Pandora's Legion s-1

by Harold Coyle

  Lee shook his head. “Now why can’t I find a girl like that?”

  ISLAMABAD

  The pointed white dome of King Faisal Mosque stood in startling contrast to the rocky ruggedness behind it. Flanked by four tall, elegant spires, the architectural masterpiece drew hushed respect from the mostly agnostic Americans.

  Looking in his rearview mirror, Buster Hardesty indulged in a knowing grin. “It affects everybody that way. I see it almost every day and I still gawk at it.”

  Things were crowded in the rented minibus, far more so than during the seventy-minute flight on the 727. But most of the passengers turned in their seats as Hardesty drove eastward on Siachin Road. “Man, that’s big!” exclaimed Kenny Rix. “How many people will it take, sir?”

  “Oh, about seventy thousand. I’ve never been there during prayer, but my Paki friends say that sometimes it’s full up.”

  Padgett-Smith sat on the inside in the third row, her head covered with a shawl. She wanted a better look but still was impressed with what she glimpsed. “Winchester Cathedral has nothing on that,” she murmured. “Except nine hundred years.”

  “Whole lotta prayin’ goin’ on,” said Brian Guilford, a lapsed Presbyterian and practicing former Marine.

  Lee, riding shotgun, consulted his city map. He had tracked the route north from the airport as Hardesty had taken Shaharra-Islamabad to the mosque before turning right at the mosque. His finger sought the F-6 area in the northeastern part of town. “If Ali’s clinic is on Ataturk Avenue, that’s not far from the diplomatic enclave.”

  “Correct,” Hardesty replied. He took his time, avoiding the manic driving habits of many motorists in the capital. For a moment, Major Steven Lee, U.S. Army (Ret], mused on the irony of an active BG playing chauffeur for a retired 0–5. But Hardesty seemed a mission-oriented type — something of a rarity among attaches. “The embassy is up ahead of us, on Ramna in the complex, but we’ll pass the turnoff to Ataturk along the way. It’ll help get you oriented.”

  Lee asked, “Sir, when’s a good time to look at the clinic?”

  “Probably around closing time. There’s more traffic, you can drive slower and blend into the crowd better. I also have some overhead imagery for you.” Hardesty braked abruptly to avoid rear-ending an ancient Volkswagen. “Who’s your second-story man?”

  Rix leaned forward from the second row. “That’d be me, General.”

  Hardesty’s gray eyes went to the rearview mirror again. “Outstanding, Mr. Rix.” The B and E specialist was impressed: the general had had only the briefest introductions at the airport but seemed to remember everyone’s name. Must be all those diplomatic parties, Rix surmised.

  Hardesty continued. “I’ve, ah, obtained some information about the clinic’s security system. Because the vet has medical drugs, there have been a couple of attempted break-ins. Your Dr. Ali, or Sharif, installed electronic sensors linked to a security firm that can roll the cops in a couple of minutes. But it’s a pretty basic system: you can probably run a wire around it in short order.”

  Rix sat back, appreciating the attaché’s efficiency. “Roger that, sir.”

  Entering the diplomatic enclave, Hardesty turned into a tree-lined area and stopped the bus. “We’re quartering you in some rented bungalows a few miles from here, strictly for security reasons. Obviously we can’t put you up at the embassy. I’ll get you set up and then Major Lee and Mr. Rix and I will take a look at the clinic. There’ll be a full briefing after dinner, and you’ll meet one of our medical assistance people who’ll go in with you to read the labels. Any questions?”

  Lee turned in his seat. “Yes, sir. Uh, General, I do wonder about your direct involvement. Isn’t that risky? I mean, our running orders stressed that no military personnel were to be involved.”

  A grin ghosted across Buster Hardesty’s face, then vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “That’s odd. The Secretary of Defense never mentioned that to me. Maybe I’ll have to check with him to clarify his orders in, oh, a week or so.”

  Lee realized what the attaché had actually said. This is too important a mission to cater to the Secretary of State, and if there’s any trouble, it’ll take a well-connected general to sort it out. He wanted to give Hardesty an ooh-rah punch to the shoulder. “Good to be back at the operator’s level, isn’t it, sir?”

