Pandora's Legion s-1

by Harold Coyle

  Carmichael had seen two such videos; she could not envision anything comparable. The first had taken thirty-five seconds, and she wondered at what point in the process the victim had died. She had not bothered to time the second one. Finally she asked, “Is there anything we can do here, maybe with the Pakistani embassy? I mean, anything that Frank and Omar can’t do in-country?”

  “I doubt it, but we need to consider all angles. I’ll call Mark at Moritz and Moritz to see if they have any legal suggestions.”

  “Yes, sir.” Carmichael stood up and turned to go. Then she caught the look in the admiral’s eyes — something she had seldom seen before. He’s scared. Really scared. She knew why: Michael Derringer always assigned himself the dreadful task of delivering terrible news in person.

  BALUCHISTAN PROVINCE

  The sun was setting and Jeremy Johnson had to make a decision.

  Overlooking the approach to the border crossing, the fugitive American with his erstwhile captor figured the percentages. If I go straight down there, I’ll save time. But I gotta assume the terrs know I’m missing, and they can read the map. They could be waiting.

  He turned toward his prisoner. The man was impassive, as usual. They now knew one another as “Yonson” and “Kelly.” Without seeing it written, Johnson could never get his tongue around “Tahirkheli.” Again the question arose: how much to trust the Pakistani. He probably can’t go back to his people, hut I don’t know that for sure. He might give me away if things get tense.

  Looking at the topography again, Johnson sorted the odds. He would be harder to spot after dark, but he would also be more vulnerable to ambush. A close-range firefight against multiple enemies was a nonstarter. And he doubted that he could expect help from the Paki border guards. To them, a shootout would likely be interpreted as an outright attack. Anyone beyond the perimeter fence would be considered hostile.

  And the guards might be on somebody’s payroll.

  So many questions; damn few answers.

  He decided to try having it both ways. He would work within a klick or so of the border and proceed to the checkpoint with about half an hour of daylight remaining. That way, presumably he could spot any interlopers and, if necessary, evade into the gathering dark. A few rounds toward the guard station should elicit further interest.

  It looked like six or seven hundred meters, maybe a bit more. Hard to tell in this terrain. Johnson turned to “Kelly” and made a shooing motion. “Go. You go away!” Whatever the man’s previous faults, he had been more a companion than a captive. He deserved a chance. Tahirkheli nodded, apparently in comprehension of the generous sentiment, but pantomimed his intention to stay with Johnson.

  They set out at an easy lope, approaching the border crossing from the southwest. That seemed the least likely avenue of approach from the starting point east of Chaman.

  Johnson kept the AK at high port, holding the magazine from Tahirkheli’s rifle with his left hand. They had left the sack and quilt at their starting point in case they had to move fast. At 4,300 feet the evening air had an edge; both men saw their breath as they exhaled.

  A few moments along the way, Tahirkheli pulled up. Johnson almost overran him. The Pakistani squatted, shading his eyes against the sunset. To his left the American took a braced kneeling position, the AK’s selector on semi-auto. The Pakistani said something that sounded like “dish man,” looking at Johnson and gesturing to their right front.

  Johnson did not know that dushman was Urdu for enemy.

  “Bhagna!” Tahirkheli bolted from his squatting position like a sprinter. His exhortation to run required no translation. He began eating up the ground toward the checkpoint.

  Semi-automatic fire erupted from the gathering dusk. Johnson glimpsed muzzle flashes, guessed the range at 250 meters, and held slightly high. Damn! Shoulda taken the chance to check zero on this thing. He fired two rounds to let the terrs know that he was armed, then took to his feet. But Johnson was slowed by his injuries and ill-fitting sandals.

  The Pakistani showed surprising speed, quickly pulling away from the mercenary. He’s one tough sumbitch; spent his life in the mountains.

  Abruptly the other man stopped, throwing himself prone. Johnson looked ahead and saw the reason. Two men raced toward them from a cluster of rocks. Johnson took a glance toward the border crossing. No visible motion yet.

  Johnson looked again to his right. Two more gunmen had emerged from cover. They gotta get me before the guards arrive.

