Pandora's Legion s-1

by Harold Coyle

  “Uh, you mean Dr. Padgett-Smith, the prominent immunologist.”

  “Yeah, the Brit babe. Then on to Athens and Islamabad via Oman. Too bad we can’t overfly Iran. It’d cut half the time off our last leg.”

  “Well, we might ask permission but the admiral thinks we…”

  “I know. And I don’t disagree. Now, the 757 has a three-thousand-mile range. We could cut out most of the fuel stops. With the Jurassic Jet we’re limited to two thousand miles nautical with any reserve.”

  Leopole laughed at the moniker. The Boeing 727–200 was still popular with some companies because it was relatively inexpensive, and SSI’s had long since been amortized. “Take it up with the board of directors.”

  “Maybe I should. I mean, we might consider a lease-to-buy arrangement.”

  “Well, go ahead and work it up. Hell, I’ll even support the idea. But remember, Terry, sometimes security outweighs the finances. If we want to lease a jet, and provide our own crew, and decline to say where we’re going, the owners are going to get nervous.” He shrugged. “I can’t blame ‘em.”

  Keegan laid down his old-fashioned Jeppesen E6B flight computer with its rotating dial and printed grid. There were easier ways to do the navigation but he enjoyed the way he’d been taught. “We’re still splitting up the teams?”

  “Affirmative. You’ll take Red and White while the leased Falcon takes Blue and another flight crew. Everybody meets in Islamabad in three days.”

  “It might be tight with fourteen bubbas and some gear in a Falcon 200 but they should be okay since I’m packing most of the equipment. I already checked with maintenance. Our bird is good to go.”

  Leopole nodded. “Okay. Uh, how about the choppers?”

  “I asked Dave about getting a Hip checkout but we’re running out of time. I wish we had another helo pilot, too. That Guatemalan job took Dave and Morrie and we can’t get them back soon enough. The new guy, Eddie Marsh, is fine but there’s no backup. We’ll have to rely on the Pakis to some extent.”

  “Concur. But I endorsed your memo to Pat Finch for two more rotorheads on the staff. He hasn’t got back to me officially but I think that Personnel will recommend approval to the board.”

  Keegan grinned self-consciously. “Yeah, that’s what Sallie said. I told her it might help if they recommend dual-rated guys. Uh; you know… like me. Fixed wing and helos. Bean counters like getting more bang for their buck.”

  Leopole saw an opportunity. “Hey, Sallie made quite an impression on Dave Main.”

  The pilot smiled broadly. “Sallie makes quite an impression on everybody.”

  Leopole eyed his counterpart. He suspected that Ms. Kline and Mr. Keegan might have socialized at one point. If so, they were an odd couple: she was a spiritualist and he an agnostic. But as Mike Derringer always said, it takes all kinds to fill a battleship.

  OUTSIDE KARACHI

  Ali reached his rendezvous almost two hours late. Nobody objected.

  The doctor stepped out of the VW van, leaving his passenger inside. Ali was greeted by his reception committee, headed by a Syrian expatriate named Kassim. “My brother, peace be with you.”

  “And unto you,” Ali replied. He held few men in absolute trust, but Kassim was among them. If nothing else, the man’s loss of a foot to a Soviet mine had earned him trust on earth and a seat in Paradise.

  Kassim gestured behind him. “I have two good men, mujahadin who have proven their worth many times. We shall escort the woman to the airport and one of them will be her traveling companion.”

  “The papers are prepared, then?”

  Kassim nodded gravely. “They are genuine. We have certain… friends. They travel routinely to Amman and then will enter the Zionist zone.”

  Ali’s teeth showed as he smiled in the dark. “All is proceeding as planned, then. The first, ah, package, departed Islamabad a few days ago. When the westerners and their Jewish masters look into this case, they will have an even wider area to cover.”

  Kassim glanced at the van again; the woman’s dark shape blended into the night. “Does she truly understand what awaits her?”

  Ali nodded vigorously. “It is one thing to pull a pin or push a plunger and vanish in an instant. Before the warrior knows it, he awakens in Paradise. But this…” he nodded toward the young woman in the van. “This method requires vastly more courage and devotion.”

