Pandora's Legion s-1

by Harold Coyle

  Which reminded Main of his mission. “The admiral said I might be able to help you.”

  “Oh! Yeah.” Keegan laughed at himself. “I get spooled up about what happened to us and the whole female thing.”

  “Roger that.” Main was enjoying the male bonding, even with a squid.

  Keegan picked up a manual. It was a translation of the pilot’s instructions for the Russian Mi-17 helicopter, code name Hip H. “Reading the book is one thing but flying the bird is another. I know this is a stretch, but do you know if Fort Rucker or anyplace else has one of these machines? If we have to use ‘em in… well, wherever we go, it’d be a big help to have some stick time beforehand.”

  Main leaned back, rubbing his chin. “Geez, Terry, that’s a pretty big request, especially on short notice. It’s also out of my league. If you wanted to drive a T-72, I could probably arrange it.” He thought for a moment. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”

  “That’d be great, Dave. I really appreciate it, and so would the admiral. Oh, by the way, the Mi-8 would be almost as good. The 17 is the export Hip with the tail rotor on the starboard side. I’d be happy with either one.”

  BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA

  The Lamunyon house was a low, rambling residence, a style that once would have been advertised as “ranch,” but that description had long fallen into trendy disfavor. The rental car exited off Route 24 onto Alvarado and turned onto Hillcrest Road. Apparently the Lamunyons lived in the political-cultural no-man’s-land between the Clairemont Country Club and the Berkeley-Clark-Kerr campus.

  SSI’s investigators were former bureau colleagues of Wolf’s. James Mannock had finally resigned in disgust over repeated scandals in the crime lab, choosing to sell his skills in the private sector. Sherree Kim had graduated in the top ten percent of her academy class and, in the politically correct era of the ‘90s, seemed destined for success. But she had bumped against the FBI’s glass ceiling and decided to look elsewhere rather than spend her most productive years fighting an entrenched male culture.

  “Think they’ll still want to talk to us?” Mannock asked.

  Kim shrugged. “I dunno, Jim. Mrs. Lamunyon sounded more interested than her husband.”

  Mannock looked down at the five-foot-five Kim. He winked. “You’re good on the phone, Sherree.” She gave him a slight nudge in retaliation. It was a matter of faith in SSI that Ms. Kim had the silkiest voice in the firm.

  Kim rang the doorbell as Mannock stood behind her. Without discussing details, both realized that a young Asian woman with an appealing manner would be more warmly received than a six-foot-one, balding ex-wrestler with a Joe Friday demeanor. Just the facts, ma’am.

  The door opened partway and a matronly woman’s face appeared behind the screen. “Yes?”

  Kim took the initiative. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Lamunyon. I’m Sherree Kim. We talked on the phone again last night.” She did not need to mention that Mr. Lamunyon had ended their first conversation on his wife’s behalf.

  “Oh, yes…”

  Kim allowed Mrs. Lamunyon no chance to end the discussion so abruptly. “We really appreciate your taking time to talk to us, ma’am. This is my assistant, Mr. Mannock.” Before the burly former athlete could kick her from behind, Kim pressed on. “May we come in for a moment?”

  Marian Lamunyon opened the screen enough to look up and down the street. She’s worried that hubby will come home, Kim realized.

  “I promise we’ll only be a few minutes, ma’am. And we’ve had such a long trip.” Sometimes a little guilt went a long way.

  It worked.

  Mrs. Lamunyon invited the visitors into the sitting room. While Kim worked her people skills, Mannock pretended to be interested in the family photos on the wall. Apparently Jason had a teenage sister — something of a babe — and the family swarmed with pets. In truth, the ex-fed knew that there were ways of gaining information without asking questions.

  “I don’t really know what more I can tell you,” Marian began. “We already talked to those government investigators.”

  “Yes, ma’am. We’re just trying to be thorough and maybe pick up some details that could help tell you more about Jason’s, ah, last few weeks.”

  “Well, Keith talked to the detectives more than I did.” She leaned close, feeling more comfortable with the friendly young woman. “He’s still embarrassed that Jason went and joined those Muslims.”

  “Detectives, ma’am?”

