Pandora's Legion s-1 Page 3

  * * *

  After the meeting, Derringer invited his golf partner to the office to consult with Leopole and Wolf. “Phil, you’re now on the clock again. I need your help with immunology because we could use somebody who understands Marburg and Ebola. Can you suggest someone who could handle the physical challenge? It’s likely to be high elevation for days at a time.”

  Catterly thought for a moment. “Well, let me ask: does the immunologist have to be a U.S. citizen?”

  Derringer looked at Leopole, who shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s preferable for legal reasons, but from a practical viewpoint I’d think it’s okay. Why?”

  “I know a highly qualified person in Britain. In fact, she’s the one who told me about the Marburg case at Heathrow. She consults for the British government and she’s even investigating homeopathic remedies for Ebola.”

  Frank Leopole, erstwhile lieutenant colonel of marines, leaned backward as if reeling from an impact. Going on an op with a scientist, a foreigner, and a female. What in the name of Chesty Puller was Catterly thinking?

  “Doctor, I don’t think you understand,” the operations officer interjected. “This mission will likely involve combat. It’ll definitely involve strenuous physical activity.”

  “Then Carolyn Padgett-Smith is qualified, Colonel. She’s a world-class rock climber, an excellent skier, and as far as I know, she’s in tip-top condition. You should see her.” Phillip Catterly unknowingly arched his eyebrows in a universal male gesture. Hubba-hubba.

  “Well, how old is she?”

  “Oh, early forties.”

  Leopole shook his head. “Doc, I’m in my forties, and this job might be a stretch for me. Most of our operators are in their thirties, and they work out all the time.”

  Catterly persisted. “It’s just a thought. If you want to contact her, let me know. Otherwise, I can’t think of anyone qualified both professionally and physically.” He turned back to Derringer. “What about the army? Have you tried Fort Detrick?”

  Derringer cleared his throat. “We’re checking that out.” Then he turned to Wolf. “Joe, I suppose the FBI has already talked to the boy’s parents. I’ll leave it up to you whether we see what the bureau will share with us or if we send our own people out there.”

  Wolf, who had been a rarity in the FBI hierarchy by advocating “civilian” training such as SSI’s, had already alerted his domestic operations staff. A team was ready to fly to Berkeley on short notice. “I’ll find out today, chief.”

  Derringer tapped the tabletop in a rhythmic tattoo. “Very well. Let’s push this one, guys. Time is crucial.”

  * * *

  After Leopole and Wolf left, Catterly remained. “Mike, I appreciate your trust in me, and I’ll give you all the help I can. But if I’m going to work with some of your people I’d like some background.”

  Derringer sipped some raspberry iced tea. “Ahh, that’s good. Sure thing, Phil. Where do you want to start?”

  “Well, what’s Dr. Mohammed’s background?”

  “Oh, he’s an incredible linguist. You should read his Ph.D. dissertation: the effect of language on war. He grew up in Paris and was partly educated in Britain. His father was a diplomat for the Shah so Omar was raised speaking Farsi, Arabic, and French. He decided to concentrate on Mideast languages and picked up Hebrew just for drill. After 9-11 he read the map and concentrated on Pashto and Urdu so he could work both sides of the Afghan border. Besides that, he’s conversant in Russian and I think he’s studied Hindi. He said his next language is Indonesian.”

  “Indonesia?”

  “Yeah. It has the largest Muslim population on earth, by about two and a half laps.”

  “So he teaches Islamic languages to your people?”

  “Well, he can do that, of course, but Omar’s a man of many parts. Actually he’s director of training. A few years ago I brought him in for a couple of months to teach our operators about Islamic culture and some basic Arabic: asking directions, field interrogations, that sort of thing. Frankly, those segments were only marginally successful because Omar believes in immersion for really learning a language. We have better luck with former Green Beanies who studied at Monterey and worked in the Middle East. The Army was real cranky when we scooped up some of those guys, but that’s another story.