  Kassim’s companion joined them, a carpenter known as Farrukh Awan. Ali had noticed that they spent more time together of late.

  Looking at the woman, Kassim said, “Perhaps she will become a vestal virgin. She shames us all.” Ali suspected that he offered the sentiment for Awan’s benefit. The young man had potential.

  Ali placed a bony hand on his colleague’s arm. “She was going to die anyway, you know. And I would not save her if I could — she is far too valuable this way. Just remember, we cannot all be messengers, my friend. Some of us must prepare the message. But God will know his servants, and all shall receive his blessing.”

  Before handing over the woman to Kassim’s team, Ali beckoned to her. She stepped from the van, moving slowly and with apparent difficulty. When she approached him he raised a hand in benediction. Obviously quoting from memory, he intoned,

  “Pledge. O Sister, the following against the unbelievers:

  “Covenant, O Sister… to make their women widows and their children orphans.

  “Covenant, O Sister… to make them desire death and hate appointments and prestige.

  “Covenant, O Sister… to slaughter them like lambs and let the Nile, al-Asi, and Euphrates Rivers flow with their blood.

  “Covenant, O Sister… to be a pick of destruction for every godless and apostate regime.

  “Covenant, O Sister… to retaliate for you against every dog who touch you even with a bad word.”

  The female jihadist placed her right hand on her forehead, bowed toward her benefactor, and walked toward the other vehicle. The rough-hewn men of Kassim’s team stepped aside, watching her with reverential curiosity.

  Meanwhile, the Syrian leaned close to Ali, speaking softly. “When shall we expect the next, um, shipment?”

  “Most likely within a week. Such volunteers are rare, and I am adjusting the dosage to provide some overlap, but it is an inexact science. I would prefer to release all the carriers at once, but the most willing have terminal illnesses and their condition dictates the schedule. However, God willing, we shall have some to disperse among the Crusaders’ accomplices as well as in the West itself.”

  “Inshallah,” Kassim exclaimed in his native Arabic.

  “God willing,” Ali translated in Urdu. Whatever the language, the sentiment was exactly the same.

  SSI OFFICES

  Mike Derringer felt that he walked a fine line before the teams left. He wanted to bid his operators good-bye and good hunting, but he did not wish to overstate the matter. Therefore, he decided on last-minute handshakes at the airport. Meanwhile, he convened a final meeting with his braintrust.

  Inevitably, Derringer launched into one of his favorite subjects, ironically, one that usually left him depressed. He began, “The problem with the global war on terrorism — well, all right, there’s a lot more than one. But in comparison with conventional war, there’s no way to get a grip on the size of the problem. A few days ago the news reported that coalition troops killed or captured about seventy combatants in Iraq. A few days before that, twenty or so Taliban were killed in Afghanistan. Okay, let’s take those numbers at face value. What do they mean?”

  There was silence in the room.

  Derringer nodded his balding head. “Exactly.” Then he grinned. “You don’t know, and neither do I. Hell, I suspect that nobody knows— maybe not even our enemy. The point is, we have no idea what the loss of ninety or a hundred men represents. Is it a lot? A few? Does it matter at all?” He shrugged. “Nobody knows.”

  Leopole rubbed his high-and-tight haircut — an unconscious sign of irritability. “
Admiral, I see your point. But shouldn’t we be careful about a body count mentality?”

  “Yes, Frank, we should. And I would be well down the list of those who would ever endorse Robert Strange McNamara’s approach to anything: from Edsels to Vietnam. Hell, the bastard didn’t even believe in his own war. But at least in Vietnam we had a rough idea of the enemy’s strength. Now…” His voice trailed off.

  The retired marine picked up the retired admiral’s thought. “Yes, sir. Apparently EOB estimates still run from several hundred to maybe twenty thousand.” Establishing enemy order of battle had long been a sore point in the Pentagon; it still was.

  Derringer found his voice again. “Let’s look at it another way: reverse the numbers. If we or the coalition lost seventy men in Iraq and twenty more in Afghanistan in a couple of days, what would be the result?”