  “Well, I guess they were detectives. They had badges and everything. They wore suits, not uniforms, you know.”

  “Were they local police or federal agents? Maybe FBI?”

  Marian sat up straight. “Oh, you’re right. They were FBI men. I’m just used to those TV shows. Like Barney Miller and Hill Street Blues.”

  Kim and Mannock exchanged knowing glances. Both managed to avoid smiling.

  “Mrs. Lamunyon, we think we can help you the most if we know more about Jason’s time in Arabia and Pakistan. For example, where did he stay? Who did he see?”

  “Keith gave those detec… er… FBI men a list of where Jason went. At least what we knew. But really, Miss Kim, I don’t know much beyond that. We hardly heard from him after he left. Just a couple of notes.”

  “Did the other investigators take them?”

  “What? The notes? Oh, no. Keith wouldn’t talk about those. He told me not to mention them.”

  Mannock abruptly turned from the photo gallery and sat beside Kim. She decided to go for broke. “Ma’am, would you mind if we looked at those notes?”

  Mrs. Lamunyon’s composure, never serene, visibly tightened. She began rubbing her hands unconsciously. “You know, my husband is due…”

  Kim reached across the settee and placed her own hand on the mother’s. “If we could see Jason’s notes, we’d be able to leave right away.”

  Without speaking, the grieving woman rose and left the room. When she returned there were tears in the corners of her eyes.

  Mannock produced a notepad and copied everything: postal marks, type of paper, and exact spelling with errors. Kim scanned them twice; one was a single sheet, the other one and a half. There were references to a couple of obscure villages, and both letters mentioned “Dr. Ali.”

  Kim carefully refolded the papers and laid them on the table with the envelopes. She rose to go and Mannock stepped back to the picture gallery.

  “Thank you so much, Mrs. Lamunyon. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Mannock, who had hardly spoken, seized one last chance. “I see that animals are popular in your family, ma’am. We have two dogs and some cats ourselves.”

  Sherree managed to keep a straight face. She knew that Mannock was allergic to most animals.

  Marian Lamunyon beamed for a change. “Oh, yes. Jason just loves… loved… animals. He wanted to be a veterinarian, you know. He volunteered at the animal clinic.”

  Kim shook her head. “No, we didn’t know that. Ah, what else was he interested in?”

  “Oh, he used to like girls and cars and music. A California boy, you know.” Her smile faded. “Then a couple years ago he got into that Islamic thing…”

  Sherree Kim managed to keep a level tone in her voice. “Yes, ma’am. We know.”

  SSI OFFICES

  The next afternoon Derringer convened a conference in his office. Typically, he went straight to the point. “Dave Main called me during the noon hour. He says we could probably get somebody who’s professionally and physically qualified if we had more time. The AMRIID civilians were a good suggestion, but it’s no go. He checked at Fort Detrick. A couple of the ones we’d consider are essential personnel. Others are out of the country or not interested in our, uh, adventure.”

  Derringer turned to Wolf. “What did you find at CDC, Joe? Don’t they have some ex-military types?”

  The domestic ops chief shook his head. “I talked to the assistant director myself. They have about 5,500 people just in Atlanta but that include
s everything from admin types to birth defects and accident prevention. She didn’t know of anybody with Marburg background and the kind of field experience we need. At least not in the time available.”

  SSI’s founder leaned back in his chair, tapping his right-hand fingers in a rhythmic tattoo. Nobody but his few intimates knew that the young Michael had won a state championship playing snare in his drum and bugle corps. Flam-flam paradiddle; flam-flam paradiddle; paradiddle-paradiddle, tap-tap-tap.

  “Very well. I’ll call Phil and see if he can get his British friend. If it were up to me, I’d take the best-qualified military immunologist we could find and just keep our mouths shut, but the firm’s reputation is on the line.

  “Frank, you should talk to Phil, too. Your guys can start assembling the medical gear we’ll likely need. I doubt if we have much of it in stock, especially biohazard suits and decontamination equipment. Check with Terry about loading the aircraft, because you’ll be better off taking what you need rather than trying to get it from the locals.”

  “Roger that.”

