Pandora's Legion s-1

by Harold Coyle

  “Yes, they could,” Carmichael responded. “But they’ll want to get to the border as soon as possible.”

  Joe Wolf was tired and irritable, yet he wanted to get to work. “Well, that’s right. After all, the clock’s running.” He stood up.

  Derringer rapped his pen on the table. “Meeting adjourned. Until after dinner.”

  CHIAPAS, MEXICO

  It had been a long, tiring trip. Neither young man was accustomed to air travel — let alone from Pakistan to Morocco to Brazil and Ecuador. Dealing with strangers who could only converse in the infidel language was a constant strain, but at least the current handlers were members of The Faith; new friends who managed some Arabic in addition to English.

  The elder host called himself Aamir: a handsome trader in his thirties, He did not explain his connection to Doctor Ali’s organization, nor did Sial or Ahmed inquire. He did, however, express concern for Ahmed’s health. It was apparent that the youngster had not endured the charter flight very well from Quito to Chiapas. The dawn landing at an outlying dirt field had been exciting enough — the pilot nearly clipped the treetops before flaring and dropping the twin-engine turboprop onto the packed earth — but now the couriers were within range of their target. Officially, they ceased to exist in Quito, where their forged passports ended the paper trail.

  Now the travelers had only a vague idea of their location: somewhere in southeastern Mexico, with the Pacific to the south and Guatemala to the east.

  Aamir showed the travelers to their room in his house. They took in the whitewashed walls, rugs on the floor, and two inviting beds. “It is still twenty-five hundred kilometers to the border,” their host explained. “You will rest here tomorrow and fly by private plane to Sonora the next day. I shall explain the procedures after prayers and dinner.”

  DULLES AIRPORT

  “Hey, lookit. There’s the admiral.”

  Breezy’s observation turned heads in the leased hangar. Hidden from outside view, the operators were beginning to unload critical gear from the 727 when Derringer stepped into the access door with Omar Mohammed. Some of the door kickers had never met the firm’s founder and CEO, who warmly greeted Terry Keegan. Then Derringer motioned for the men to gather around him.

  Frank Leopole stepped inside the circle and approached his employer. “You didn’t need to pay us a visit, sir. We know how busy you are, but the guys sure appreciate it.”

  “Thank you, Frank. But I’m not here just to say welcome home.” He turned his head, searching the recesses of the building. “I don’t see any Charter people. Are we alone?”

  “Ah, yessir.” Leopole knew the admiral’s intent. SSI shared the hangar with Charter International Airways; otherwise the rent would be prohibitive. The firm’s initials were a perennial cause of mirth.

  “Good. What I have to say is close hold.”

  Steve Lee turned to his team. “Hey! Listen up!” A tentative silence fell upon the operators. A few looked around, and Lee read the signs. Thirty-six left; about twenty-eight returning healthy.

  Derringer began. “Guys, welcome back. It’s really good to see you again. I wish I could treat all of you to an extended vacation, especially after you did such a fine job. But the fact is: Pandora is not over.”

  The operators exchanged querulous glances. Some expressed concern; a few betrayed dismay.

  “This is close hold,” Derringer continued. “Even though you broke up the Marburg cell, the doctor sent two more suiciders our way. They left just hours before you took down the farmhouse.”

  Leopole waved down the rising voices. Derringer gestured to Mohammed. It was a calculated move: the training officer had bonded with the shooters over the previous weeks. Many of the men felt closer to the naturalized Iranian than to the retired admiral who wrote the checks.

  Mohammed stepped two paces forward. “Gentlemen, we’re asking you to go one more round. The intelligence is firm: our two suspects did get away and flew to South America. We are convinced that they will enter this country via Mexico.”

  Gunny Foyte grasped the implications; frequently he could read between Frank Leopole’s lines. “But our Latin American team is committed, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. We have discussed pulling Julio’s people back but even if we did, they would need days to reposition, get briefed, and learn the bio gear.” He motioned around the hangar. “Whereas each of you…”

  “Already knows about Marburg.”

