Pandora's Legion s-1

by Harold Coyle

  Cupping both hands to her mouth, she carefully called out. “Who… are… you?” The words rebounded off the rock wall.

  * * *

  Kassim turned to Koali. “What did he say?”

  The youngster shook his head. “I cannot tell.”

  “Well, reply to him. Tell him to come down.”

  Koali turned and shouted back. “Come to us. Quickly!”

  * * *

  Padgett-Smith heard the man’s tone better than his words. She looked to both sides, hoping for more familiar figures that did not appear. At least the people below spoke English. She proceeded slowly down the slope, keeping her Klimov slung around her neck; she would stay outside of easy shooting distance until she knew more about the armed men below.

  * * *

  Kassim was not pleased; the process was taking too long. He glanced at his men and noted more signs of nervousness. New recruits that they were, the youngest mujahadin realized their exposed position along the trail.

  Kassim gestured to Koali. “Take one man and go meet this infidel. Tell him you are looking for some missing Americans.”

  The former engineering student called to a partner and took a quick pace uphill. He stopped occasionally to wave in friendly fashion to the stranger, calling generic greetings.

  Padgett-Smith allowed the two men to get within eighty meters— she thought it one hundred. That’s close enough. She stopped beside a four-foot boulder that afforded good cover. “Who are you?” she shouted again.

  Koali heard the words more clearly this time. It was odd: the voice was almost feminine. He raised his hands to his mouth. “Pakistani Army. Searching for the Americans.”

  * * *

  CPS was taken aback. The response made sense — surely Lee or Khan would have called for help. But the apparent rescuers were dressed like tribesmen. Why no uniforms? And they mostly carried Kalashnikovs instead of the Heckler-Kochs she had seen with Paki troops.

  She backpedaled uphill, working behind the boulder while un-slinging her rifle and extending the folding stock. “One of you. Come closer!”

  Koali spoke to his friend, who dropped into a shallow defile. Keeping his own weapon pointed low, the erstwhile engineer walked within fifty meters of the stranger.

  “That’s far enough!” she shouted. Now he was certain. She.

  The young Pakistani thought fast. “Please come. It is dangerous here.”

  “Who… are… you… looking… for?”

  “Americans. Missing from last night.”

  “Who… are… their… leaders?”

  Koali heard the question plainly. He shook his head, playing for time. “I do not understand.”

  She knew this game could last indefinitely. If they were hostile, it would give the others time to get behind her. She called, “Drop your weapon and come closer.”

  Koali looked back toward Kassim, who stood with obviously growing impatience. The young man laid down his AK and walked forward.

  At thirty meters he could see her face. Quite an attractive face.

  “Stop there/’ she said.

  He raised his hands. “Lady please come. No time.”

  “If you’re from the army, why don’t you wear uniforms?”

  Koali was quick on his feet. “We are special unit. No uniforms.”

  That seemed barely plausible. But if the searchers were looking for SSI people, some names would be known. “Who leads the Americans?”

  “I do not know. My leader knows.”

  “Then who is the Pakistani officer with them?”

  Koali shook his head. “I do not know. But please. Come.” He gestured in a friendly manner.

  Keep him talking. “Then go to your leader. Come back with the name of the American or Pakistani officer.”

  With little option, Koali bowed politely, turned and walked downhill, retrieving his AK-47 along the way. His partner remained in place.

  “What is happening?” Kassim asked.

  “She wants to know the name of…”

  “She?”

  “Yes, yes. A woman.”

  “English?” Kassim demanded.

  Koali thought for a moment. “Probably.”

  Kassim looked uphill nearly 150 meters where the lone figure stood behind the rock. “Allah be praised. The doctor will have his wish.”

  “She does not believe we are with the army. She wants me to tell the name of the infidel leaders we seek.”

  The Syrian paid tacit tribute to the British woman’s caution. This was no trusting female to be cajoled or bullied. “Return to her. Say that headquarters knows the names but our radio is in a truck nearby. Say that al Qaeda fighters are in the area. We will escort her to safety or we must leave.”