  “Anyway, Omar got along great with some of the door kickers, which kind of surprised us. I mean, he comes across as more an academic than an operator, and he’s not exactly a boozer or a chaser. In fact, he’s a pretty strict Muslim. But when he went on some exercises in Saudi and, ah, elsewhere”—Derringer raised his eyebrows—”the guys found that he kept making really good suggestions. After a few months we made him assistant training director, and he’s run the department since last year.”

  “I’d never have guessed it. What’s he do besides language and cultural stuff?”

  “Oh, you name it. He’s not an operator, but we have instructors for tradecraft. Omar coordinates all that with the specialists. He just knows a hell of a lot, and he has contacts throughout Europe and the Middle East. If you need somebody to teach alpine climbing or how to operate in a sand storm, he can get ‘em. Basically, he’s a big-picture guy: he knows what he doesn’t know, but he can write a first-class training syllabus faster than anybody I’ve ever known.”

  Catterly sipped his coffee, absorbing the information. “How’s he get along with the others?”

  “Very few problems. Oh, Frank Leopole might still be suspicious, but he’s leery of anybody who can’t sing all three verses of ‘The Marine Corps Hymn.’ No, Omar’s solid. He plays it close to the vest most of the time, but if you get to know him, he’ll open up. Just don’t get him started on how OBL and al Qaeda have hijacked Islam. You’ll be there for hours.”

  2

  BALUCHISTAN PROVINCE, PAKISTAN

  The doctor known as Ali swerved his Volkswagen bus to avoid potholes in the road, which he thought probably owed its origins to a caravan track across the Toba Kakar Range bordering Afghanistan. Smugglers had been using the mountainous terrain for longer than recorded history, which suited Ali’s purposes. He gave a rare grin that would have been nearly invisible amid his heavy beard. Let them search, he thought. I am smuggling what cannot be detected. He shot a sideways glance at the young woman in the passenger’s seat. She sensed the doctor’s gaze and turned to face him, her brown eyes peering above the dark-gray veil.

  Ali allowed himself the intimacy of patting her shoulder. “Child, you are on your way to Paradise.” She leaned back, absent-mindedly rubbing her forearm. She had begun feeling slightly weaker over the past two days, but bed rest compensated.

  Dusk was approaching and Ali turned on the headlights. He reckoned that three more hours on the rutted road would take him to the pavement and on to the rendezvous where other jihadists would take delivery of “the package.” From there they would forward it to Karachi and thence to the realm of the Great Satan.

  SSI OFFICES

  Derringer’s intercom buzzed, preceding Peggy Singer’s announcement. “Colonel Main to see you, Admiral.”

  Derringer depressed the switch. “Thank you, Mrs. Singer. Please send him in.” Lieutenant Colonel David Main knew enough about SSI to recognize the formalities. Having been around the office and attended a couple of holiday parties, he knew that between them, Admiral Derringer and Mrs. Singer were “Mike” and “Peggy.”

  Main strode into the office, again bemused at the minimalist decor for a retired flag officer. Derringer stood up, reached over the desk, and shook hands. “Thanks for coming, Dave. I appreciate it on short notice.”

  Main sat down, finding that the straight-backed chair resisted any effort on his part to slouch. Insiders thought that Mike Derringer believed in keeping visitors uncomfortable and thereby preventing the urge to linger and chat. “What can I do for you, sir? Sandy mentioned bio weapons.”

  “That’s right, Dave. Uh, incidentally, she sends her apologies. Something about one of the gi
rls.”

  “Ah, yessir.” Main’s tone and body language hinted at something beyond disappointment. Privately, Derringer felt that Ms. Carmichael had found a convenient reason to be absent when her former classmate arrived.

  Derringer leaned forward. “Dave, everything today is off the record, but you’ve worked that way before. Now, confidentially, we’re trying to track down the source of a Marburg virus that apparently was found in an American national visiting Pakistan recently. He collapsed at Heathrow a couple of days ago and he’s now comatose but we’re told that he indicated he was injected with the virus and there may be others.”

  Main’s eyes widened slightly. His Been There Done That badges and ribbons testified to Ranger School, 82nd Airborne, Grenada, Desert Storm, and Bosnia. He had walked the walk and done the deed, but anything related to Ebola was an instant attention-getter.

