Pandora's Legion s-1

by Harold Coyle

  When he was able to stop sobbing, Johnson stretched out a hand. “Water.”

  Ali was on his feet, taking long strides toward the wretch on the floor. Grasping Johnson’s hair in one hand, he flicked open a knife and held it against the victim’s cheek. “You get water when I have my answer. Or I take your eyes one at a time.”

  Jeremy Johnson levitated. He was seeing himself from above, as if hanging from the rafters. His alter ego called to him. J. J., he means it, man. He’ll do you.

  He heard himself say, “She’s a British doctor.”

  Ali shook Johnson’s head, pulling some hair out. “I know that! Why is she here?”

  Johnson told him.

  * * *

  Ali was washing his feet in preparation for evening prayers when Kassim reappeared. The doctor beckoned him in.

  “He is secure, Doctor. He cannot escape, and I doubt that he could walk far.”

  Ali looked up from the basin at his feet. “Has he eaten?”

  Kassim was taken aback. The alien was a shredded figure of bloody tatters who limped along on one leg. What did it matter if he had eaten? “He has been fed. I do not know if he partakes.”

  “What did you give him?”

  Kassim shook his head ever so slightly. “Rice with some mutton. And a cup of tea, as you ordered. Why do you ask?”

  “Merely because he is our prisoner does not mean he should be starved. The Prophet requires it.”

  “With respect… the man has been sliced to ribbons. He lies in the dirt trying not to cry out. I doubt if he has much appetite.”

  “He will eat if he desires.” Ali turned back to his ablution.

  Kassim nodded, then turned to go. The doctor’s voice brought him up short. “I must leave with my men. Meanwhile, remember this: no one is to approach the infidel alone. There must always be at least two guards, both armed.”

  The Syrian furrowed his bushy eyebrows. “Truly? You believe he is such a threat in his condition?”

  “He is an elite soldier. Regardless of his cause or greed, we must not underestimate him. If he escapes, he will tell the others of this place. That in turn could lead — elsewhere.”

  Kassim did not share his colleague’s respect for the whipped dog in the pen, but the doctor’s judgment was seldom wrong. “I shall tell the others.” He shifted his weight to his good leg. “Will you question him tomorrow?”

  “I do not believe he has much more to tell us. But I shall tend his wounds tonight. I have some veterinary cephalhexin to prevent infection.”

  “Then… what shall we do with him?”

  Ali raised his hands from the basin, palms up. “God will decide.”

  QUETTA AIRBASE

  “Well, he’s just not here. That’s all we know.”

  Leopole slumped against the table in the briefing room, tacitly conceding the obvious to a roomful of operators. Omar Mohammed remained seated but appeared no less subdued.

  Leopole continued, “We’ve tried every source we know: police, military, embassy. Even some back-channel contacts.” He decided not to mention that an attractive sum had been offered in certain quarters for any information leading to the missing American, no questions asked. “We have to notify headquarters. Maybe they can try something in Washington.”

  Malten spoke the question on everyone’s mind. “Colonel, do you think that al Qaeda got him?”

  “I don’t know how else to explain it,” Leopole replied. “You and Brezyinski were closest to him, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. Like I said, he disappeared around the corner and when I got there maybe twenty seconds later, he was gone.”

  Mohammed had a theory. “This was almost certainly a kidnapping. We suspected that the opposition had observers on the base, and they saw a pattern and took advantage of it.” He stopped long enough to visualize the scene. “It wouldn’t have been very hard: drive alongside him, point a gun at his head and tell him to get in.”

  Breezy would not admit it, but he began feeling pangs of regret for the way he had ribbed the former legionnaire so often. “So what do we do, now? Looks like all we can do is wait.”

  Leopole eased off the table and stood with his arms akimbo. He realized that he needed to demonstrate some leadership, even if he lacked confidence in the case of Jeremy Johnson. “We keep planning and training, gentlemen. Same schedule: training starts again at 0700.”