  Hardesty leaned over and winked. “Never been out of it, son. Never been out of it.”

  ISLAMABAD

  Steve Lee ran the final comm check from his position atop the building across the avenue from the veterinary clinic. Beside him were Padgett-Smith and an embassy doctor, wearing biohazard suits in case a hot zone was established inside. Another man stood by in a trailer in case decontamination measures were called for. That left two pair as lookouts and backup at both the front and rear, covering Rix and his two partners. The sentries used night vision to check the dark corners away from the streetlights.

  “Front door, clear.”

  “Back door, clear.”

  Lee checked his watch: 0143. He keyed his mike. “All clear. Stand by.”

  Almost two minutes later the wailing of sirens stabbed through the night. Lee looked over his shoulder and glimpsed flashing lights as police and emergency vehicles sped to the south. Buster’s diversion, right on time. Lee knew that the police patrol schedule was upset by two large fires in the G6 area along Hakeem Road.

  “Echo Team, go.”

  On the west side of the building, Kenny Rix threw the switch activating the temporary circuit he had built around the alarm system. He punched in the test code, got a green light, and gave a thumbs-up to his partners. “Echo One here. We’re moving.”

  Because the windows were barred, the team had little option but to enter through a door. The men moved to the nearest access, away from the avenue. The door was still illuminated by streetlights, but only indirectly.

  Rix knelt at the door, adjusting a red-lensed Surefire on an elastic headband. He opened his kit, selected a likely probe, and inserted it in the lock-picking gun. Getliff and Skowen knelt six feet to either side of him, covering their respective zones with suppressed pistols. Each operator also carried a Taser for lesser threats.

  Rix began mumbling to himself, a sign that Tom Skowen knew well. Apparently the lock picking was not going well. Kenny’s usually inside in thirty seconds. The sentry glanced at his friend and saw Rix remove the pick from the gun, replacing it with another. The motions were calm, methodical. Take your time in a hurry.

  More seconds passed, each with its own beginning, middle, and end. Corry Getliff backpedalled a few steps, risking a spoken query. “Kenny, can I help?”

  “Get back,” Rix snapped. He resented the solicitous gesture as much as he regretted the tone in his voice. Take it easy, he told himself. He lowered his hands and rocked back, resting on his heels. He flexed his fingers and popped his knuckles. Skowen heard the noise in the still night air. He was surprised at how loud it seemed.

  Rix turned the adjustment wheel on the gun, selecting full engagement. Then he inserted the pick again and flexed the gun’s mechanical trigger. The probe elevated four centimeters, engaged the tumbler, returned to horizontal, and sought the next detent. The pressure told him he was there.

  Rix pulled the door open and Skowen stepped inside. As Rix followed, he heard Lee’s voice in his ears. “Echo, contact! Two items headed yours. Twenty meters.” All three operators dived inside. As last in, Getliff twisted the lock and scurried away from the glass door.

  Two uniformed men came around the corner, chatting idly. Getliff spoke no Urdu but judged from their tones that they may have been discussing soccer or women. Something innocuous.

  One man idly pulled on the door, ensuring it was locked. Without breaking stride, the pair continued its rounds.

  Rix exhaled. He realized that he had stopped breathing. He whispered, “That was close!”

  Skowen croaked, “Who the hell are they?” The irritation was audible in his voice. �
�Damn if I know. They must be some kind of security firm. No guns so they’re not police.”

  “Damn it, Hardesty never mentioned rent-a-cops!”

  “He prob’ly didn’t know.”

  “There’s always somebody doesn’t get the word,” Getliff said.

  Rix spoke into his headset. “Control, Echo One. We’re in. Send the doc.”

  “Roger that, Echo. You’re clear.”

  * * *

  Rix did an interior survey of the alarm system, looking for a secondary circuit. Finding none, he quickly unlocked the door leading to the lab area. He passed some empty cages, recalling Hardesty’s briefing: Dr. Sharif, aka Ali, did not board his patients.

  Moments later Padgett-Smith entered with her embassy counterpart who would double as interpreter. Skowen led them to the rear. “The storerooms are back here, Doctor. That’s where you’d start, right?”