  “Ah, yessir. I understand that you might want somebody with field experience as well as an immunology degree. I guess you needed to discuss it in person.”

  “Correct. Now, Sandy’s already observed that State will not permit any active-duty military personnel on this job owing to the current sentiments in Pakistan. So, as you’ve done for us before, could you reach out and find somebody maybe in the Guard or Reserve who could fill the bill?”

  “Well, I’ll try, Admiral. But you know, that’s a rare bird you’re hunting. And it might take some time. How soon do you need to know?”

  Derringer sat back, his face passive. “Well, it’s now 1540.” Finally he grinned. “I realize you can’t get anything today, but we’re like 7-11. We never close.”

  Main stood up. “I’ll let you know my initial finding by noon tomorrow.”

  Derringer walked the Army officer to the door. “We really appreciate it, Dave. And, by the way, my offer stands. If you ever decide to put in your papers…”

  Main chuckled. “Thanks, Admiral. It’s good to know I wouldn’t have to sell my soul as a beltway bandit. But I think I’m probably doing you more good as your liaison.”

  Derringer patted Main’s shoulder. It was partly friendly, partly paternal. “That you are, son! Oh, by the way. Long as you’re here, would you mind talking to our chief pilot? I think you’ve met him: Terry Keegan. He may have, ah, one or two favors to ask. Frank will show you the way.”

  “Certainly, sir. Glad to help.” It was a lie, smoothly accomplished. In truth, David Main wanted to see the start of his son’s basketball game for once.

  * * *

  En route to the planning room, Leopole briefed Main on Keegan. “We keep a few critical personnel on full-time or retainer. Terry’s one of the admiral’s favorites.”

  “I think he’d just become your chief pilot when I met him before.”

  “Roger that. Terry’s a jack-of-all-trades. He’s rated for fixed wing, helos, and seaplanes: probably has more ratings than anybody I know. He and Derringer go way back.”

  “Really? Derringer’s not an aviator, is he?”

  “Nope, strictly blackshoe. But he made his name in ASW, and Terry was his star SH-3 pilot. I don’t know the full story, but Terry got snagged in the Tailhook witch hunt. He asked the admiral for help, and Mike really tried, but Bush 41 wanted a head count to pacify the feminazis, who were never going to be pacified. Between you and me, I think Mike still feels some guilt about not being able to save a fine young officer’s career, but it worked out for the best. Terry was one of the first hires when SSI stood up, and the firm has paid for most of his upgrades.”

  Approaching the technical library, Leopole and Main nearly collided with an attractive young woman. Leopole said, “Hi, Sallie. Ah, have you met Colonel Main?”

  “No, I would remember.” Main was briefly taken aback by the frank statement. His brain defaulted to the male ego programming that was linked to his emotional hard drive. She thinks I’m a stud flashed on his screen before he realized that Ms. Sallie might possibly be referring to an excellent memory.

  She extended her hand. “Sallie Ann Kline,” she said with a Peach Street hint in her voice. At five-foot-eleven, her green eyes were level with the officer’s.

  Main shook hands; Ms. Kline’s grip was firm and controlled. Her beige suit and dark hair gave her a professional appearance that Main found attractive. He noticed that she quickly scanned his ribbons and badges. Apparently she could decipher the esoterica displayed on his chest.

  “I’ve been talking to Terry about more pilot applications,” Sallie explained. “He’s all yours, Frank.” She raised a manicured hand and waved bye-bye. “Nice to see you, Colonel.”

  The army man turned to watch her walk away in long, purposeful strides. “Wow. I’m married, but man, how did I miss that?”

  Leopole chuckled. “Sallie has that effect on a lot of men. She’s here for a couple weeks as a consultant. She won’t accept a full-time position because she’s the admiral’s niece.”

  “Is she really as confident as she seems?”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s spooky, how quickly she sizes up people.”

  Main emitted a low whistle. “What’s she do for the firm?”

  “Sallie’s background is marketing and personnel. She analyzes applicants and predicts their likely job performance. She tells some clients that she uses a special computer program, but mainly it’s her gut feeling. She’s highly intuitive; I’d guess she bats about.800.”

