Pandora's Legion s-1

by Harold Coyle

  With a temporary advantage, the lawman in Joseph Matthew Wolf shouted the oft-used phrase. “Freeze! FBI!”

  Marcus swiveled his head, saw the man behind the partition again, and realized a no-win situation. Fully exposed in the hallway, he ignored the challenge, lowered his head, and charged eight steps to the cover of the doorsill.

  He made it. For whatever reason, the man with the pistol did not try to shoot him in the back again.

  The man with the shotgun centered the bead sight on Marcus’s nose and, from eighteen feet away, mashed both triggers. One chamber emitted a soft click. The other detonated the primer on an ounce and a quarter of number 7½ birdshot.

  * * *

  When Ahmed heard more shooting in the rooms behind him, he suspected the worst. With a parting glance at the double doors in the lobby, he went through the security door that Hakeem had kept open with a chair. The Saudi-American sprinted down the first corridor to the left, noting spent brass on the floor, and began hunting. He glimpsed movement farther down the hall: a man and a woman, a green uniform. He spun on the targets and triggered a quick burst from his AK. The rounds impacted a conference room, sending shards of glass tingling to the floor.

  Behind the thin wall, Dave Main leapt on Sandy Carmichael. He covered her body with his own, taking some of the glass pieces on his back. Beneath him, his erstwhile classmate struggled against his weight. “Lemme up, goddammit!”

  “Sandy, stay down!” Main raised his head, only then noticing her compact .45 Kimber. He reached for the pistol. “Gimme the gun! Gimme the gun!”

  Lieutenant Colonel Sandra Carmichael, U.S. Army (retired), was in no mood to negotiate. She tightened her grip on the weapon and tried to elbow Colonel Main off her. Another burst of automatic fire stuttered across the wall, eighteen inches over their heads. The shooter knew they would be on the floor.

  “Sandy, he’s coming!”

  “Get off me then!”

  The shooter had to be close. Main did the only thing he could. He rolled off Carmichael’s slender frame, low-crawled six feet and risked a peek over the ledge.

  Ahmed saw the head pop up to his left front. He swung the muzzle and fired again. The Kalashnikov’s bark rang painfully off the walls, though he had inserted soft earplugs. Four rounds punched through the imitation wood paneling to Main’s left as he dived for cover again. Sumbitch missed from fifteen feet!

  But now there was nowhere to go.

  Sandy Carmichael saw Main duck the next burst and knew she had to shoot. She inhaled deeply, got both hands around the Kimber, and popped up, looking for her sights.

  She found them. Front sight’s elevated, but he’s close. She pressed the trigger twice. Got ‘im!

  The .45-caliber rounds left the three-inch barrel at 800 fps. Both struck within four inches of one another. The AK gunner reeled visibly from the impact but kept his feet.

  Sandy was stunned. She knew where the rounds went: mid torso. She could not know that Ahmed wore a typical AK chest pack with extra magazines beneath his windbreaker. They were almost as good as Kevlar.

  Failure drill! The Kimber’s sights came up again, seeking a place above the neck line. The man was moving slightly, making a head shot more difficult. She pressed the trigger, felt the compact pistol recoil, and awaited results. The AK barked again. Sandy felt something smack her right arm. She ignored it. She fired again. No good; low left. She fired again.

  Then she noticed her slide had locked back. My god, I’m empty!

  David Main could stand it no longer. He saw Sandy’s slide locked open, leaving only one choice. Hunching low, he swung right, cleared the cubicle, and charged.

  The green shape entered Sandy’s vision as she prepared to fire her seventh round. Ahmed, aware of the closer threat, stepped back, giving himself time to engage the army officer. The muzzle brake came up and around. The 7.62mm bore looked huge. Main leapt from his feet, hands extended.

  A gunshot went off. He did not feel any pain.

  Main and Ahmed went down together in a tangle, Main grasping for the rifle. Sandy left the cubicle, knowing she had to get close to avoid hitting David. Gotta get close.

  Main intended to bash in the assailant’s head with the rifle, but it was unnecessary. Finally the colonel noticed the hole below the corpse’s right ear. The last shot was Sandy’s. He heard her exclaim, “My thumb must’ve hit the slide lock! I’ve got one round left.”