  As Koali turned to go, he heard Kassim giving orders to three men. “Keep low but work uphill behind that boulder. The doctor wants her alive.”

  * * *

  Come on, come on, you twit. Padgett-Smith mentally urged the young Pakistani to walk faster. She realized the incongruity: the longer she stalled the men below, the more time for Lee and Khan to find her. But the tension grated on her.

  At length the Pakistani was back in talking distance, carrying his AK muzzle low. “Lady, my leader he does not have names. We can call on radio in truck.” He gestured vaguely to the east. “We call when you come down.”

  A thought pushed its way to the front of her mind. “Who is your leader?”

  The sharp, unexpected question caught Koali off guard. “What?”

  “I said… who is your leader?”

  Koali was nonplussed. He decided to take the path of least resistance. “He is Kassim.”

  “What rank?”

  “Rank?”

  “Yes, rank, you clot! Sergeant, lieutenant? What rank in the army?”

  “Oh, he is… captain.”

  “Captain Kassim.”

  “Yes, yes. Please, lady. Come.”

  Nor bloody likely. Padgett-Smith flicked her safety to semi-auto. “Thank you for your offer. I believe I will stay here.”

  Koali had enough of the foreign woman’s damnable games. He took two steps closer. “You come! You must come! Danger here!”

  She kept her voice clear and firm. “No. I will stay.”

  The gunman felt his hackles rising. “Woman! Enough! You must come!” He started uphill.

  Padgett-Smith raised the Klimov’s muzzle and placed the front sight on the man’s chest. “Go away.”

  Koali had been shot at but never threatened by a female, armed or otherwise. His eyes went saucer-wide as the 5 .45mm bore seemed to expand to 12-gauge diameter. Reflexively, he raised his own AK.

  His guardian, still crouched in the depression fifty meters downslope, saw the apparently deadly pantomime. He responded as a fighting comrade would.

  The first 7.62 round snapped past Padgett-Smith’s head, eight inches left. Frightened and angry, her own reflexes kicked in. She pressed her trigger twice.

  * * *

  Lee’s team heard the first three shots. After that, the hillside a few hundred meters ahead of them erupted with gunfire.

  The SSI men deployed into a skirmish line and advanced as fast as the contradictory concerns of urgency and prudence dictated.

  * * *

  For the first time, Carolyn Padgett-Smith had made a life or death decision on behalf of herself. She briefly registered the fact that she felt coolly detached after shooting the young man with whom she had conversed. Then she was concerned with his partner, firing at her position from fifty meters downslope. The incoming fire from the group on the trail did not immediately bother her; it was rapid and ill directed.

  Kassim hobbled on his prosthesis, trying to control his men’s fire. The distance was greater than normal and about thirty degrees uphill. He hoped that at least it would pin the she-devil to her boulder, allowing his flankers to gain position. He sent two more men wide to the right. He knew that the two teams might shoot one another, but it was worthwhile if it delivered the
female scientist to Dr. Ali.

  Though relatively safe from frontal fire, CPS realized that she was vulnerable on both sides. I’ll go back uphill, they can shoot at me in the open. But if I stay here they’ll surround me. She leaned out the left side of the rock and fired two rounds at the nearest gunman. Then, keeping the rock between herself and the shooters, she scampered uphill toward the next defensible position.

  Dodging left and right, hearing rounds cracking past her and ricocheting off rocks, Padgett-Smith flopped into a depression sixty meters above her previous site. She tried to control her breathing, knowing she was doing a poor job. Fear aggravated the physical effort of running uphill, spoiling her concentration. She knew that the ammunition remaining in her rifle was as important as the blood in her veins: the curved magazine was growing lighter as she fired cautionary shots at vague figures even as her lungs experienced oxygen debt. She breathed in mouths full of mountain air, willing her heart to settle down.

  A round snap-cracked from the right front, farther downslope. She looked over the top of her berm, trying to spot the shooter. He was well hidden. Her focus swung back to her previous boulder, where she thought that the English speaker’s partner might appear. So far he remained out of sight.