  The army man chuckled aloud. “Maybe I should introduce her to our recruiters.”

  They found Keegan perusing SSI’s technical library where Leopole reintroduced the men and left. Rather than speaking his mind— Whattaya want I wantta get going—the army man said, “Say, I understand that you and the admiral served together. That’s how you joined SSI?”

  Terry Keegan nodded his crewcut head. “Yeah, I was in HS-2 when Tailhook blew up in ‘91. We were transitioning from SH-3Hs to SH-60s, and I really wanted to deploy with the Seahawk.”

  Main leaned on a table strewn with aircraft and engine manuals. Women in combat was a subject upon which he held devout opinions. “I heard that the Tailhook thing caught a lot of you guys.”

  “Hell, it caught everybody, including those who weren’t even there. Just the accusation was enough to ruin your career. It was, like, ‘ready, fire, aim.’ CNO and SecNav were both there, but they claimed they saw nothing, and the admirals ran for cover. You know, the Tailhook Association is a civilian organization with no authority over military personnel, but Hook became the scapegoat. Nobody was standing up for the troops, and I mean nobody. Except Mike Derringer, and he wasn’t even in the loop.”

  “What really happened, Terry?”

  “Well, I couldn’t stay for the whole thing and left Saturday morning. Next thing I knew, the JAG goons were beating down my door, saying they had ‘proof’ I was there. Hell, I never denied it. What I did deny — and it’s true — is that I ever saw any sexual harassment. Years later I learned that somebody said he’d seen a guy who looked like me with one of the women who complained. She was a pro, by the way; several of ‘em hopped on the lawsuit bandwagon. Anyway, that was enough to red-flag me for promotion. It happened to lots of guys. I know one who was in San Diego that whole weekend but his name got on the ‘suspect’ list and that was that. No due process, no nothin’.”

  Main shook his head. “My god, I didn’t know it was that bad. What else happened?”

  “Well, I remember in 1996 Muhammad Ali went to Cuba to meet Castro, who he said he admired. That same year some politically correct captain invited Ali aboard USS George Washington, but the Tailhook Association — composed of naval aviators — was forbidden aboard navy vessels.”

  “You gotta be shittin’ me!”

  “No lie, GI.” Keegan gave a sardonic grin. “The U.S. Fucking Navy catered to a brain-dead celebrity who seeks out communist dictators. Finally Clinton’s SecNav decided enough was enough and gave his blessing to Tailhook in 2000.”

  “The admiral tried to help you?” Main could easily envision Derringer
supporting people he valued.

  “Yeah, he really did. I wrote him, not really expecting very much, but we’d had a good relationship on deployment. When he wanted somebody to follow a contact at night and maybe a high sea state, my crew usually got the call. By ‘92, almost a year after Vegas, it was obvious I had nothing to lose.”

  “Could he help?”

  “Not much. He saw the handwriting on the wall and was already starting SSI. But my point is, he tried to help me and a couple of other pilots. Far as I know, Mike Derringer did more than any three active-duty flags. He called in markers, bent arms, and generally kept up the heat. I’ve heard that some admirals still resent him because he made them feel like wimps.”

  “I guess a lot of aviators are still bitter.”

  “Damn right. I was so disgusted that I changed my registration to Democrat and, so help me, I voted for Clinton in ‘92. I don’t care who knows it.”

  Main grinned. “What about ‘96?”

  Keegan shrugged. “Why bother? The difference between the parties is more a matter of degree than substance.”

  “Geez, you sound like the man without a country.”

  Keegan thought for a moment. “Yeah, there’s something to that. Not many guys will say so, but what th’ hell — I got no retirement at stake. Some of us feel that we have a government more than a country. That’s why our loyalty goes to SSI. If the UN do-gooders are worried about PMCs taking the place of established governments, maybe they’re right. Not that it’ll happen, because at least forty percent of the population has been co-opted by perks and benefits. But I tell you what: in this outfit, loyalty up gets loyalty down. Mike Derringer says that his people come first, and he walks the walk. I could tell you a couple of stories—” Keegan slipped a knowing grin and left the sentence hovering.