Pandora's Legion s-1

by Harold Coyle

  Foyte stood up to complete the briefing. “Listen up! We saddle up at 0500 and drive within two klicks of the objective. The rappelling teams won’t move into position until the security element is in place, so the schedule might slip somewhat. If so, Colonel Leopole will coordinate by radio.” He glanced at his watch. “Equipment check in three-zero mikes, then chow. Let’s move!”

  * * *

  “Comm check. Control is up.”

  Leopole listened for the responses. They came promptly over the lightweight headsets that the operators wore.

  “Red is up.” Jeffrey Malten was crisply professional.

  “White is up.” Somehow Bosco’s laid-back tone belied his attentiveness.

  “Blue is up.” Foyte’s ground assault team was ready.

  Atop the rocky tor, Bosco had secured 150 feet of yellow assault line around a large boulder fifty meters down the reverse slope. He was confident that the weight of four men would not dislodge it, especially since its bulk lay in the opposite direction of the rappel. Next he screwed two expanding bolts into the rock above the other side of the cave mouth: a primary and a backup. Then he cinched them down tight with a crescent wrench from his backpack.

  With the bases secure, Bosco and Breezy attached four-hole extension plates to each rope with extension lines off each plate. The eight operators ran their lines through the carabiners on their tactical harnesses, and Bosco checked each for tension as the assaulters leaned back, allowing the gear to take their weight. They were ready in minutes.

  Breezy’s team took the left side of the cave entrance; Jeff Malten’s the right. Besides the rappelling gear, each operator wore a headset beneath his helmet plus goggles, gloves, and tactical vest. Most had MP-5s with suppressors and lasers or lights; all had pistols with lights. Malten favored a fourteen-inch Benelli shotgun. Every weapon was loaded and safed.

  Breezy also had his medical kit.

  After the two teams lined up shoulder to shoulder, Bosco tacitly queried them. He got eight thumbs-up.

  “Control, White’s a go.”

  Leopole heard the quiet statement and keyed his mike. “Blue?”

  “Blue’s a go.” Foyte’s ground team was in position, cocked and locked, eighty meters from the entrance.

  “All teams, countdown begins.” Leopole paused, then initiated the process. “Five, four, three, two…”

  He waited five seconds — an automatic hold in case a last-second glitch developed. Hearing nothing, he continued. “One… execute!”

  As double insurance that the ball started on time, Bosco pointed two fingers of each hand at the rappelling teams. On “execute” six operators pushed off with their legs, dropping toward the earthen rock sixty feet below. The more expert made the descent in three drops, braking themselves by extending their rope hands outward, increasing friction on the double loop in the steel figure-eights hooked to their harnesses.

  Three men from each team hit the ground within a few seconds of one another, leveling their weapons and scanning for targets. Almost immediately the fourth man from each team arrived, covering the others who disengaged from the ropes. Without a word, the six initial assaulters then stalked forward while the backups slipped the lines from their harnesses.

  Eight shooters were up and ready in less than ten seconds. By then, Foyte’s “legs” were hustling across the open space, ready to secure the entrance or provide reinforcements inside.

  Breezy and Malten led their teams on either side of the cave entrance, each man scanning left or right, high or low. They found that ambient light was ample within thirty meters of the wide entrance, gradually diminishing as they hunted farther in.

  The point men were careful to watch for booby traps or warning devices. Finding none, they proceeded another ten meters when Breezy stopped. He touched his nose with his left hand, keeping a firing grip on his MP-5. Behind him, Delmore nodded. He smells something. Breezy pantomimed eating; the others caught the scent. He looked over at Malten, who repeated the gesture. They’re having breakfast.

  The cave narrowed slightly, curving left. As briefed, Breezy’s left-hand team stopped in place, allowing Malten’s to search the curve. With his short-barreled Benelli at eye level, Malten began slicing the pie, advancing a step at a time, shoulder to shoulder with his partner.

  Malten stopped abruptly. Breezy thought: He sees something. Malten’s left hand went to his chest, mimicking a child’s gun with thumb and forefinger. Danger, close. Then, with his left hand on the shotgun’s foregrip, he took the next step.