  20

  BALUCHISTAN PROVINCE

  J. J. Johnson tried to reason it out.

  The Muslims had fed him and even tended the appalling wounds on his back and legs. That fact seemed to indicate a willingness to keep him alive, if only briefly. But the vicious, smooth-talking bastard who fancied himself a doctor was obviously a religious fanatic. Johnson had no doubt that the man’s threat with the knife was genuine. Maybe he was taking a dual role: good cop, bad cop all in one. Maybe he was just playing mind games.

  Johnson had no intention of waiting to find out. He realized that, having given the sophisticated sadist the desired information, there was little reason to keep an American alive. The mercenary tallied his likely fate. Plan A: his captors would keep him indefinitely. Plan B: they would sell him back to his employer, or, Plan C: they would kill him.

  Briefly he wondered about Plan B. How much is an ex-legionnaire worth on the open market? Admiral Derringer would meet any fee, but the odds of completing the deal looked slim.

  He pondered Plan C: would they take time to cut off his head or merely put a 7.62 round through his cranium? Since neither Alfa, Bravo, nor Charlie were acceptable options, he went to work on Plan Delta.

  * * *

  Abdullah Hussain was restless. Like many of Kassim’s operatives, he was young and headstrong, feeling a need to prove himself among the veteran mujahadin. Too many of them treated the youngsters with something between tolerance and disdain. Abdullah had discussed that unfortunate tendency with his youthful compatriots more than once.

  Here was an opportunity.

  When Sheikh Tahirkheli went to relieve himself, the twenty-year-old guard decided to show his mettle. Pointedly ignoring the older man’s warning to delay feeding the prisoner, Hussain unslung his AK and opened the wire gate to the pen. He shoved the rice gruel ahead of him with a sandaled foot, keeping his distance from the reclining infidel. The man had barely moved all morning, leaving most of his breakfast untouched.

  Hussain noticed the whip marks on the American’s back, the shredded remains of the shirt. As he rested on his side, the man’s slow, regular breathing showed that he remained asleep.

  Despite nearly fourteen months with Kassim’s cell, the youngster had never seen an infidel so close before. This was too good a chance to pass up: a minor test of manhood, facing an enemy eye to eye. He poked the Kalashnikov’s muzzle into the prisoner’s back, ordering him to rise. The only response was a half roll onto the stomach.

  Abdullah Hussain wanted more. He kicked at the prone form, again ordering the captive up.

  J. J. Johnson shot a glance between the guard’s feet. As he expected, the young one was alone. Stupid kids, he thought. They all think they’re smarter than adults.

  Now or never.

  In the upward glance he permitted himself, Johnson took in two salient facts. The kid’s finger was on the trigger but the selector remained in the upward position. Still on safe.

  Johnson had mentally rehearsed the disarming technique dozens of times during the night. In a fluid movement he used both hands and one foot to knock the guard down. Hussain hit the ground with a muted thud that briefly winded him. In that moment, Johnson was atop him, grabbing the AK and twisting it in a figure eight. The American’s position gave him superior leverage; the guard’s grip broke and the rifle was freed.

  Johnson reversed the weapon, butt down, and stepped on the guard’s right arm. Three solid blows to the head rendered him immobile. Two hard vertical strokes, more carefully delivered, fractured the skull.

  The SSI man knew time was crucial. He
flipped the AK’s selector to full down — semi-auto — and pulled the bolt handle back. A live round was ejected. So it was loaded after all. He scanned the area, saw nobody else, and quickly removed the magazine. He guessed that it held about twenty-five rounds.

  The legionnaire was breathing hard from the exertion. Forcing himself to concentrate, he pulled off the corpse’s sandals and scooped up both the meals in their tins. He combined them into one container, losing some gruel over the side. With one more glance around, he noticed a cheap ornamental dagger on the guard’s belt. Johnson took it and made for the rocks behind the hut.

  Water. He paused, weighing the prospects of finding a bottle inside against the other guard’s likely return. He also realized that he needed a sack to carry his plunder. Well, here goes.

  The hut’s contents were disappointing: two nearly empty water bottles and a burlap sack containing some grain. Johnson deposited his goods in the sack, unconcerned about spillage. Then he took a worn quilt off a cot, threw it over one shoulder, and checked outside through the cracks in the door. Seeing no one, he stepped out, the rifle shouldered, muzzle low.