  Both hostile pair were about 150 meters out. Johnson felt relatively safe at that distance: Most of ‘em can’t shoot for shit. He squirmed into a prone position, facing the right-hand threat first. With no idea where his rifle shot, he took a center hold on the nearest opponent, focused on the front sight, and pressed the trigger.

  The 7.62mm round snapped out — and vanished. Johnson could not tell where it went, other than it had missed its target. Briefly he wished that he could get Kelly to spot for him, but there was no time to pantomime it.

  Both the gunmen approaching him were upright, alternately firing and running. Ballistic cracks popped over his head; a few rounds hit the earth around him. Johnson’s mind was racing: There’s still time. Try something else. Reckoning that his first round likely went high, he held on the target’s knees. He pressed the trigger and the Kalashnikov bucked in recoil. Johnson’s focus went from his sights to the target and saw the man flinch. Nicked him or it’s real close. Applying Kentucky windage, he held low on the target’s right side and fired twice.

  The terrorist staggered, turned away, and tumbled sideways.

  Immediately Johnson shifted targets. The second opponent was inside seventy meters, now kneeling. Johnson applied the same sight picture and pressed the trigger twice. No good. The man kept shooting.

  He’s not as tall a target. Hold lower. Johnson put his front sight on the man’s left foot and fired again. Nothing. I think I flinched. Try again. Two more rounds went downrange. One connected. The target rolled onto his side and began crawling away. Johnson let him go.

  More firing erupted from the second pair, now dangerously close. Johnson estimated they were no more than fifty meters out. As he swung on them, he felt a sharp impact. I’m hit — keep shooting. He put his front sight on the right-hand man and fired. No good. He fired again. And again. Sweat blurred his vision and the gathering dusk degraded his sight picture.

  The rifle jammed.

  Johnson’s pulse, already elevated, hit high C. He recognized the physiological signs: tunnel vision; short, shallow breaths; leaden feeling in the arms; fine muscle skills diminished. He glanced down at the AK and was appalled to see a neat hole in the magazine. That was the hit! The wonderfully reliable weapon had continued functioning until the warped follower and deformed cartridge had reached the chamber.

  Immediate action drill. Johnson released the magazine, pulled the charging handle twice, and scooped up the reload. Belatedly he remembered to roll the rifle on its right side and repeated the drill again. Small metal particles were ejected downward.

  Johnson’s trembling hands reseated the new magazine and he chambered the first round. Firing now was heavy and close. Rock fragments and clods of earth spattered his face. Rolling away from the impacts, Johnson was vaguely aware that he had wet his trousers.

  “Kelly” leapt to his feet and began shouting frantically at the assailants. One paused, uncertain of the Urdu speaker’s intent. The other continued firing from twenty yards. Johnson put his sights squarely in the shooter’s middle and pulled the trigger two, three, four times.

  Kelly screamed and went down. More gunfire split the dark.

  * * *

  Johnson shifted his aim to the remaining threat. The man was getting close — terror close. Firing from an under-arm assault position, the gunman hosed a long, scything burst at the prone American. Johnson felt the sonic pain as 7.62 rounds barked past his head. He wanted full auto — now — but there was no time. He raised his muzzle toward th
e assailant’s middle and began mashing the trigger. He kept firing until the man dropped. The conventional wisdom came to him: Shoot until the threat goes away. He fired some more.

  When he came up for air, Johnson looked at Kelly, who was trembling visibly. He’s in shock. Gotta get help. The legionnaire rose to his knees and scanned the darkening landscape. He saw three men jogging toward him, perhaps seventy meters out. They were armed, rifles at high port.

  Johnson went prone again, wondering how many rounds he had left, and asking the most important question of his life: Are they friendly or hostile?

  22

  QUETTA AIRBASE

  “Say again?” Leopole held the phone tighter, hardly daring to believe what he heard. After a pause he exclaimed, “My god!”

  Mohammed caught the excitement in the team leader’s voice as Leopole hung up with a fervent “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.” His eyes were wide, fixed on his associate. “Johnson’s alive!”

  Mohammed shook his head as if clearing a fog from his brain. “Jeremy Johnson? He’s been missing for three days!”

