Pandora's Legion s-1

by Harold Coyle

“That’s not all. Ebola travels much faster than AIDS. The filovirus is like influenza; it can circle the world in as little as six weeks.

  “Marburg likely began in monkeys but it’s what we call a traveler: it jumps from one species to another. The first human hosts probably were bitten by infected animals or ate their meat.”

  Click.

  “Here’s a closer look. You will see the variety of shapes: some long and stringy and some circular.” She traced an oval on the screen with her laser pointer.

  “Looks like a Cheerio,” somebody said. Chuckles skittered through the darkened room.

  None of the SSI men realized that they had been set up. The dull clinical speech had lulled them into indifference. Here came the right hook, fast and hard.

  She clicked the button again. Even some macho men gasped audibly.

  “This is a patient in the terminal phase of Ebola. As you’ll note from the red spots, he’s bleeding through his skin. He died two days after this was taken.”

  Click. More mutterings. Someone gagged. Somebody else uttered a reverential “Shit!”

  “And this is what he looked like when we opened him up.” CPS was pleased: she was controlling her voice nicely. “You will note the partial liquification of the lungs and major organs.” She traced the affected areas with her laser. “This patient died coughing up lung tissue and brackish, dark blood. He also hemorrhaged from other orifices.” She allowed that image to sink in.

  The clinician turned to face her audience. Gauging the expression on most of the faces, she had made her point. I’m one tough dame, boys. Don’t mess with me.

  “As you may know, Marburg and can Ebola affect the brain, so…”

  Click.

  A high male voice exclaimed “Holy Christ!”

  “When we removed the brain we found these areas noticeably degraded.” She leaned close, as if admiring the wretched specimen. “In the terminal phase, portions of the prefrontal cortex that control personality are often destroyed or damaged, hence the erratic mood swings often observed.”

  Dr. Padgett-Smith turned back toward her audience. “Now, Marburg is not as virulent as Ebola but I think you should know the worst. We are now partners, gentlemen. I’ll do as you say in the field, but it would behoove you to defer to me in other areas.”

  In the front row, Bosco swallowed hard. “Ye… yes, ma’am!”

  She nodded decisively, her light brown hair bobbing around her ears. Then, nailing the lid on the male egos, she said, “Please excuse me, gentlemen. I’m meeting my husband for dinner.”

  On the way out, the Briton heard someone ask, “My god! How can she eat after that?”

  * * *

  During the salad course, Charles Padgett-Smith grinned at his wife. “It sounds as if you laid it on a bit thick, Carolyn.”

  CPS sipped her champagne. “I intended to. I’ve only a day or so to bond with these men. They need to know that I’m all business, and they won’t catch me in a game of slap and tickle. They may not like me, but by God they’ll respect me.”

  He slipped his left hand across the linen tablecloth and touched hers. “I rather suspect that they respect and like you.” His Rolex reflected the candlelight.

  “They seem a competent bunch — what Tony would call a good mob. And honestly, Charles, I wouldn’t be going if I felt otherwise. You know Phillip Catterly: I accept his judgment implicitly, and…”

  “And you always liked adventure.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Charles, if anything goes…”

  “It’s quite all right, darling. Everything is set.” The investment broker in him had ensured that Charles Padgett-Smith had read Carolyn’s SSI contract forwards and backwards. The insurance provisions were more than ample.

  Her violet eyes were moistening around the edges. “Oh, Charles. I miss you already.”

  LONDON

  Loading Padgett-Smith’s equipment took little time. But as some of the operators could have imagined, selecting her Pakistani wardrobe took longer.

  Padgett-Smith accepted the help offered by some of the SSI hardies. Her field kit was more than she could easily handle, especially with two large cases. But Steve Lee and one of his White Team cronies one-handed the two large items without visible exertion. Padgett-Smith did not remember the other man’s name, but she would not forget his physique. His friends called Ken Delmore “Mr. Clean” for his resemblance to the ad character: he was huge and completely bald with twenty-inch biceps. Padgett-Smith suspected he could bench-press a Yugo without visible exertion.

  Leopole appeared at the doorway. “All set, Doctor?”

  She turned at the sound of his voice. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Leopole. This is all I need, other than my personal items.”

  “What’s in the cases, ma’am?”

  “Oh, field test kits. Two microscopes, test tubes, the like…”

  “Two microscopes?”

  She shrugged her round shoulders. “Better too much than too little, don’t you think?”

  Leopole suppressed a smirk. “I would agree with you if we were talking about ammo. But all this stuff has to be man-portable, you know. We may not have pack animals, let alone vehicles in some areas.”