  “Some kind of policy change,” offered Wolfe. “We might even pull out.”

  “I tend to agree. But we know our force levels. One hundred dead represents, what? A fraction of a percent. In the overall scheme, it’s tiny. But in a country where the press lives by the motto ‘If it bleeds, it leads,’ that tiny number could have enormous effect.

  “Which is why this Marburg project is so important. In Clauswitzian terms, it’s elegant: economy of force writ large. Sacrifice a handful of suicidal hosts in exchange for tens of thousands of casualties, and not just on the battlefield. People dying in droves in Heartland, USA. But you know what? The human cost would not be the decisive factor. The knockout blow would be economic. Let a pandemic loose in this country, and maybe Western Europe as well, and the Western economy would tank. It might take decades to recover.”

  Knowing he had made his point, Derringer surveyed the audience. He was met with level gazes of planners and operators who already shared his tacit sentiment. But he spoke the words anyway. “Find them, gentlemen. Find them and kill them.”

  5

  OVER THE NORTH ATLANTIC

  “Tartan coming up.” Keegan’s first officer called the position as the 727 approached another waypoint. In a previous existence Earl “Hearty” Boharty had been an E-2 copilot, accustomed to landing Hawkeyes on carrier decks. Compared to that, driving a 727 across the Atlantic was almost a no-brainer. As another Tailhook orphan, he shared Keegan’s low opinion of both naval leadership and the Republican Party.

  Boharty fingered the next reporting point on the aeronautical chart, perhaps symbolically labled “Tartan.” Over water, the 727 was mostly out of VHF range so voice communication was accomplished via high frequency. Therefore, Keegan switched from Ocean Control to Shannon for clearance into British airspace.

  The pilot adjusted his headset and winked at Boharty. Few passengers ever knew — or cared — that Keegan had adopted the callsign of Helicopter Antisubmarine Squadron Two. “Shannon, Hunter One One. Position fifty-four north, ten west, flight level 370. Estimating Tartan at 1825. SelCal Bravo Alfa Sierra Whiskey. Static air minus forty-two, winds 256.”

  The controller’s Irish brogue came through the earphones. “Ah, roger Hunter. Squawk 2462.”

  Once Shannon had Hunter One One’s transponder code, the jet would be funneled into a Standard Aviation Route for its ultimate destination. The flight crew knew that with the Selective Calling code, the controller could contact them with an audible tone that otherwise acted as call screening in the sky.

  In the passenger cabin, Frank Leopole began rousing Red and White Teams. He reckoned that Blue was not far astern in the Falcon.

  SSI OFFICES

  After closing time, Derringer invited Catterly to the office. The sun was setting beyond the office buildings, casting long shadows across the concrete and glass edifices. Derringer poured their respective favorites and extended a glass to his golf partner. “Well, they’re off, Phil.” They clinked glasses.

  “God speed the work,” Catterly replied. “You can be proud of your people, Mike. All of them, not just the navy.”

  Derringer leaned back in his comfortable chair. He looked around, as if just noticing the sparse memorabilia on the walls and shelves. He took a long sip of his Wild Turkey, squinting slightly. Catterly knew the signs. Mike Derringer was about to become philosophical. “You know, Phil, there’s no such thing as the U.S. Navy. It’s actually a kingdom composed of four fiefdoms: surface, submarine, aviation, and special ops. Now, I’m a confirmed blackshoe: wouldn’t deny it. I spent my operational career in ASW and amphibious billets. But sometime in the late ‘80s, it dawned on me that there were two principalities in the kingdom: warfighters and all the others. If you look at what the Navy does in combat, you quickly see where the casualties occur. I checked up and found that in Korea and Vietnam, eighty percent of Navy KIAs were aircrew. The next biggest segment was the SEALs and riverine forces in Vietnam.

  “Now, logically you’d expect the warfighters to rise to the top. Not so. The Navy is the only branch that’s ever had five consecutive noncombatants as service chief, mostly submariners. In comparison, eight of the nine Air Force chiefs since Vietnam were combat veterans. Now, God love ‘em, I like bubbleheads as much as anybody. Hell, I spent years earning my pay by chasing them around the Pacific. But the plain fact is, they haven’t intentionally killed anybody since 1945, and over the decades far too many submariners developed an engineering emphasis. Managing a nuclear reactor has very little to do with fighting a war at sea, which is why the Brits make propulsion a separate career track. That makes enormous sense to me.