  Main looked up, saw Sandy wide-eyed, mouth agape, sucking air. He found his feet, reached for her and took her in both hands. “Honey, are you alright?”

  She shook her head as if clearing cobwebs. “David…” Then she handed him the pistol and ran down the hall.

  * * *

  The Arlington police and sheriff’s departments responded quickly but too late to intervene in the shootout at Strategic Solutions. The sirens had convinced Marcus’s driver to stop circling the block and seek employment elsewhere. At least he had the five-hundred-dollar advance. He drove away from the plaza, being careful to obey all traffic regulations.

  The backup driver, in a rented station wagon, was not so circumspect. He busted a stop sign and drew the immediate attention of Arlington’s finest. They had no reason to detain the Pakistani until it was realized that he had a forged driver’s license and Immigration was interested in him.

  * * *

  “Where’s Sandy?” Derringer asked his niece.

  Sallie Kline said, “Oh, I think she’s still in the restroom. She keeps throwing up.”

  “What about you?”

  She took a swig of mineral water. “I’m fine, Uncle Mike. Trust me.” The faint tremor in her arms belied the words.

  Derringer realized that the young woman was riding the peak of an adrenaline high. Eventually she would crash, but for the moment she was surprisingly composed.

  He put an arm around her shoulders. “What do you want to do now, honey?”

  Sallie Ann Kline leveled her gaze at SSI’s founder. “Well, this week I’m going to call some numbers Sandy gave me in Arizona. Apparently most of the top instructors are there, including the best pistol shooter who ever lived. I’m going to sign up for a class with Firebase Phoenix or Morrigan Consulting. But for now I’m going home and screw Harold’s wheels off.”

  With that, she kissed her uncle and walked to the parking lot. As she left, Derringer heard the detectives talking.

  Sergeant Leo Forbus checked his notes. “Well, there were three shooters, all dead. Looks like they were pros: two of ‘em had body armor. Six SSI people dead and four wounded, one critical.”

  His partner looked at the last body bag as it trundled out the door. “It would’ve been lots worse. If that Carmichael gal hadn’t been here…”

  “Man, she is something else. You know she was an oak leaf colonel?”

  “I can believe it. A deputy told her he’d never known a woman who carried a gun, except female cops. You know what she said?”

  “What?” asked Forbus.

  “She said, ‘Hey, if most women don’t want to defend themselves, it’s no skin off my vagina.’”

  * * *

  David Main sat down beside Sandra Carmichael, who had stopped shaking almost two hours after the climax. He nodded at her right arm in a sling. “How you feeling?”

  “Oh, I’ll be alright. There’s a big-ass bruise and contusion but the bullet hit the metal stanchion in the cubicle before it hit me.” She looked at his bandaged neck. “How about you?”

  “I got cut by some glass. No big deal.” He looked at the floor, then turned back to her. “Sandy, we need to talk.”

  She looked at him through eyes still moist with fear and emotion. “You called me ‘honey.’ You never did that since…”

  “Since I got married.” He touched her left hand and she gripped his, hard.

  “That’s right.” The Alabama inflection came out “raaaht.” He still liked to hear it.

  “Sandy, I love my wife and I adore my kids. But I love you, too
. I knew that all along, but today when I thought you would be killed…”

  “My god, David, that was the bravest thing I ever saw. Twenty years in the army and I never saw anything like it, how you charged that AK bare-handed.”

  “Honey”—he gave her an ironic smile—”what’re we going to do?”

  She had no answer, so she rested her head on his shoulder.

  13

  QUETTA AIRBASE

  As SSI’s resident rappelling authority, Jason Boscombe drew the not unpleasant duty of instructing Dr. Padgett-Smith in military techniques. Holding a tactical harness, he pointed out the features.

  “The main difference from what you probably use is location of the carabiner,” he began. “I think most sport climbers use a waist-level attachment but we put it higher, at the chest or shoulder. That way…”

  “You can’t fall backwards with your feet above your head,” she interjected.

