “Oh, don’t worry, Frank. I’m not flying tomorrow. Besides, I never drink within fifty feet of an aircraft.”

Leopole ignored the attempt at humor. “You’re still pissed about your flap with Marsh. Okay, you were right then. And I’m right now.”

Keegan waved dismissively. “Shee-it, man. Don’t get me started.” He took another drink. Oops, too late! “Siddown, Frank. I’ll tell you what’s really got me pissed.”

“Terry, I know about all that. We had this discussion before, remember?”

“Not all of it, we didn’t. I want to fill in the gaps.” He gestured at a chair, and for a moment Leopole considered dragging the tipsy aviator to bed. The 155-pound pilot could not win that contest with Franklin Puller Leopole, 180-pound professional warrior, enthusiastic martial artist, and erstwhile bar fighter. But that would cause more bad blood, and SSI needed its chief pilot up on the step and cruising. Leopole sat down. “Thanks,” Keegan said. He dipped his head in gratitude, then began, “Frank, at age eleven I found out that my church was a lie, thanks to Father O’Brien and Bishop Farullo. At twenty-nine I found that the Home of the Brave was a lie: dozens of admirals were scared shitless of a few female politicians. Then at thirty-one I found that my marriage was a lie when my wife figured I must have done something in Vegas. All of them betrayed me; none of them lived up to the promise. It was lies and hypocrisy.”

Leopole looked at his watch. He thought, Are we really going to have this discussion again? The aviator answered that tacit question. “Well, at about age thirty-three I finally found myself, Frank. I realized my whole goddam life has been a search for one thing. I’ve been looking for somebody—something—that I could trust.” He grinned a private grin. “Do you like movies, Frank?”

Leopole sought to follow the logic. “Most anything with guns and horses.”

Keegan laughed at the sentiment. “I like movies. Especially old ones, where everything works out in the last reel. But one of the best speeches in movie history was in Conan the Barbarian. Did you see it? At the start, William Smith is little Conan’s father. He says, ‘Put not your trust in man, not in woman, not in animals.’ Then he holds up his sword. ‘But this you can trust.’”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Terry.”

“Sure you do, Frank. You must feel the same way. Sometimes, at least.”

Leopole was about to agree in principle when Keegan continued. Tapping the table, he said, “Look, Frank, this is my sword. The admiral, SSI, you guys.” He chuckled to himself. “John Milius got it right. Someday I’d like to shake his hand and tell him that Little Conan Keegan got the message.”