  Four shooters swung around the rough-hewn corner, confronting an astonished Pakistani with an ancient Enfield slung over his shoulder. The man’s eyes went saucer-wide, his mouth forming a pink oval in his thick beard. Breezy’s partner took six steps forward, lifted his left index finger to his mouth, then motioned the man forward. As the bewildered gunman complied, he was relieved of his weapon and escorted to the rear. There he was gagged, frisked, and hands bound with tie wraps. The last operator in line shoved him toward the entrance and turned him over to Foyte’s Blue Team. The gunny then sent two men inside to handle any additional prisoners.

  The smell of a cook fire grew stronger but there was little smoke. Breezy surmised that the cave had some sort of natural ventilation. He continued his methodical advance until the cavern widened. Then, from the darker approach, he saw a well-lit area with several men talking, cooking, and eating. He did a quick head count and raised his left hand: five fingers followed by one.

  The cooking area was roughly twelve meters by twenty with bags and boxes stacked along one wall. Most of the men appeared armed. Breezy made a fist, raised it to ear level, then made a gesture like pulling a chain.

  Six operators stepped into the open area, those on either side checking for laterals off the main corridor.

  Breezy and Malten had been briefed on the Urdu phrase for “hands up.” Neither could recall “laasuna portakra.” Wondering at the silence, two other operators shouted the phrase in English. Then Delmore spoke the surrender demand: “Taslim shal”

  The Pakistanis looked up in stunned amazement. A few immediately raised their hands; one sank to his knees and began wailing.

  Two went for their guns. Phil Green shouted “Wodariga!” Stop!

  Breezy and Delmore put their front sights on the nearest man, who raised his AK on its sling. They pressed their triggers simultaneously. Breezy had selected three-round burst; Delmore went full auto. Between them, the suppressed HKs spat out eight 9mm rounds. Six struck flesh, punching small red gouts in the man’s khaki vest. He dropped the AK, half spun on one foot, reeled awkwardly, and collapsed. He rolled a few feet, then stopped, holding his belly.

  Other Pakistanis began shouting or sobbing. Most went to their knees.

  Malten instantly placed his Benelli’s bead sight on the other shooter’s midsection. The ex-SEAL fired twice, and at twelve meters thirteen of the eighteen double-ought pellets carved a ten-inch circle in the target. The man went down hard, twitching and screaming. The screams turned to loud, thick gurgles, then ceased.

  Most of the other hostiles now were face down, hands over their heads. Green, the former cop, thought, They know the drill. They’ve done this before.

  As the SSI men secured the prisoners, Breezy made a preliminary call to Leopole. “Control, this is White. Over.”

  Only static responded. Breezy said, “We’re too far in.” He directed one of Foyte’s men to return to the entrance and radio a status report, adding, “And tell Frank we’re still searching.”

  Fifteen minutes later most of the operators were back at the entrance with their prisoners. Breezy met Leopole, who wanted to see the results up close.

  “What’ve we got, Brezyinski?”

  “Five tagged, two bagged, Skipper.” Breezy knew that Frank Leopole disliked being called “Skipper.”

  “Any sign of bio gear?”

  Breezy shook his head. “Negative. I was talking with Jeff and Ken. They don’t think
these gooners are al Qaeda. I think I agree.”

  Leopole frowned. “Explain.”

  “Look at their gear, their whole setup. No heavy metal — no RPGs or belt-fed stuff. Some of ‘em only have bolt-action rifles. They had piss-poor security, and for Islamic fanatics they gave up pretty damn quick.”

  “So what do you think they’re up to?”

  “Well, Skip, there’s evidently some drugs and other contraband but nothing like we want.”

  “Are you saying they’re just smugglers?”

  “Looks like, Boss.”

  Breezy turned away, intending to start an inventory, when he bumped into Malten. “Hey, Jeff, how ya doin’?”

  Malten patted his Benelli. “I was just thinking. Four years in the teams and I never popped a cap. Now I come ten thousand miles to whack one sorry gooner just so I can say I scored.” He shook his head. “Hell of a cover charge to get into this club!”