  “Quite correct, Gunny.” Mohammed rarely used the familiar title, but this time he wanted to make a point: unit cohesion. “You… we… have worked together and we know each other’s moves, as you say. That is why SSI is asking you to extend your contract for as much as two more weeks.”

  Bosco raised a hand. “Excuse me, sir. I mean, does the same scale apply over here?”

  Omar Mohammed was fluent in colloquial American. He smiled to himself: Gotcha. He looked to Derringer.

  “Yes, Mr. Boscombe. Everyone who re-ups will work for the same bonus: foreign pay, combat pay, and the bonus for exceptional hazards. Full insurance coverage continues. That’s definite.”

  Leopole and Mohammed exchanged knowing glances. They knew that Mike Derringer would wrest the extra funds from the board of directors if he had to mortgage the Arlington building to do it. However, both felt it far more likely that the United States Government had already committed to the extra funds.

  Foyte looked at Leopole and winked.

  Bosco glanced at Breezy and grinned hugely. Both imagined themselves on a clothing-optional beach carpeted with Victoria’s Secret and SI models.

  Jeffrey Malten thought of a comfortable house with one woman: The Woman. Whomever and wherever she was. He said, “When do we need to decide, sir?”

  Derringer was ready for that. “Before you leave this hangar, son. We need a team in Arizona tomorrow.”

  Derringer turned his attention to Terry Keegan again. “I understand you’ve flown about fourteen hours in less than two days. How are you guys holding up?”

  “We’re okay, Admiral. Legally there’s no problem because we’re under Part 91 regs. As long as we’re corporate rather than commercial we can pretty much set our own hours.”

  “Would it help to hire another crew just as backup?”

  “Well, that could be a problem on short notice. Not many corporate guys are current on the Jurassic Jet these days. Maybe I can find some freighter dogs, though.”

  “Okay. Tell them we’ll pay top hourly rate and buy their return fare.”

  As Derringer walked away to consult with Leopole, Keegan turned to his copilot. “You know, Eddie, in all my time in the Navy, nobody ever asked if I felt okay to fly. I was expected to down myself, but nobody ever asked.”

  Marsh grinned. “Nice to know somebody cares, ain’t it?”

  34

  COCHISE COUNTY, ARIZONA

  Agent Runnells needed a pit stop.

  Based on fourteen years of Border Patrol experience, Robert Runnells knew that around 0100 hours, he would have to stop somewhere to relieve the pressure in his bladder. His wife and doctor both told him that he drank too much coffee — the nightly caffeine intake did more harm than good. Privately he was grateful for his swing shift assignment: he had worked graveyard before and that was a non-starter.

  “Ah, Katie, pull over, will you?”

  Agent Branch knew the drill by now. In the two weeks she had been partnered with the veteran, she had developed a grudging admiration for his professionalism, if not for his un-PC attitudes. She considered it a definite sign of progress when Bob Runnells had suggested that they alternate driving the Dodge SUV.

  Branch slowed and turned off the packed-dirt road. In deference to her training officer’s thin veneer of modesty, she turned off the lights but left the engine running. Runnells opened the right-hand door and exited, walking twelve paces rearward.

  Katie Branch rolled down her window and looked at the sky. One nice thing about USBP work: it allowed a
n agent to enjoy an uncluttered view of God’s handiwork. She smiled to herself. Burly, curmudgeonly Bob Runnells believed in a supreme being but fortunately he kept the evangelical rhetoric to a minimum.

  Agent Branch did not share his confidence in a higher power. Between them, the Baptist and the agnostic had worked out a tenuous truce. Tonight the stars were clear as diamonds on black velvet, twinkling at Kathryn Branch across thousands of light years.

  Sometimes there really did seem to be a Plan.

  * * *

  Sixty meters south of the parked SUV, three men watched with rapt attention. Their night vision equipment — Gen III — was adequate for their purpose. Fourth-generation NVGs afforded more clarity and detail, but the price also soared commensurately. Tracking La Migra was a professional necessity, but smuggling was a business and, like any firm, the one run by Pablo Ramirez tried to keep the overhead to a minimum.