  Leopole was on his feet, grinning hugely. “Damn straight it’s J. J.! Who else?” He clapped the reserved Muslim on one shoulder.

  “Tell me!”

  Leopole began pacing, uncharacteristically excited. “Buster Hardesty didn’t have the full story, but we can send one of our helos for him. J. J. should arrive later today.”

  “Frank, tell me!”

  “Oh, sorry, Omar.” After so many losses, Leopole felt part of the emotional burden drain away. “C’mon, let’s tell the others.”

  Minutes later, Leopole convened an impromptu meeting in the hangar. About half of the operators were present.

  Breezy leaned toward Bosco. “Frank’s smiling like the fucking cat that ate the fucking canary. What’s up?”

  Bosco hunched his shoulders. “DamnifIknow, dude.”

  Leopole stood at the front of the room. “Listen up, people!” The chatter and speculation instantly died away. “I just had some good news from General Hardesty in Islamabad.” He paused for effect, then grinned again. “J. J. Johnson is alive! Marsh is flying him here this afternoon.”

  The room erupted in shouts, cheers, and male barks. Bosco and Breezy exchanged multiple high fives. Padgett-Smith, standing alone at the back, raised both hands to her mouth. Her violet eyes misted over.

  Questions snapped toward Leopole, who had to wave down the increasing din.

  “Alright, alright! Settle down!” When silence returned, he began the tale. “General Hardesty spoke to Johnson via land line, so all I know is what he told me. Briefly, J. J. was held and tortured in a remote area near Chaman. Somehow — I don’t know how yet — he killed a guard and escaped.” At that word, the calm evaporated again. Ooh-rah shouts and feral sounds erupted from young male throats.

  Leopole allowed himself a grin at the sentiment. “After that, Johnson made his way overland to the border, which was closer than the next Pakistan town. The terrorists were waiting for him near Spin Buldak and it turned into a running gun battle. But he made it to the border station and was able to call the embassy.”

  Jeffrey Malten stood up. “Colonel, what’s J. J.’s condition?”

  “Well, he’s strong enough to climb hills and run some distance. Buster… General Hardesty… said he’d been badly whipped and will need a hospital. But J. J. wanted to come here before anything else. And we need to debrief him.”

  More questioners waved for attention but Leopole decided enough was enough. Besides, he intended to treat himself to some discretely stashed Tennessee sippin’ whiskey.

  QUETTA AIRBASE

  “There he is!” Jeff Malten’s exclamation stated the obvious to the SSI crowd.

  Jeremy Johnson appeared in the door of the Hip as Eddie Marsh shut down the engines. Wearing a borrowed flight suit, Johnson accepted help from the crew chief and descended to the tarmac. Stooped over, he walked carefully beyond the rotor diameter to a raucous reception.

  As the troops crowded around him, Johnson raised his hands. “Hi guys. Don’t touch my back. It’s a mess.”

  Taking his directions literally, some of the operators scooped up the returnee and carried him shoulder high to the hangar. The abrasions on his legs were rubbed painfully, but Jeremy Johnson, late of the Foreign Legion, did not care.

  * * *

  Once in the office, Malten and Padgett-Smith convinced Johnson to allow them to see his wounds. As he peeled off his flight suit and shirt, the giddy mood changed instantly. It seemed that the ambient temperature dropped fifteen degrees.

  “Oh, Jeremy,” CPS muttered.

  “Ah, shit, man.” Malten’s tone matched hers.

  Johnson winced, then said, “I sorta got used to it. The back of my legs and… butt… also got worked over.”

  The salve previously applied to the long, deep welts clung to the thin shirt. Malten exchanged glances with Padgett-Smith. “It’s best not to use salves on lacerations,” the medic said. “You can, like, use Neosporin but that’s usually for developed infections.”

  Padgett-Smith offered, “Some soap and warm water is best to start. Maybe some Keflex for later, if it’s available. It’s a good antibiotic.”

  As Malten worked on him, Johnson turned his focus to Leopole and Mohammed.

  “Colonel, you need to know. I told them everything. I mean, not everything I knew, but everything they asked.” His voice turned to a croak. “I… I couldn’t take any more.”

  “My god, J. J. Nobody could stand that. Not half of it.”