  Sheikh Tahirkheli came around the corner, fifteen feet away.

  Both men stopped dead, requiring a heartbeat to absorb the situation.

  Johnson held the initiative; he was ready to shoot, whereas the Muslim held his rifle at waist level. But a gunshot could be heard for a mile or more, and the man was too far away to take him with the knife.

  Johnson’s mind raced, trying to retrieve the Urdu word. It came reluctantly, sulking amid the pain and fear inside him. “Taslim shal” Surrender!

  Tahirkheli was an experienced fighter. He dropped his rifle and raised his hands, instantly changing the dynamics of the situation. Johnson nodded slightly in acknowledgment of his opponent’s intelligence. Smart dude: he knows if I’m gonna kill him he’s a goner no matter what he does. This way, he’s still got a chance.

  Johnson stepped aside to let the Pakistani pass. Then, picking up the man’s rifle, the American pointed his prisoner uphill into the rocks where they could not be tracked.

  As they began the ascent, the former legionnaire began musing whether he had it in him to commit murder.

  BALUCHISTAN PROVINCE

  Forty minutes from the farm, Johnson called a halt. He motioned for the Muslim to squat, then opened the burlap sack. The American drained the contents of one water bottle and part of the next. Then he offered the remainder to his prisoner.

  Tahirkheli paused, then accepted the bottle. He raised it to the American, muttered, “Shukria,” and drained the water. He handed the bottle back, then reclined against a rock. Johnson maintained several feet between them, his AK pointed at the Pakistani’s belly, clearly indicating that the safety was off.

  Since the escape, Johnson had tried to approximate his location. He had a general impression that safety lay to the east, but even in the hills behind the farm, he saw mainly more hills and rocks.

  He picked up three stones and arranged them at his feet. From right to left, he pointed to them in turn. “Quetta, Chaman, Kandahar.”

  Tahirkheli leaned forward, studying the arrangement. Slowly he raised his left hand and rearranged the stones in a northwest-southeast axis. He nodded. “Quetta, Chaman, Kandahar.”

  Johnson made a circular motion, then pointed to the Muslim and himself. “Us? Where?” He suspected he was near Chaman but did not want to venture that option.

  Tahirkheli cocked his head and rubbed his bearded chin. He picked up a pebble and placed it beside the middle stone. “Yahaan.”

  Johnson assumed that the man meant here but was uncertain whether to believe him. Offering water and remaining unthreatening seemed more in keeping with the Muslim virtue of hospitality. Johnson remembered Omar Mohammed’s briefing: often in tribal cultures one was obliged to return a good deed. He realized that he was fortunate that the inquisitor had taken his two goons with him: the erstwhile ex-legionnaire would cheerfully have executed any or all of them.

  Looking at the sky, Johnson assessed that it might rain later in the day. Not a bad thing: cover my tracks in the dirt and maybe get some fresh water. He had already decided to forego standing water except for emergencies.

  Time for a command decision. Johnson realized that he could go directly to Chaman and probably find help, but he discounted that option. There were almost certainly people looking for him there, and in any case a beat-up westerner would draw attention. He thought again of the map he had studied on the previous operation: a road paralleled the border northeast of town while a rail line ran back toward Quetta. Spin Buldak was just across the border from Chaman: there would be a crossing station in between. Hell with it. If I can’t walk right up to the border, I’ll get myself captured trying to sneak across.

  Johnson stretched himself upright, feeling the stinging pain in his back. He wanted to rub his knee but did not, lest his captive see an infirmity. As a military athlete, Jeremy Johnson knew his limits, and the vicious beating had taken its toll. I need a short walk downhill, he told himself. He handed the sack and quilt to his captive, allowing him to carry the load. Then they pushed on, heading west.

  21

  BALUCHISTAN PROVINCE

  Kassim had never seen Ali genuinely angry. Ordinarily reserved and composed, the doctor seemed to accept bad news as equitably as good.

  This was different.