  Lying atop a hummock, Ramirez scanned the area to either side of the white and green Dakota. After a few moments his partner whispered, Quantos?

  Ramirez held up two fingers. Dos.

  By tacit consent, they edged downward, reaching the bottom of the rise. Ramirez had seen one man relieving himself while the other remained in the vehicle. The leader signaled to his team: We wait. It should not be long.

  Getting across the border had been relatively easy. A few minutes’ work with pliers and wire had removed a section of cyclone fence nearly one meter wide. Previously prepared for that purpose, it had been replaced upon crossing to the American side. The egress route half a kilometer away was similarly ready. Even in daylight, one had to look closely to pick out the clipped segment.

  Ramirez settled down to wait. At twenty-nine he was a fifteen-year veteran of his trade; in that time he had learned the ultimate value of patience. It was his major advantage over the Norteamericanos. For all their wealth and vehicles and helicopters and surveillance gear, they lacked his sense of time, the most valuable commodity on earth. It was an asset to be accumulated, saved, and expended when profitable.

  Of course, it also helped to buy information now and then.

  Ramirez gave a tight-lipped grin in the shadow of the hummock. The Yanquis’ new intelligence structure, intended to produce greater efficiency, had yielded new vistas. Ramirez had predicted that with greater information sharing among federal and state agencies, more windows would open on the American government’s operations. Ramirez’s uncle, who taught the boy his trade, had always been an advocate of informed planning. Were he still living, Tio Guillermo would be astonished at the extent and the means of acquiring intelligence about one’s enemies.

  That was, after all, how Ramirez knew that this stretch of border would be lightly patrolled tonight. Two groups of emigrants led by expendable coyotes ensured that most of the Yanquis’ attention was focused on areas well east. It was just another part of the overhead.

  * * *

  Bob Runnells finished “wringing out the sock” and walked back to the SUV. He opened the door, illuminating the dome light, and Katie Branch could not resist a jibe. “Feeling better, sir? A couple pounds lighter?”

  The senior agent summoned up a loud, clear belch. “Why, yes. Thank you for asking. And how’s your itty-bitty bladder?”

  She responded with a dramatically sour expression. “Men!”

  “We’re disgusting, ain’t we?”

  “All I can say, sir, is that you’re lucky there’s no third sex. Sir.”

  While Runnells pondered the biological and physiological possibilities, Branch turned off the engine and slid out of her seat. “I feel like having a snack. What do you think? Sir?”

  Runnells checked his watch. “Well, it’s a little early for dinner, but I don’t see any harm. Whatcha got tonight?”

  “Honestly, Bob, I don’t want to play Trade the Lunchbox again. I brought what I like, and since I’m a vegetarian, you wouldn’t want any of my food anyway.”

  Female and vegetarian. What’n hell’s the BP comin’ to? “Well, I don’t know about that. Didn’t you bring some dessert? I have some of Betty’s oatmeal raisin cookies.”

  “No dessert for me, sir. I’m dieting. Gonna make a personal best in the physical fitness test next month.” She produced a bag of what Runnells was pleased to describe as trail mix and unscrewed a bottle of green tea. By mutual consent they walked aft and turned the rear door into a tailgate party.

  Runnells secretly admired Katie Branch’s athleticism. At twenty-five she was slim and fit, a far better physical specimen than he had ever been. The downside was, the girl couldn’t shoot to save her life— so to speak. She carried the standard-issue Beretta 96 because she had to, and twice had been sent to remedial marksmanship training. Runnells, a lifelong hunter, had shot on the USBP pistol team. More than once he had told the trainee, “I spent a lot of time and effort learning to shoot so I wouldn’t have to run.”

  Katie Branch could not envision herself shooting anybody: probably not even to save her own life. She had joined the Border Patrol for a variety of reasons, chiefly to bring some informed sympathy to the undocumented workers who were the agency’s reason for existence, and to enjoy the outdoor work environment.

  * * *

  Pablo Ramirez heard the Dodge’s engine shut down. The silence was entirely unwelcome.