  CPS folded her arms and speared the American with her violet eyes. “Tell me… Frank. If you broke your only microscope in the wilds of Baluchistan, where would you get another?”

  Leopole’s gunmetal blue eyes lowered momentarily. “Point well taken.” Painfully aware that he had been outscored, he sought to regain the initiative. “Now then, let’s see about your mountain clothes.”

  In an adjoining room, Leopole sifted through a pile of miscellaneous clothing of approximate Afghan-Pakistan origin. All items were earth toned; most showed some evidence of previous use. He held up a shapeless shirt and not-so-matching vest. Padgett-Smith took the garments and held them against herself. She grinned. “The height of Pakistani fashion, no doubt.”

  Leopole looked her up and down in a manner devoid of appreciation. “The fit’s okay, I guess. Loose is better, since it doesn’t show your… ah, outline.” CPS would have sworn that the retired marine blushed. Privately, Leopole guessed her at a 34B.

  Leopole recovered quickly, turning to Mohammed. “Omar, what do you think?”

  SSI’s training officer stood with one arm folded, one hand beneath his bearded chin. “The clothes aren’t the problem, especially with the long shirt and vest. The trouble is her face.” Abruptly he looked at his colleague. “Oh, I’m sorry, Doctor. I didn’t mean to imply…”

  “I know what you mean,” the immunologist interjected. “I can’t very well grow a beard, and a false one would appear… false.”

  “There is one other option,” Leopole offered.

  Mohammed looked back at him. “Yes?”

  “Women’s clothes?”

  The Iranian turned his head slightly. “Well, certainly. But then we have to ask ourselves what the locals will think, seeing a party of armed men with one woman. They’re bound to be curious.”

  Padgett-Smith began to resent the conversation. The marine and the Muslim — products of two ultra-masculine cultures — were discussing her as if she weren’t there. Or as if she were a mannequin. However, she reminded herself that much of her education had been funded in exactly that role: a living, breathing, walking, non-talking doll. Fashion runways; poofter photographers… and the other kind. Work with me, darling! Show us some attitude!

  Leopole held up his hands. “Then I’m Winchester.”

  Padgett-Smith cocked her head. “You’re Winchester?”

  Mohammed laughed aloud. “Military shorthand, Doctor. It’s a radio call that means, ‘I am out of ammunition.’”

  CPS rolled her eyes. Finally she realized she still held the grayish, tannish garments and let them drop on the table.

  “As I see it,” Mohammed continued, “we can take two approaches. On the one hand, yes, a lone woman with a scouting party will draw attention. But because she’s ‘only a
woman’…” At that he drew quote marks in the air. “The locals won’t bother talking to her.”

  She bit her lip. The PC phrase about Celebrating Diversity sounded in her mind, followed by a mental flushing sound from the loo.

  “On the other hand, if she’s dressed as a man, holding a weapon like everyone else, she might blend in. Especially if her face is obscured somehow, and she keeps in the rear of the group.”

  Padgett-Smith finally found her voice. “How about a big floppy hat, some dirt on my face, and I clip my nails?”

  The men exchanged glances. CPS thought for all the world they resembled Professor Higgins and Colonel Pickering. By jove, she’s got it!

  Before either spoke, she pressed her advantage. “I prefer an AK, if that’s all right with you, gentlemen. Thirty rounds semi-auto should get me through any scrape.”

  Tony, you’re such a love.

  AMMAN, JORDAN

  Mideast News Bureau. Jordanian authorities briefly shut down part of Amman Queen Alia International Airport today after a Pakistani woman collapsed upon deplaning from an Egyptair flight. Authorities indicated that the woman showed signs of an infectious disease and was taken to a military hospital. The victim was identified as Hina bint Ahmed, twenty-six. Though she lapsed into a coma some hours later, investigation revealed that the young woman probably suffered from advanced pancreatitis.

  Only one of the airport’s two terminals was affected after the Egyptian Boeing 737 arrived. Laboratory tests on the stricken woman caused temporary concern that she may have had a communicable disease. Some flights were delayed several hours but were allowed to proceed when the crisis passed. An unknown number of passengers were inconvenienced, and reportedly some European diplomatic personnel had to reschedule trips to their home capitals.

  Speaking on conditions of anonymity, Jordanian authorities stated that the victim’s journey began in Pakistan and included an interim stop in Cairo.

  7

  OVER FRANCE

  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!”

  BALUCHISTAN PROVINCE

  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.”

  QUETTA, PAKISTAN

  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.