  As the prisoners were led away by some of Major Khan’s men, Omar Mohammed consulted his notes. “It’s as Brezyinski suspected, Colonel. They are smugglers, though one of them has been wanted by local authorities for some months. He was a suspect in a couple of murders.”

  Leopole nodded. “So that’s why he went for his weapon.”

  “Surely. At that point he had nothing to lose.”

  The ops officer tipped back his hat. “All right, then. We need to talk to Khan and maybe Buster Hardesty. Obviously these guys have nothing to do with bioterrorism. Looks like we were snookered… I mean…”

  “I know what snookered is, Colonel.” Mohammed managed to excise most of the derision from his voice. “But it could be merely the result of poor intelligence.”

  “Well, either way, we need to know. And damn fast.”

  19

  QUETTA

  To SSI’s operators — and all others in the world — everything was a contest. Except perhaps running. Daily jogging inevitably turned into a race for second place because nobody could keep up with J. J. Johnson. The ex-legionnaire had spent five years running everywhere: to and from meals; uphill and downhill; through sand; through water; on the obstacle course. The only time La Legion did not run was when it marched to the slow, patient cadence of Le Boudin.

  It was a point of pride with Jeffrey Malten that he usually finished second to Johnson. But today Breezy was in fine form. He beat the ex-SEAL to the last corner by eight strides, then slowed. When Breezy overtook him again, he noticed that Malten was barely loping, turning his head left and right.

  “What’s wrong, dude? Lose somethin?”

  Breezy stopped, leaning forward with hands on his hips. He inhaled and exhaled twice, then straightened. “It’s weird, man. Where’s J. J.?”

  BALUCHISTAN PROVINCE

  “We have one of the Crusaders.”

  Ali sat bolt upright on his cot. It took him a few pulses to absorb the implications of Kassim’s announcement.

  The Syrian stepped farther into the room, almost apologetic for the unprecedented intrusion. Few people had ever seen the interior of The Blessed Doctor’s lodging. It was much like its owner: spare, clean, functional. The only adornment was an Islamic tapestry on one wall beside a bookcase.

  Ali swung his feet onto the floor and picked his robe off the hook. “Tell me.”

  “One of my agents noticed that many of the Crusaders run for exercise around the perimeter every day. I told him to track their activities in his intelligence reports. One in particular seemed stronger than the others and usually finished one hundred meters or more ahead of them. For a brief time he was often out of sight of the others.” Kassim shrugged eloquently. “It was simple.”

  “Where is he?”

  Kassim’s face showed a rare expression. It was a wolf’s smile. “He is on the way here.”

  * * *

  Jeremy Johnson, late of the French Foreign Legion, blinked at the sudden light. He had been bound and gagged for three hours, bouncing painfully in the Toyota’s trunk. When the sedan lurched to a stop, the trunk was opened and the blanket pulled off him. Three men lifted him out and unbound his bare feet. The manacles and tape over his mouth remained.

  Kassim met the group, displaying obvious pleasure. One of the kidnappers handed him the American’s identification, which Kassim took inside the building. He knew that Ali would want to acquaint himself with the captive’s particulars before the interrogation began.

  Minutes later Kassim beckoned to the escorts who shoved their prize through the door. Johnson saw the grinning bastard who had taken his dog tags plus one other man. That’s the boss, Johnson told himself. This one was somewhat older than the others; cleaner, more composed. He beckoned to a chair. More polite. More dangerous.

  Johnson sat down, pointedly leaning forward to accommodate his hands behind his back. Ali took the hint and gestured to one of the acolytes. The man handed his Makarov pistol to a partner and released the manacles. “Thanks,” Johnson said, rubbing his wrists.

  Ali set a bottled water on the desk and Johnson drained almost half. He realized that he was getting dehydrated after hours in the trunk.

  “Now then,” Ali began. “Mr… Johnson.” He gave the American a smile intended to cause more fear than confidence. “I will do you the honor of being direct. If you tell me what I wish to know, I will release you tomorrow. You may tell your friends whatever you wish — perhaps that you were the victim of a ransom attempt. It does not matter.”

  Johnson nodded, keeping a straight face. Lying bastard. You’re going to snuff me. He had already judged the situation and decided to cooperate in hope of living long enough to escape. But that would be difficult without his shoes.