  “Quite right. Thank you,” she replied. Wearing her bio suit minus the helmet, she strode to the lab.

  CPS would have liked to turn on the interior lights but Lee had cautioned against it. Somebody might see a tiny glow from outside and become suspicious. Everyone used subdued illumination, moving slowly and cautiously in the semi-darkness.

  Padgett-Smith opened the first cabinet, revealing several shelves of containers. Her newfound partner, a communicable disease specialist named Carter Fox, read the labels. He found most in English. “Allwormers, roundwormers, ectoparasiticides, you name it. Dog and cat treatments.”

  “Ovine miticides and lousicides. Sheep stuff.”

  Padgett-Smith’s violet eyes scanned the well-stocked room. “If he’s keeping any filovirus here, it’s likely in deep storage, not on the shelf. Let’s have a look at the refrigerators.”

  There were three large units, labeled according to the family of serum they contained. Starting with the nearest, Fox noted that about one-third were labeled in Urdu. He read each one in turn, examining the contents for apparent consistency with the label. “Clostridium perfrigenes C and D. That’s antiserum, likely for goats.”

  Padgett-Smith started on the next refrigerator, looking at the English labels.

  After fifteen minutes neither doctor had found anything untoward. Rix called a progress report to Lee. “Control, Echo. Negative items so far.”

  “Roger that. You’re still clear.”

  Another half hour passed. Lee made two calls in that time, using the cell phone that Hardesty had provided. The distractions to the south had begun to wear off; most of the police cars had returned to their usual patrols and the fire trucks were preparing to leave. Lee knew that the two roving guards were bound to return but he had no way of learning when.

  A Honda sedan with light bar on the top cruised by. Lee saw it coming a block away but wanted to keep transmissions to a minimum. He relaxed a bit when it turned north, parallel to the clinic.

  Then Rix’s voice destroyed his composure. “Boss, we got something here.”

  16

  ISLAMABAD

  “Okay Doctor. What did you find?” Lee was more relaxed after the entry team was en route to the safe house. But long habit told him it was too early to ease up. The unmarked van still could be stopped for any reason, legitimate or otherwise.

  In the rear seat Padgett-Smith held up a biohazard box; she might have raised a trophy trout. “Mr. Fox found it, actually.” She pronounced it “efe-chually.” “He noticed the plastic container behind some specimen bottles in the second refrigerator. It seemed unusual so we decided to treat it as a possible hazard.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Padgett-Smith nodded to Carter Fox, a thirty-something lab tech who seemed to relish the clandestine arts. “Plastic is used for potentially dangerous samples because it won’t break like glass. And there was no label identifying the contents,” he said in his Boston accent. “The only notation is in Urdu and Arabic. Basically it says ‘handle with caution.’”

  Lee shrugged while his driver negotiated the last turn to the sanctuary. “Well, I don’t know a bug from a germ, but ‘handle with care’ sounds pretty innocuous.”

  CPS gave an exaggerated smile. “It certainly does.”

  The American nodded briefly. “Oh. Gotcha.”

  * * *

  Buster Hardesty was waiting when the SSI team arrived at its destination. He had an official of the Pakistani Ministry of Health with another unmarked vehicle and a small security detail from the embassy. All the men wore civilian clothes, but Lee noted that most carried concealed weapons. “Imprinting” was the word in firearms circles — the telltale bulge or outline of a weapon beneath a shirt or coat. However, it was obvious that the guards were unconcerned about being detected.

  “Well done, Major.” The attaché shook hands with Lee and nodded his appreciation to the other operators. He motioned to Lee and Padgett-Smith; they walked several yards away to speak privately.

  “My Pakistani friend is, ah, well placed. For obvious reasons, he doesn’t need to know your names and you don’t need to know his. But he’ll take your sample to a military lab for evaluation. The scientists will never know of our involvement. If the sample is benign, we may try to replace it, but I’m told that tests could take a couple of days. If it’s hot, the security services will start looking for our suspect while you continue your own searches.

