Pandora's Legion

“As I see it,” Mohammed continued, “we can take two approaches. On the one hand, yes, a lone woman with a scouting party will draw attention. But because she’s ‘only a woman’…” At that he drew quote marks in the air. “The locals won’t bother talking to her.”

She bit her lip. The PC phrase about Celebrating Diversity sounded in her mind, followed by a mental flushing sound from the loo.

“On the other hand, if she’s dressed as a man, holding a weapon like everyone else, she might blend in. Especially if her face is obscured somehow, and she keeps in the rear of the group.”

Padgett-Smith finally found her voice. “How about a big floppy hat, some dirt on my face, and I clip my nails?”

The men exchanged glances. CPS thought for all the world they resembled Professor Higgins and Colonel Pickering. By jove, she’s got it!

Before either spoke, she pressed her advantage. “I prefer an AK, if that’s all right with you, gentlemen. Thirty rounds semi-auto should get me through any scrape.”

Tony, you’re such a love.

AMMAN, JORDAN

Mideast News Bureau. Jordanian authorities briefly shut down part of Amman Queen Alia International Airport today after a Pakistani woman collapsed upon deplaning from an Egyptair flight. Authorities indicated that the woman showed signs of an infectious disease and was taken to a military hospital. The victim was identified as Hina bint Ahmed, twenty-six. Though she lapsed into a coma some hours later, investigation revealed that the young woman probably suffered from advanced pancreatitis.

Only one of the airport’s two terminals was affected after the Egyptian Boeing 737 arrived. Laboratory tests on the stricken woman caused temporary concern that she may have had a communicable disease. Some flights were delayed several hours but were allowed to proceed when the crisis passed. An unknown number of passengers were inconvenienced, and reportedly some European diplomatic personnel had to reschedule trips to their home capitals.

Speaking on conditions of anonymity, Jordanian authorities stated that the victim’s journey began in Pakistan and included an interim stop in Cairo.

7

OVER FRANCE

CPS sat on a canvas and frame seat that folded up for stowage. The 727’s interior was optimized for utility over comfort, though six bunks were available for longer flights. She was re-reading the cargo manifest, keeping ahead of potential shortages. It was far better to know that the operators were lacking something before landing than minutes before they needed it. Leopole had insisted that most standard equipment could be obtained in Islamabad.

Satisfied with the inventory, Padgett-Smith turned her attention to personnel. She had been introduced to everyone and reckoned that she remembered about one-third of the names and faces. She was most interested in the medics: one fully qualified on each team plus at least one partially cross-trained. She had talked to that overage adolescent called Breezy and determined that he was probably competent — at least he could discuss medical vocabulary while sneaking glances at her chest. The thirty-something ex-Green Beret, Jerry Sefton, had impressed her as a near match for her ex-brother-in-law. How he would love this job! she mused.

That left the former SEAL, Jeffrey Malten. He seemed quieter and, whatever his age, more mature than most of the others. She waved to him and patted the seat beside her. That Bosco character saw the gesture and punched Malten’s arm in a comradely manner. He mouthed something unintelligible over the jet noise; two syllables. American soldiers were forever uttering ferral grunts and tones: Hoo-ah! and Ah-oo! seemed most popular. She had even heard the former expressed with a rising tone: Hoo-ah? evidently was an interrogatory as well as a declarative. Carolyn inferred that to the military cognoscenti, one or the other was favored by the Marines and the Army. Apparently fliers and sailors communicated on a higher plane, occasionally rising to polysyllabics.

Malten sat down, looking alert and composed. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Mr. Malten, we had so little time before leaving that I didn’t get to talk to you as much as I hoped. I should like to know a bit more about your medical experience. That is, if you don’t mind.”

Malten blinked. He thought of himself as a shooter who could keep WIAs alive long enough for a dustoff flight. “Well, ma’am, sure. I mean, I finished the combat corpsman school and got the refreshers along the way. But I don’t know about these viruses, other than what we were told about the bio threat, and that wasn’t much.”

“Yes, I understand that. Mainly I wondered if you received information on the symptoms. In the early stages it’s terribly difficult to distinguish between Marburg or Ebola and more common diseases, from malaria or dengue to the lesser hemorrhagic fevers.”

Jeffrey Malten slowly shook his close-cropped head. “Ah, no ma’am. I couldn’t tell the difference. To tell you the truth, Doctor, I know a lot more about penetrating and sucking wounds than anything else.”

CPS absorbed that information, briefly staring out the opposite window. The evening sunlight glowed golden on the cloud deck. Then she turned to the earnest young man. “I’ll see if I can organize a briefing for you and the other medics. Perhaps some of the nuances would be helpful. Until then, it’s best to assume the worst and treat any likely patient with isolation and barrier methods.”

“Yes’m. Gotcha.”

Padgett-Smith regarded young Mr. Malten for a moment. He returned her level gaze; he seemed to regard her as an equal, and considering their vast educational differences, she was surprised to find that fact appealing.

“Would you mind if I asked a personal question?”

“No ma’am.”

“Obviously you’re quite good at your work. Why did you leave the Navy?”

Malten grinned almost shyly. “Well…” He seemed to squint, as if concentrating. Then he looked back at her. “Do you know what ‘ruck up’ means?”

“I would guess it’s from climbing or hiking. As in ruck sack.”

“Yeah, that’s close. The guys say they ruck up by putting on their gear and sh… stuff. But it also means to get ready for an op — you know, a mission.”

“Ah, I see.” Tony would have a far better idea.

“Well, in the teams — in the SEALs — I was active for almost four years. We’d ruck up — and stand down. Ruck up — and stand down. Ruck up — and stand down. Ruck up — and stand down. I don’t even know how many times we were briefed for a mission and then had it cancelled. The only two ops I was on, practically nothing happened. It was just surveillance. I was going nuts. So were a lot of the guys.”

“So you were frustrated at the lack of… action?”

Malten nodded decisively. “That’s it. Frustrated.”

Padgett-Smith recalled only two such discussions with Tony. He had expressed similar sentiments. “Mr. Malten, my brother-in-law was SAS. He absolutely loved the regiment and would have stayed for fifty years if he hadn’t broken both legs and ankles. But he was in the Falklands.”

Jeffrey Malten almost grinned. “Cool.”

“So… you left the Navy to join SSI?”

“Well, not really. I just knew I didn’t want to spend more time training and training, and never really doing the job. Besides, I had no personal life. In the teams, the divorce rate is like eighty percent. I wanted to meet a girl and, maybe, you know…” He shrugged. “So I decided not to re-enlist. Then I heard about SSI and… well, here I am.”

“You’re happy with your work now?”

Malten’s eyes seemed to light up. “Oh yeah. I’ve been… well, ah, I can’t really say everywhere I’ve been. But the work’s steady and it pays well, and the admiral’s just a great boss. I even have time to chase girls again.” He laughed aloud.