  LONDON

  Dr. Carolyn Padgett-Smith checked her emails before dinner and found an intriguing message from Phil Catterly. She phoned him immediately.

  “Phillip, Carolyn here.”

  “Oh, thanks for calling, Carolyn. Ah, you can probably read between the lines, but is your passport up to date?”

  “It is. And I have appropriate inoculations for Pakistan.”

  “Well, I’m authorized to ask on behalf of a U.S. Government contractor if you would be, uh, available for as much as a couple of weeks…”

  Dr. Padgett-Smith did not want to assume too much. “Are you offering me the chance of a lifetime, Phillip? A view of barren vistas in the company of bronzed, hardy young men?”

  “CPS, you’ve read too much Kipling. This could be damned dangerous, and…”

  “Why, I should love the opportunity to climb some new rocks. Do tell me more.”

  Padgett-Smith never did get a proper dinner.

  After ringing off, she phoned an unlisted number in Sussex. A familiar male voice resonated in her ear. “Why, Carolyn! What can I do for my favorite ex-sister-in-law?”

  “Now, Tony. Don’t be so cynical. Why do you always assume that I want something?”

  “Because you always do, love.”

  Carolyn was reminded why Lydia had divorced the former soldier. He was inevitably so damnably right about everything. Not to mention that he was inevitably so damnably gone. If only the parachuting accident had occurred a few months earlier, their marriage might have survived. Tony insisted that he saw his ex more since the divorce than during the two-year duration, and Carolyn suspected that the once-unhappy couple had renewed conjugal relations.

  “Tony I need to ask a big favor, but I can’t say too much. You understand how it is. Well, suffice to say that I shall be traveling abroad in areas where the locals are decidedly restless, and they do not take kindly to western females.”

  “That could cover a great deal of geography. The wogs begin at Calais, you know.”

  CPS relaxed. With Tony lapsing into the old, familiar banter, she was halfway home. “Ah, Tony, you recall when I addressed your colleagues about the emerging bio threat about a year and a half ago?”

  “Certainly. You were a hit.”

  “Well, I wonder if the colonel’s offer still stands.”

  “What offer was that?”

  “He said, ‘Dr. Padgett-Smith, if ever I may be of assistance in your counter terrorism efforts, do not hesitate to contact me.’ Of course, I’ve long since mislaid his card.”

  Tony did the mental gymnastics. Foreign travel, exotic climes, hint of danger. SAS assistance. It was getting interesting. “I can call him tonight, Padgers. But what do you need?”

  She told him.

  3

  SSI OFFICES

  “Gentlemen, this is your initial brief on the Pandora Project.” As head of SSI’s foreign operations division, Frank Leopole had assembled the team for background briefing with other company principals on hand.

  “We called this mission the Pandora Project because it’s like Pandora’s Box. Some radical Muslims apparently have injected suicide volunteers with Marburg virus, which is related to Ebola. There is no known cure for either. So, once the bug is out of the box — or the genie out of the bottle — there’s no going back.” He paused for emphasis, then said, “Dr. Catterly is our expert on the subject. I’ll let him explain.”

  Catterly began. “Ebola can be eighty percent fatal, while Marburg runs twenty-five percent or more, if that’s any consolation. Anyway, our concern is the first carrier, who was found in Britain a few days ago. He was a young Californian, a convert to Islam, who collapsed at Heathrow Airport. When he was diagnosed with Marburg, the Brits contacted us and the job was offered to Admiral Derringer. Unfortunately, the host now has died without providing much information.”

  The former ranger called Bosco was known for his flippancy. This time was no different. “So when did this California convert collect his seventy-two virgins?”

  Leopole glanced at Dr. Mohammed. “That’s not funny, Bosco. The, ah, young man died three days ago.”

  Leopole returned to pertinent matters. “Mission: to find and capture, if possible, the source of the virus. Mr. Wolf’s investigators have talked to the carrier’s family in California, and they learned that he was staying with a Pakistani doctor known as Ali. We don’t know if that’s his real name but we’re working both domestic and foreign intel sources.