  “Which reminds me.” Hardesty pulled a scribbled note from a pocket and handed it to Lee. “Khan called on the discreet line this evening. He thinks he’s on to something. Frank Leopole is organizing an op in the border region. He says he’ll go with the people he still has in Quetta, but you folks might want to hustle back there.”

  QUETTA AIRBASE

  Omar Mohammed found Padgett-Smith in the hangar. She was exercising when she heard his footsteps on the cement behind her. “We just heard from General Hardesty,” he said. “He wants you to call him right away.”

  She straightened up, arching her back and stretching her arms over her head. Though a Muslim and happily married, Mohammed noted the muscular upper arms and slender torso. CPS had taken to exercising in the main hangar more often: she could dispense with bulky clothes and avoid unwanted attention. She caught his glance, knew its meaning, and accepted the tacit compliment.

  “Roger that,” she quipped.

  Mohammed rolled his eyes in exaggerated fashion. “Oh no. Not you tool” He grinned in appreciation of the humor.

  “Well, I spend all day with Type A commandos. Apparently that’s the only kind there is. What should one expect?”

  “I suppose it would be a welcome change if you had one or two ladies to talk to.”

  She picked up her towel and headed toward the office. “It would be perfectly delicious, Omar. But I knew the lay of the land when I signed on.”

  He paced beside her. “You know, the Soviet Spetsnaz were rumored to have twenty-five percent women. Many of them were Olympic athletes.”

  CPS absorbed that information, processing it behind those violet eyes. “It makes a certain amount of sense. Undoubtedly there were covert missions that required disarming guile rather than force.” Brains over brawn, she thought. She turned to face him. “What does the general need?”

  “Oh. I didn’t talk to him. He just left a message asking you to call as soon as possible.”

  “Maybe he has a report on the sample we took. It’s been a couple of days, and that’s probably long enough to have run the tests.”

  * * *

  Rustam Khan’s presentation was concise and professional. Leopole expected no less, but thought that the Pakistani probably felt some pressure to make a good impression on the Americans. Leopole already had addressed the usual waypoints along the well-traveled route of a mission briefing: objective, intelligence, communications, and support, plus command and control.

  In his clipped accent, Khan ticked off the known or suspected hostile forces and their capabilities. “I should emphasize that my sources are varied and do not always agree in details. That is to be expected.
Additionally, some of the information is at least a few days old. But there is enough similarity on locale and previous sightings to justify launching an operation against this cave complex.” He circled an area on the map, a five-kilometer area on the Afghan border.

  Lee raised a hand in the front row. “How many caves are we looking at?”

  Khan arched an eyebrow. “In that area, there could be dozens. But relatively few would be suitable for the terrorists’ purposes. I shall accompany you to evaluate each site. I am familiar with such things and I can save some time. Unless we encounter an unexpected situation, the search should take little more than a day.”

  Mohammed opened the door at the rear of the room and got Leopole’s attention. The team leader waved him in.

  “Excuse the intrusion,” Mohammed began. “But Dr. Padgett-Smith just talked with General Hardesty in Islamabad. The laboratory confirmed that the sample you found is in fact a filovirus. As yet it has not been identified, but the doctor believes we need look no further. Saeed Sharif is the man we want.”

  “Well, where is he?” Foyte asked.

  Leopole stood up. “Let’s hope he’s in one of those caves. Ruck up, gentlemen. We launch at 0430 tomorrow. Blue Team’s up front, White in reserve.”

  * * *

  After the briefing, Lee essayed a literary comparison for the benefit of those who read something besides Soldier of Fortune. “The terrorists we’re after frequently hide in caves. The area is full of them, and some are huge. It’s a lot like the Morlocks in H.G. Wells’ novel…”

  Delmore interjected. “Morlocks? You mean, like, the underground gooners in The Time Machine?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Breezy exclaimed. “The ‘60s flick with that really cute blonde babe. Yvette whatshername.”

  “Yvette Mimieux?” Bosco asked.

  “I guess so. Little bitty gal.”

  Lee gave an exaggerated sigh. “As I was saying… there’s a similarity between the terrorists and the Morlocks in the H.G. Wells novel.” He nodded toward Breezy. “From which the movie was made.”