  He bellied up the hummock again and turned on the Litton NVG. Both agents were standing at the rear of the vehicle, apparently eating. Occasionally he could hear their voices. One was higher pitched than the other — a woman?

  Ramirez checked the illuminated dial of his watch. He could wait a few minutes longer but if the unexpected SUV did not move on, his schedule would be jeopardized. The station wagon that would transport the two Muslims to wherever they were headed lay nearly two kilometers northwest. Ramirez knew that the driver would not overstay his appointed time, and that meant loss of the delivery fee: half the potential revenue.

  The two human forms glowed greenly in Ramirez’s scope. They were damnably unconcerned with the passage of time — the value of which increased with each passing minute. Bastards. They should be reported for slacking off.

  That would be something: a Mexican criminal reporting two American agents for idling away the night, impeding the righteous progress of the smuggling trade.

  Ramirez waited another minute, then returned to the base of the hummock. “Listen,” he whispered. “We cannot wait any longer. We will take a detour to the west about a hundred meters and pass behind the vehicle. Everyone crosses the road at the same time — understand?” He drew silent nods from his two immediate accomplices. They had worked with him for periods varying between months and years. All understood the rationale: by crossing together, total exposure time was reduced to the minimum. And though crossing in front of the SUV would largely block the Americans’ view of the road ahead, the seven men in Ramirez’s party would leave a noticeable cluster of footprints. Crossing behind the vehicle eliminated that danger.

  Ramirez dispatched Jorge to bring up the two “packages” with their escort. In minutes the group was ready to move, swinging southwesterly, keeping to the defiles and occasional hummocks.

  “I’ll take a little walk before we go,” Branch declared.

  “You too?” Runnells could not resist a jibe. “I thought you gal athletes never had to go potty. Muscle control or something.”

  “Where’d you hear that? Sir.”

  “Uh, must’ve been locker room talk in grade school.”

  Branch stuffed the remains of her dinner into the Ziploc bag and secured it in the truck. Then she walked into the darkness behind the SUV.

  Thirty meters out, she glimpsed — something. A shadow, a movement ghosting through the periphery of her vision. She froze in place. Her instinct was to call out: issue the usual challenge. Alto! But she could not be sure what it was — perhaps a coyote or javalina.

  She pulled the Maglite from her duty belt and shone the tight, powerful beam ahead of her. Two men were caught in
the white band, twenty meters away. One stopped briefly; the other sprinted out of view.

  It did not register in Kathryn Branch’s mind that both were armed.

  She found her voice. “Alto! Migra!”

  The second man reacted in a most peculiar fashion. Instead of fleeing or raising his hands, he dropped to the ground, facing Agent Branch. She noticed something long and black in his hands, and her brain finally defaulted to the recognition mode. Rifle!

  She realized her mortal peril. With her right hand holding the light, she could not draw her Beretta. She switched the light to her support hand, fumbled for the pistol and managed to draw the weapon from the thumb-break holster.

  It did not occur to her to move.

  Two loud reports shattered the desert air.

  The first round went wide to the left, its aim spoiled by the bright light. The next, more carefully directed, struck Branch in the solar plexus. She seldom wore her ballistic vest, but it would have done no good against a rifle. The 7.62 round from a stolen Mexican Army G3 did what it was meant to do. It delivered 2,300 foot-pounds to her 125-pound body.

  Because Branch was shot through and through, she did not absorb the full energy of the projectile. But the massive disparity was enough to drop her instantly. She lay on her left side, stunned and gasping for air. As she exsanguinated into the dirt, crumpled beneath a mesquite tree, she barely registered that she was dying.

  * * *

  When Bob Runnells heard the shots, he dropped his sandwich and called “Katie!” He found himself eight strides toward her direction when he realized that he should call for help. His Beretta had assumed its familiar position in his dominant hand; left wrapped around the right with the muzzle low. He paused momentarily, fighting a two-front war between Duty and Honor, and opted for Honor. He turned forty degrees left, running bent over, hoping to flank the shooter.

  He badly wanted his Remington 870 with six Hornady 12-gauge rounds, but field agents were prohibited personal weapons.