  “Why are you here?” Ali asked.

  From experience in La Legion and extensive reading, Jeremy Johnson knew that good interrogators seldom began by asking for information they did not already possess. “I’m hired by a security firm. But I think you know that, Mr…”

  Ali waved a dismissive hand. “My name is unimportant. But yes, Mr. Johnson, I know that you belong to Strategic Solutions.” He paused long enough to gauge the captive’s reaction. Seeing none, he proceeded. “I know that you are a bought dog. You sell yourself to the highest bidder like a common harlot.”

  Johnson shrugged. “Girl’s gotta make a living.”

  Ali barked a harsh phrase. The guard behind the chair responded instantly, bringing a frayed fan belt down in an overhand strike. It split the skin of the American’s neck, searing exquisite pain through his upper torso. Johnson’s composure melted in the hot rush of shock, blood, and rage. He cried out despite himself, sagging in the chair.

  “One,” Ali said, holding up a linger. “From this moment, every time I dislike your response, you shall receive an additional stroke.”

  Johnson pressed his left hand against the right side of his neck, felt the blood, and realized that he had few reserves. He knew that he could not tolerate many blows.

  Ali read the signs. “Now, Mr. Johnson. I see in your face that you wish to kill me. You are free to try. But you will be shot in both legs and beaten more severely. In that case, before we allow you to die, you will tell us all we need.” He leaned back, pointedly casual. “Or… you may walk out of here in your own shoes in a few days.” Ali thought: Always give them some hope.

  The legionnaire’s glare contained equal portions of hate and resignation. Ali recognized the signs and knew he was winning.

  “To repeat, Johnson: what is your mission here?” Ali waited for a slow five count. Then he held up two fingers.

  The blows came in rapid, vicious succession: a stroke from the right, a quick reversal, and one from the left. Johnson screamed in pain and fury, leaping to his feet and turned to face his tormenter.

  Something hard smashed into his right knee. He went down, groveling on the board floor, holding his patella. The other guard recovered to a ready stance, pointedly tapping the police baton against the palm of one hand.

  Ali stood up, leaning on the desk. “M
r. Johnson? I am waiting. If you ever want to walk again…”

  J. J. Johnson tried hard to choke off the sob rising from his core. He tasted a salty warmth and realized that he had bitten into his lip. He thought: Maybe I can stand three, even four. Not five. Not ten. They have all day.

  “Bugs.”

  “What?” Ali gestured and his men set Johnson in the chair again. “What’s that?”

  “Germs.” Johnson inhaled deeply, trying to keep his wits in the game.

  “Go on, Johnson.”

  “Water.” It came as a croak as he crawled onto the chair.

  Ali shoved the bottle across the desk again. Johnson took his time sipping the water, then rubbed some on his stinging neck. Gotta have time to think.

  “One… two…”

  No time, man. No time. “Germ warfare,” Johnson blurted. The Korean War phrase leapt to his mind from a long-ago book called Honest John. It was written by an Air Force pilot, a kickass fighter ace who was tortured into saying he dropped bugs on gooks.

  Ali sat down again. “What kind of germs, Johnson? Do not test me!”

  Johnson looked up, his vision blurring from the tears of pain. “I don’t know! Okay? I don’t know about the germs!” Nice touch, he congratulated himself. Not too specific. He shuddered visibly. Not yet.

  Ali allowed himself to slouch in his chair. He wanted to appear calm, in control. He thought for a moment. He had to admire the American’s fortitude. Many men would have spilled all they knew by now. He had seen it before. Then he played his trump. “Tell me about Doctor Carolyn Padgett-Smith.”

  Johnson’s eyes betrayed him. They widened in astonished recognition. Then he recovered. “Who?”

  Ali turned his head, showing the wolfish smile again. Slowly, almost elegantly, he raised a hand. Five fingers.

  Then he raised the other hand.

  Johnson was on the floor after the fourth blow. He felt his back flayed open, then more strikes whipped across his buttocks and upper legs. He rolled in hopeless desperation, shrieking in pain. The two tormenters boxed him in, taking turns and leaning into their work, imparting every ounce of energy to each lash.