  “Right.” He liked the way she said cawn’t. Male English accents sounded condescending but female accents were a turn-on. “Uh, would you like to show me how you rig the line?”

  She gave him an indulgent smile. “Surely, Mr. Boscombe.” She couldn’t blame him; the operators had to satisfy themselves that their medical charge really did know something about climbing.

  Taking the 11mm line and a steel figure eight, she talked her way through the process. “I pull a bight of the rope through the big hole and loop it around the stem; then clip the small hole to my harness with a locking carabiner or two opposing standard ‘biners.” Deftly completing the motion, she pulled the line tight to demonstrate it was safe.

  “Good, ma’am. Now…”

  “However, there’s another option. On single lines, I can feed the rappel rope through the smaller hole, as long as it doesn’t cause excess friction. I’ve used a petzl stop on occasion, but I don’t suppose you lot have much need for them because you don’t need to go upward, do you?”

  Bosco smiled in spite of himself. “No, ma’am. Usually we just blow a hole in the wall and walk up the stairs if we need to.”

  Padgett-Smith had to laugh. “Well, I’ll leave that part to you, lad.”

  For a moment the ranger was taken aback. He could not decide whether “lad” was an endearment or a put-down. Sometimes it was hard to remember that Dr. Padgett-Smith was ten to twelve years older than most of the SSI men.

  “Um. Ma’am, we have use of this tower for an hour or so. I’ve already secured bases at the middle and upper decks so we can rappel down the wall. Once we’ve done that okay, Terry Keegan will lift us to a hundred-foot cliff and we’ll also rappel from the helo with some of the other guys.”

  “Oh, splendid. I should enjoy that.”

  Bosco gallantly opened the door to the abandoned control tower and allowed his student to precede him up the stairs. He had already noted that she was dressed for comfort, with low boots, hiking shorts, and a T-shirt in addition to helmet and gloves. He decided that the immunologist looked as good from behind as she did from the front.

  During the last practice session they decided to race to the ground. Bosco won by four feet, but he had to make a kamikaze descent to do it.

  * * *

  At the end of the day Bosco commiserated with some of his friends. “Well, Dr. Smith sure knows her way around a cliff face. She moves slow, but with economy of motion.”

  Breezy nodded. “And she sure looks good doing it.”

  “You noticed that, did you?”

  “Bosco, in case you haven’t noticed, that lady has a gorgeous pair of buns following her around.”

  Bosco punched his partner. “Hey dude, why do you think I let her go first through doors all the time?”

  * * *

  When they returned to the hangar, hardly anybody was around. Bosco inquired and was told to report to the meeting room. It was crowded with anxious SSI operators.

  “Well, they beat us to the punch,” Leopole announced. “This morning three men attacked the office in Arlington. They killed six of our people before they were taken down.”

  The listeners sat stunned for a microsecond before their emotions kicked in.

  “Oh my god!”

  “Sons of bitches!”

  And a fervent “Holy shit.”

  Daniel Foyte raised his voice above the din. “Who were the shooters?”

  “Evidently they were black Muslims with a naturalized Saudi. That’s all we…”

  “To hell with them, Colonel. Who’s dead?” Breezy Brezyinski shouted to be heard.

  Leopole raised a hand, motioning for quiet. “Most of you don’t know the KIAs, but here’s the list: Harriet Billingsley, Tom Grant, Becky Nielsen — she was brand new — Aaron Marks, Ray Treater, and Chuck Werblin. One of the electronics consultants, Jay Poor, is in critical condition. Sandy Carmichael was wounded but she’s recovering. A few others also were hurt, including Dave Main, who was in the office at the time.”

  Steve Lee found his voice. “By God, it sounds like old Ray took some with him.” Lee, an army officer, admired Ray Treater as a Vietnam Marine.

  “I’m afraid not, Steve. Omar talked to HQ right after we got the email. Details are still sketchy, but nearly all the shooting was done by Sandy and the admiral.”

  Gunny Foyte exchanged wide-eyed glances with Lee. “Well I’ll be go to hell.”

  Leopole sought out Carolyn Padgett-Smith and found her in the third row. She returned his look with a level gaze. I am woman, hear me roar!