  “Well, the interest on the U.S. Navy’s engineering debt came due in 1991. CNO was a submariner who naturally did what bubbleheads do in a hostile situation: he dived deep and ran silent. Thousands of innocent aviators were persecuted — and I use the word advisedly — in the Tailhook witch hunt. The aviation community had just made a major contribution to winning Desert Storm, but the warfighters became political targets.”

  Derringer leaned forward, visibly gaining momentum as he warmed to his subject. His friend did not try to interject any comments.

  “You know what? That’s the best thing that could’ve happened to SSI. The avoidable failings of the administration in ‘91—’92 drove hundreds of good men out of the Navy and Marines. We could only take on so many, of course, but we got the cream of the crop, and not just pilots. Nearly all those guys are still with us. You know why? Because in this company, loyalty works both ways. Our people know that, and they’re devoted to SSI because my corporate policy emphasizes loyalty down.” He shook his head, smiling slightly. “What a deal. The services spend hundreds of thousands of dollars training smart, motivated people, then drive them out. So we turn around and charge top prices for the government to hire those same people with those same skills.”

  He spread his hands into an eloquent shrug. “My father said, ‘Son, always remember that we are ruled by ambitious hypocrites.’ He was right, of course. It just took me awhile to realize it.” He took another drink.

  Catterly had heard similar sentiments before, but seldom as vehemently expressed. “Well, Mike, sometimes I admit I don’t know how you career men stood it. I mean, no matter how high you went, you were never going to be your own boss.”

  Derringer slowly nodded, glancing outside at the yellow glow on the offices across the plaza. “Yeah, I know. For a long time I told myself that I couldn’t expect anything else. I spent years working under people who weren’t as smart or as ethical as I was. But I had faith in the system, you know? There were usually enough good men to make it work. Then…” His voice trailed off.

  “So now you don’t have that problem.”

  Derringer snorted, then grinned self-consciously. “Well…” Then he laughed. “You know what? Now I call nearly all my own shots, taking jobs that appeal to me or that help the company grow, and I’m still working for other people. The board of directors!”

  “Way of the world, my friend.”

  A silence wrapped itself around the room; it felt like an old, familiar blanket. Catterly finished his thre
e fingers of scotch and set down the glass. “You still up to a game Saturday morning?”

  Derringer looked up. “Ah, no. No thanks, Phil. I’m going to sit on this until…”

  Catterly wondered, Until what?

  “… until the guys come back.”

  6

  LONDON

  Carolyn Padgett-Smith made a conscious effort to appear relaxed before the all-male audience. She was long accustomed to stares from men, and years of rock climbing and mountaineering had inured her to patronizing males. But her professional life usually included older men. This bunch ranged from approximately her age to twelve years younger. Her female receptors sensed the atmosphere as equal parts admiration, curiosity, and resentment.

  Frank Leopole had introduced the immunologist to the three teams: thirty-six operators plus Keegan’s two flight crews. There had been polite conversation with coffee, tea, and crumpets before Padgett-Smith got down to business.

  She stood beside the screen, holding the slide carousel’s remote button in one hand. After a few seconds to let things quiet down, she began. She thought: As the Yanks say, “Here’s the windup… and the pitch!”

  “Gentlemen. I wish to acquaint you with your enemy. This short briefing does not deal with our mysterious Pakistani doctor, but rather with the weapon he deploys.” She clicked the button.

  On the screen was a photo of a filovirus enlarged seventeen thousand times. Its long, ropey tendrils ended in a curlicue that might have been a pronounced shepherd’s hook.

  “Ebola virus contains seven proteins, identifiably different and strung together lengthwise. Three proteins are partially decoded but the others remain unknown. It’s not clear what their function is. The virus attacks the immune system, somewhat like AIDS, but Ebola is far more aggressive. AIDS takes years to kill; Ebola takes days.