  I’m so… winded. But can’t stay here. Must reach my night position. Last stand there. With an athlete’s ego, she willed herself onto her feet and moved again.

  * * *

  Kassim was almost livid. The men he had sent uphill to flank the English woman were acting like females themselves. Whenever she fired at them, the fighters went to earth. The uphill chase was taking far too long. He had to move two men to his rear to watch for the Americans who must have heard the shooting by now.

  * * *

  Padgett-Smith reached her goal with seventeen rounds to spare. Sliding beneath the rocky outcropping, she almost felt at home. Though she had never heard the term, she had chosen the military crest of the hill — the last defensible position before the physical peak. The overhang that had helped keep the wind away meant that the pursuers could not shoot at her from behind. They would have to approach from the front or sides, where she had a decent view from sixty to ninety meters.

  Kassim’s two flanking teams converged on the outcrop from left and right. They had no way of coordinating their movements but realized that while one group fired at the woman’s position, the other could advance.

  It worked — up to a point. The teenager rushing forward from her left was as healthy as he was young, and he dashed straight uphill toward a protected position.

  Padgett-Smith swung on him, got three seconds’ tracking time, and pressed the trigger. The boy took an A-zone hit below the notch of the sternum and went down hard, his spine broken. For an instant he raised his head and the enemies locked eyes. From thirty-five meters the British doctor saw the Pakistani youngster mouthing unheard words. Then he went limp.

  The boy’s death affected Kassim’s flankers in different ways. Of the four remaining, three were enraged and one grief stricken. The trio kept firing at the infidel’s position but she had proven herself: they had to respect the threat. The fourth sobbed aloud, repeatedly calling his brother’s name.

  By alternating rushes, the three effective fighters tried to gain a favorable angle on the flanks. Each time one of them appeared, the English woman fired single shots, halting the advance or forcing a move to cover.

  During a lull, CPS withdrew the rifle’s magazine. She saw three rounds, with one in the chamber.

  Plus the salvation round in the pistol. Then she had a dreadful thought: What if it’s a dud?

  No time to speculate. The mujahadin were moving again. She focused on her front sight as Tony had drummed into her so long, long ago at Credenhill. She decided to ignore the bullet impacts on the surrounding rocks. Two men were rushing her at once. She put her sight on the nearest one and fired twice. He ducked or dropped; she couldn’t tell. She swung on the other. He was so close. She fired once, twice, and felt the bolt lock back.

  Carolyn Padgett-Smith dropped the AKS and grabbed her Browning, knowing what she needed to do.

  What if it’s a dud?

  * * *

  A sonic wave swept uphill from the trail: a surging, roiling volume of gunfire.

  Lee’s team arrived within range of the al Qaeda men with mixed assets: good position, almost equal numbers, plenty of ammo, and short of breath.

  Kassim’s rear guard had seen them coming, fired several hasty shots, and dashed back to the trail. The Syrian was turning his remaining force to confront the newcomers when aimed 7.62 fire began reducing his numbers. Two men dropped almost immediately. Another scrambled down the trail; had there been time Kassim would have shot him in the back.

  With a hostile force of unknown size behind him, Kassim recognized a no-win setup. He organized a fighting withdrawal, leapfrogging his remaining men into the rocks and boulders on the near side of the trail with a steep dropoff. He cast a longing glance uphill where the English woman had held out so long. May Satan take her. His men up there would have to fend for themselves. Then he was gone.

  * * *

  Bosco and Breezy had plopped into hasty prone positions as soon as they had targets. Like everyone else, they were out of breath but at sixty to eighty meters, they made good use of the steady position. It was over in seconds. Hendricks, the least fit of the military athletes, felt jilted: trailing by forty meters, he never got a shot.

  Khan took Blake, pursuing the mujahadin to the rim of the trail. Once the fighters were over the lip, they could slide and roll downhill for a few hundred meters. There was no point pursuing.

  Lee had his binoculars out, scanning the uphill slope. “I don’t see any… wait!” He pointed to a prominent boulder about eighty meters away. “Looks like a body there. You, you, you — check it out. Search to the top if you have to.”