  “The fools! The damnable, stupid imbeciles!” He kicked the leg of a chair and nearly tipped the seat backwards. Glaring at his colleague, he caught the Syrian’s defensive stance, the lowered eyes. Ali inhaled, exhaled, and regained most of his composure. “Tell me. Everything.”

  “I must accept full responsibility, Doctor. I chose the men…”

  “Enough of that!” The words were spit out like high-velocity rounds, more harsh than intended. “Brother, we need to know if we can recapture him.”

  Kassim sat down, still angry with himself and saddened that his men had disappointed the cause. “I do not know the full story. When I returned there, I found Hussain beaten to death. There was no sign of Tahirkheli. At first I thought perhaps he fled, but he is a proven fighter. I have seen him destroy two Soviet armored vehicles and several Northern Alliance trucks. He would not run away.” He shrugged. “Perhaps the infidel took him with him for some reason.”

  “Were there any tracks? Any indication of where the American went?”

  Kassim shook his head. “None. I checked the entire area so he must have gone uphill in the rocks. It is impossible to track him that way.”

  “So we must assume he has food and weapons.”

  “Yes, Doctor. He took the boy’s sandals and rifle. As you warned, he was a dangerous man.”

  Ali drummed his long fingers on the table. “I doubt that he knows where he was, but with elevation he can see the surrounding area. He will likely head east, toward the plain.”

  “Possibly.”

  The veterinarian lanced his colleague with a glare. “Why ‘possibly’?”

  “The geography, Doctor. The nearest town of any size from the farm is Qila Abdullah, about thirty kilometers. The border is much closer, with Spin Buldak on the road to Kandahar. In any case he will avoid the roads. But we do not have nearly enough men to search the hills in either direction. As for the rivers, if he follows the Zhob or the Nari, which bank? Upstream or downstream?”

  Ali asked, “But to the west the border is guarded. So what do you suggest?”

  Kassim looked closer at the map, visualizing the topography. “Use our men as efficiently as possible. Have them watch the approaches here… and here.” His blunt finger stabbed the places printed Qila Abdullah and Spin Buldak.

  The doctor regarded his partner admiringly. “Yes! Rather than searching hundreds of square kilometers, wait for the rat to arrive at the bait.”

  Kassim’s fist struck the table with a resounding thud. “Then spring the trap.”

  “See to it, brother. He has a wide start.”
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  SSI OFFICES

  Sandy Carmichael was going to knock on Derringer’s door when she heard his voice inside. “Okay, thanks, Frank. Keep me informed.”

  She rapped politely before opening the door. “Excuse me, sir, but…”

  He motioned to her. “It’s alright, Sandy. Come on in. That was Frank. He figured I’d be in this morning so he phoned rather than sending an email.” Derringer drummed his fingers on the desk. Paradiddle-paradiddle tap-tap-tap. He stared at the polished wood for a moment, then looked up. “One of our guys is missing. It looks like he’s been kidnapped.”

  Carmichael slid into the chair nearest the desk. “Oh my god. Who?”

  “Johnson. Jeremy Johnson. They call him J. J. I know him somewhat — good kid. He did a stretch in the Foreign Legion.”

  “Well, what happened?”

  “Johnson’s team was jogging around the perimeter to keep in shape. J. J.’s quite a runner, apparently. He got ahead of the others, turned a corner, and disappeared. Nobody saw anything.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Yesterday. Frank didn’t want to worry us unnecessarily, but when nothing turned up overnight, he decided to call. He’s done all the right things: checked with the locals, police, and the embassy. He’s even dropped some hints offering a big reward, but nobody seems to have any leads.”

  The professional in Sandra Carmichael nudged aside the caring female half of her personality. “Well, sir, I have a couple of recommendations. First, we should decide how much longer to wait before notifying Johnson’s family. That is, I assume he has some family. Then we need to prepare a response in case he turns up on Al Jazeera or some other media outlet.”

  Derringer slumped in his padded chair, one hand on his forehead. “Both accepted, Sandy. I’ll call a meeting so we can hash out other options. But…”

  “Yes, sir?”

  He inhaled, then blew his breath out in a long, audible whisper. “I’m visualizing an on-screen decapitation, or something just as bad.”