  Padgett-Smith sought to alleviate some of Johnson’s grief. “Jeremy. You need hospital treatment. No wonder…”

  He interrupted her. “The head guy put a knife to my eyes and said he’d blind me if I didn’t talk. I believed him, Colonel. I…” He began to sob.

  Padgett-Smith wanted to hug the young American. But she merely placed a hand on his good shoulder.

  Mohammed touched Johnson’s knee. “Jeremy, believe me. Nobody thinks ill of you. Nobody. We’re just glad to have you back.”

  Johnson inhaled deeply, rubbing his watery eyes with one hand. “I know, sir. I know…”

  Mohammed continued, “Do you feel like talking? We can debrief you later if you like.”

  A decisive shake of the head. “No, Doctor. I want to get it out. All of it. Go ahead.”

  “This head man, who was he?”

  “I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me his name. He asked questions, not answered them. But he spoke good English.”

  Leopole asked, “What did he look like?”

  “Oh, mid to late forties. I think he was kind of tall, though he sat most of the time. Long, thin face with a full beard.”

  “We’ll have some mug shots for you a bit later.” He stopped, then asked in as sympathetic a voice as possible, “J. J., what did they want to know?”

  “They already knew about SSI, and they thought we’re involved in chemical or biological work. But…”

  “Yes?”

  Johnson turned his head toward CPS. “They wanted to know about Dr. Padgett-Smith.”

  She sucked in her breath. A hand went to her throat. “Oh my god. How did they know my name?”

  “They didn’t say, ma’am. But when I tried to stall, they whipped me even harder. Then the head guy grabbed my hair and said he’d cut my eyes out. So I told him what I knew.”

  Mohammed sat beside Johnson, sensing the younger man’s self-imposed guilt. “Jeremy, this man. You said he spoke good English.”

  “Yeah. He’s fluent.”

  “Did he speak with an accent?”

  “Sure, he’s Pakistani far as I know.”

  “No, I mean, did he have a foreign accent? Something other than Pakistani.” Johnson stared at the floor, trying to conjure the tonal nuances. He raised his head. “He has sort of a British accent.”

  Leopole looked at Mohammed. “What do you think, Doctor?”

  “Just a moment. I’ll be righ
t back.”

  As Mohammed left the room, Malten continued working on Johnson. “J. J., can you stand up? I’ll see what I can do for your… lower back.”

  Padgett-Smith took the hint. “I’ll see if I can help Omar.”

  She caught him returning from the room that served as administrative office. “Omar, do you think that…”

  “Great minds, Doctor. We’ll find out.”

  When Malten finished his medical chores, Mohammed laid a file binder on Leopole’s desk. “Jeremy, this is from Major Khan. It includes photos of some known and suspected al Qaeda operatives and others of interest to us. Do you recognize any of them?”

  Johnson flipped the pages, studying each face in turn. He paused at the eighth one. “This could be one of the bastards that whipped me. Kinda hard to say, though.”

  As Mohammed made a note of the suspect’s name, Johnson continued looking, moving faster. Near the end of the file he came to an abrupt stop. He felt his pulse spike.

  “I think that’s him.”

  “The head guy?” Leopole asked.

  Johnson looked again. “Yes, sir. He’s older, and he’s got more of a beard, but I’d bet that’s him.”

  “How certain are you, J. J.?”

  “Eighty-nine percent, sir.”

  Leopole chuckled. “Well, that beats house odds anywhere I’ve ever been.” He turned to Mohammed. “Good work, Omar.”

  Johnson turned the file to read the caption. “Saeed Sharif, DVM.”

  BALUCHISTAN PROVINCE

  Kassim brought a gift. In fact, two gifts in one package.

  “Doctor, I would have a word.”

  Ali set down the veterinary kit he was assembling for his day trip. “Surely.” He gestured to a chair.

  Kassim did not bother to sit. “One of my men has approached me with an offer. His youngest son and a cousin both wish to join us. He says they are committed in the highest order.”

  Ali blinked. “What does that mean?”

  “One of the boys is sickly. He does not seem likely to outlive his father. Because of his faith, he believes he should offer himself to the jihad.”