  Bosco, Breezy, and O’Neil eagerly complied. They began the climb, calling for Carolyn Padgett-Smith.

  * * *

  Bosco was back twenty minutes later, carrying an AKS. He handed it to Lee. “Sir, this was in the den near the crest. Lots of brass and two muj. One dead, one crippled. Breezy’s working on him. No sign of her.”

  Sick at heart, Lee accepted the Klimov, noting that the magazine was empty. She didn’t want to carry a reload. He nodded glumly, then turned to Khan. “Major, I suggest that we search the reverse slope. She might have gone downhill from the top.”

  Khan tweaked his mustache. “Of course, we should look. But we may still be outnumbered, and our force is divided. I suggest that we send a runner to bring the others here in case the terrorists regroup. The med-evac helicopter should have picked up our casualties by now.”

  Lee considered his colleague’s argument and decided it made sense. “Very well. Can you contact Quetta and request one or both of our Hips?”

  “Surely, Major. It shall be done.”

  Lee sat on a flat boulder and gathered his thoughts. He was still fighting the queasiness in his gut — the gnawing thought that he may have lost Dr. Carolyn Padgett-Smith. Damn freaking stupid thing to do — bring a civilian female out here. What in hell was Frank thinking? He caught himself. Hell, what was I thinking?

  He pulled his canteen and took a long gulp of water. Whatever happened, he was going to taste something stronger back at base.

  27

  BALUCHISTAN PROVINCE

  Three SSI operators spent nearly an hour combing the crest of the hill, easing their way down the far slope. They called frequently for Padgett-Smith, but got no response.

  By the time Terry Keegan arrived in Helo One, the searchers were looking on the reverse slope. In order to coordinate the rescue effort, he landed briefly on the crest and the crew chief handed out two radios with frequencies compatible with the Hip’s gear. Then Keegan pulled pitch, lifted off, and pedal-turned down the face of the slope.

  Lee, belatedly arriving at the crest, keyed his mike. “One, this is Lee. Copy?”


  “Copy, Major.”

  “Say status Helo Two. Over.”

  Keegan’s voice crackled in the handset. “En route in three-zero… make that two-zero mikes. Hydraulic problem. Over.”

  “Ah, roger that. Status of our casualties?”

  “Dustoff was inbound when we took off, sir. Over.”

  Lee double-clicked to end the discussion. He turned to Khan.

  “The med-evac flight was about to land when Keegan left Quetta. Hip Two should be here in twenty minutes or so.”

  * * *

  Keegan slowed to forty knots and surveyed the terrain before him. He assumed that Dr. Padgett-Smith would take the easiest route downhill — assuming she went that way — and planned his search pattern accordingly. His Pakistani copilot used a colored pen to trace the Hip’s flight path, avoiding duplicate effort when Marsh arrived.

  Ten minutes later the noncommissioned crew chief pointed to the right and called over the intercom. “Sir, what is that?”

  Keegan turned to the heading and saw what he saw. Closing to one hundred meters, he gave a huge grin behind his lip mike. “Lee, this is Hip One. Over.”

  “Ah, copy.”

  “Call in your dudes, Major. I’m returning with Charlie Poppa Sierra.”

  * * *

  Padgett-Smith got out of the helo and walked briskly to the edge of the crest. She pulled her Browning, pointed it downhill, and pressed the trigger. The Hi-Power recoiled and the slide locked back. She holstered the empty pistol and looked at Steve Lee. There were tears on her dirty cheeks and a grim smile on her lips. “I just had to know…”

  Lee wrapped his arms around her and felt her start to tremble. “I know, Carolyn. I know.”

  He hadn’t a clue.

  SSI OFFICES

  Sandy Carmichael read the email first. She emitted an Alabama shriek and dashed out of her office, bound for the board room.

  “They found her! Padgett-Smith is alive!”

  Derringer, Wolf, and some others turned in their padded chairs. Carmichael logged the different responses. Smiling broadly, the admiral pounded his right fist into his left palm. Joe Wolf crossed himself and briefly bowed his head. Everyone else hollered and congratulated one another.