  Leopole continued. “All right, pipe down. I’ll pass the word when we get more info. But for now, we need to keep our heads in the game, gentlemen. It’s obvious that they know more about us than we do about them. Major Khan is investigating but I doubt he’ll be able to learn much — it’s impossible to keep our presence a secret. We knew that all along. We just didn’t have a way to anticipate they’d take the offense in our home court.”

  Lee stood up. “Frank, aren’t we likely to get hit right here?”

  “Yes, that’s possible. It’s why I deployed most of my team as perimeter security during this meeting. We’ll draw up a watch bill for additional sentries and rovers until further notice. Khan also is arranging for some reliable Pakis to help out.”

  “How do we know we can trust them, sir?” Foyte voiced the tacit concern of many SSI operators.

  “All of them are vetted by Major Khan and our attaché office. But we’re spreading out to avoid bunching up. From now on we’ll bunk each team in a separate building.”

  SSI OFFICES

  Michael Derringer made his way around the workmen patching holes in the walls and replacing shattered glass. The noise of power tools and the bustle of strangers in SSI spaces upset his routine but not his equanimity. He still had work to do.

  Derringer walked past Wolf’s office and paused a moment. He set down a zippered case that drew the domestic ops chief’s attention. “Packing more artillery, Mike?”

  “Damn right I am. When I was fumbling through my drawer for some birdshot the other day, I realized that I was as personally unprepared as we were organizationally. Now I have some leverage, but I doubt I’ll ever need it.”

  “What’d you get?”

  “You know me, I’m a shotgunner. Remington 870 with an extended tube and poly-choke barrel. It takes eight rounds of double-ought buck with six more in a butt cuff.”

  “Have you shot it yet?”

  “Sure did. With Hornady Tactical it patterns eight inches at fifteen yards.”

  Wolf swiveled in his chair. “I guess I need some range time myself. I still can’t believe I missed that guy twice.”

  Derringer grinned. “Maybe that’s why it’s the Federal Bureau of Investigation rather than the Bureau of Marksmanship.”

  The ex-fed regarded his friend and employer. “You look better, Mike. How you feeling?”

  He shrugged eloquently. “Oh, I’m all right. Not four-point-oh but good enough to get underway.” After a moment he added, “You know, Joe, I spent a
good part of my career training to kill submarines. Maybe a hundred fifty men at once. It hardly occurred to me I’d have to shoot somebody in the face.”

  Wolf leaned back, hands behind his head. “Yeah, I know. Even in my work…” His focus went soft, as if seeing something beyond the wall. Then he gathered himself. “I’ve been thinking, Mike. We know why those bastards were here. We just can’t prove it. This was in effect a terrorist attack on American soil.” He spread his hands in frustration. “But there’s no way the government will admit it. Not publicly.”

  Derringer decided to take advantage of his colleague’s contacts. He shut the door and sat down. “Joe, you know that any of us could be a target for kidnap or murder, especially those of us on the masthead.” He hefted the zippered bag. “This is fine at the office or home. But what about traveling? What about just between here and the District?”

  “You mean, packing in the car? Going to a restaurant? That sort of thing?”

  “Exactly.”

  Wolf said, “Well, you can get a concealed carry permit in Virginia. But as for the District…” He spread his hands again.

  “Yeah, I know. Get caught with a firearm and you’re in deep trouble. It’s absurd! Every gang banger has a gun but their victims are prosecuted for owning one. Are we supposed to go unarmed when there’s a specific threat against us?”

  “Well… legally, technically, yes.”

  “And another thing. We do business in government offices all the time. The so-called security people at the metal detectors are Barney Fifes, and you know it. But they carry sidearms while I go to jail if I’m found with a can of Mace.”

  “Right again, chief.”

  “So what can we do? Even if we get federal bodyguards — U.S. marshals or whatever. That’s no solution. What’s the worst that could happen if they screw up and get me killed? Maybe they’d lose their job. Not much incentive, is there?”

  Wolf felt defensive at the implied criticism. “Well, Mike, you know, I’d like to think that our people in federal law enforcement are all professionals.”