  “Op area: the most likely region is Baluchistan Province, on the Afghan border. Quetta, the capital, runs about 650,000 people. It’s headquarters of the Pakis’ XII Corps, nominally with two infantry divisions and supporting units plus police and border guards. I have street maps for everybody.”

  The ops officer turned on his PowerPoint display and clicked on the first subject. Satellite imagery of the area appeared on the screen. “Terrain is what you’d expect: high and often steep. Median elevation is 5,500 MSL.

  “Local situation: increased border security has gone into effect with some checkpoints as much as one klick apart. There’s usually long lines at the gateways but smugglers can nearly always get through. Drugs and weapons are the major contraband, though apparently some high-value assets have passed through. The border guards have been increased at each station but if the contraband is primo, it doesn’t add a lot to the overhead to grease two or three palms.

  “Equipment: we’ll mainly take what the locals use. That means G3 rifles, Browning Highpower pistols, and some of our own special gear. Plan on suppressed MP-5s and a couple of precision rifles. Also nonlethal weapons including tasers and bean bags. Anybody who’s not checked out for their use, see Chuck. Night vision will also be issued.”

  “Our contacts are supposed to provide suitable uniforms but we’ll have generic civilian clothes as well. Everybody start growing beards or mustaches. You’ll blend in better.

  “Comm: two common channels plus one for each team. Standard voice-activated headsets to keep our hands free. The respirators have limited comm, so we’ll hold a couple of nonverbal refresher sessions. Because of the cross-border prospects, Dr. Mohammed is going with us. We don’t have anybody else readily available who’s conversant in both Urdu for Pakistan and Pashto in Afghanistan.”

  Moahmmed interjected to pursue the linguistic concerns. “There are two Urdu dialects, northern and southern. The northern uses a kh sound as opposed to the southern sh. We will likely be operating within the southern, Kandahar dialect.” He gestured to a box full of manuals on the table. “I will distribute these Urdu phrase books after the briefing. They contain much useful information, such as how to pronounce ‘hello,’ ‘thank you,’ and ‘drop your weapon.’” The audience laughed appreciatively as Mohammed sat down.

  Leopole continued. “Navigation: the usual GPS sets but I’m taking a British Army terrain map. We’ll add the known threat areas before liftoff.r />
  “Transport: most likely we’ll fly in and out, courtesy of the Paki army. We’re also trying to pre-position ground transport but that’s uncertain.” He smiled at J. J. Johnson, who had done a stretch in the Foreign Legion. “If we need to commandeer local vehicles, J. J. can hotwire anything from an ox cart to a T-72.”

  “Casualties: Jeff and Jerry and Breezy are up to speed on combat medicine. We’ll probably have a guest medic for advice on the bio hazard but don’t know who yet. Personnel is trying to find somebody with scientific and field experience. Terry and his guys will be on hand for dustoff in case we need to air-evac. They’re studying the Hip manual and may get some stick time. At any rate, one of our guys will be aboard each Paki chopper.”

  Leopole glanced at the screen and clicked on the next subject of his PowerPoint file. As an experienced staff officer, he preferred to show each topic in sequence to avoid his audience reading ahead of his commentary.

  “Biohazard. As you’ve heard, the Marburg virus is a potential killer. We’re getting biological suits from Dr. Catterly and we’ll have a couple of trial runs so the entry teams know how to use them. We’re also taking a couple hundred gallons of bleach and disinfectant plus a portable generator to spray everything that enters a likely hot zone. We’ll burn the disposable portions of the suits as well as the hospital scrubs.”

  Bosco raised a hand. “Uh, why scrubs?”

  Leopole nodded toward Catterly, who responded. “Any bacteria can host a virus. So you’ll wear disposable scrubs with the bio suits but no underwear. I also recommend that you take several changes of clean clothes because there’s a slight risk in wearing the same material after possible exposure.”

  The operators exchanged solemn glances. A few fidgeted in their seats. For once there was no joking.

  “Friendly forces: we’ll take three teams. I’ll have Red; Steve has White, and Dan has Blue. Twelve men per team with six bio suits for each. The others will provide perimeter security and transport, and everybody helps with decontamination. Terry’s divided the flight crews into Black and Green.”