Pandora's Legion

“Uh, just call me J. J., ma’am. Everybody else does.”

Malten nudged his friend. “Hey what’d the frogs call you, Le Double Jay?”

“Aw, knock it off, Malten.”

Padgett-Smith cocked her head. “The frogs?”

Johnson clearly was embarrassed at the attention. When he failed to respond, Malten explained. “J. J. did a stretch in the Foreign Legion.”

CPS straightened up, mouth slightly agape. “La Legion etrangere?”

Johnson nodded solemnly. “Oui, Madame Medecin. ‘Legio Pro Patria.’”

The ex-legionnaire and the immunologist immediately established a rapport. Malten listened with growing impatience as they chatted — he would have said jabbered — with growing Gallic glee.

Johnson finished, “Au combat, tu agis sans passion et sans haine, tu respectes les ennemis vaincus, tu n’abandonnes jamais ni tes morts, ni tes blesses, ni tes armes.”

“Bravo, mon vieux! Tres bien!” Padgett-Smith exclaimed. She clapped her hands in appreciation.

Noting Malten’s consternation, Carolyn turned to him. “Mr. Johnson just recited the Legion’s code of honour. ‘To fight without passion or hate, to respect vanquished enemies… never to abandon your dead, nor ever to surrender your arms.’”

The former SEAL tried to appear unimpressed. He rattled off, “Trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent.”

“What’n hell’s that?” Johnson asked.

“The Boy Scout laws.”

* * *

On the way back to the hangar the joggers passed a young dog. Happy to find company, the mongrel capered after them, yapping along the way. Johnson tried to shoo the animal away, and though it cringed and held back, it trailed them at a respectful distance. Finally Padgett-Smith stopped. She quickly made friends with the dog.

“He has a collar but no identification,” she said. Malten reached down to pat the animal, which tried to back away. “Jeffrey, I think he’s shy of men. He’s probably been abused, poor thing. You go ahead. I’ll see if he’ll come with me and maybe we can feed him.”

Malten stood up. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Doctor. He probably belongs to somebody who may not like us fooling with his mutt.”

“Well, then. You start out and I’ll keep you in sight. It’s just a short way.”

Malten exchanged glances with Johnson. Their faces read the tacit message: Women!

Outside the hangar, Padgett-Smith gave the stray dog some leftovers and water. Johnson kept her company; despite their different backgrounds, they found they enjoyed talking to one another.

“I still don’t know why, but I wanted to join the Legion ever since I was a kid,” Johnson began. “I took French in high school just so I’d have a jump on the language training. After that I spent a couple of years earning airfare and getting in shape. Besides, I wanted to travel some in Europe before enlisting. I signed on for one term, five years.” He rolled his eyes. “That was enough!”

“Why didn’t you re-enlist?”

“I’d seen and done everything I wanted to do. You know — got shot at and shot back. Besides, by then I was almost twenty-six and I wanted to start making some money.”

“Are you still in touch with any of them?”

“No, not really. Still, it was an interesting bunch of guys. I learned everything you’d expect about soldiering and even more about people. My best friend was a Pole. The others in my section included a Canadian, two Italians, one or two Germans, a Greek, and even a Samoan. The best soldier I ever knew was Croatian, Sergent-Chef Dukovac. He’d fit right into this group.”

“That’s an interesting observation. What made him the best soldier?”

“Oh, I don’t know exactly. It was just the whole package. He saw everything that happened, knew exactly what was going on, even in a nighttime firefight. Later somebody called it ‘situation awareness.’ Also, he took time to learn about his soldiers. Not everybody does. But he knew who could shoot straight, who could run the farthest, who was distracted and who was focused. And he could do anything the rest of us could, but better. Even though he was quite a bit older.”

“Where did you serve, if I may ask?”

“Mostly in Djibouti. Thirteenth Demi-Brigade. Terrible climate but we had some excitement now and then. I’m making notes for a book.”

She smiled. “Well, I know one or two publishers…”

“My dog!” The voice was harsh, grating, accented. Padgett-Smith and Johnson looked up to see an irate Pakistani NCO striding toward them. He was clearly agitated, exclaiming in high-decibel Urdu. He was also visibly curious as to what the hangar contained.

Johnson turned to the doctor. “You’d better get Major Khan.”

“Oh dear, he’s checking the shooting range with Frank Leopole.”

“Then get Omar. He speaks the lingo.”

Padgett-Smith disappeared through the partly open hangar door. When she returned with Omar Mohammed, the NCO was dragging the dog away.

“What happened?” Mohammed asked.

“Uh, the corporal says we stole his dog. That’s not true, but somebody saw us heading back here with the mutt.”

Dr. Omar Mohammed uttered an un-Muslim epithet. Then he went to find Frank Leopole before things turned worse.

9

BALUCHISTAN PROVINCE

Ali bowed a final time to the southwest, giving homage toward Mecca. Then he raised to a sitting position, hands on his knees, eyes still closed. Sometimes when he prayed, the spirit enveloped him like a warm, comforting blanket. Those were the moments he savored, for he knew that he had prayed properly: with true humility and reverence. He had been praying for his forty-nine years on earth, but still he managed to pray satisfactorily less than half the time. He would have to concentrate more; work even harder to become a deserving servant of God.

When he opened his eyes Ali saw a man striding toward him, perhaps fifty meters away. From the figure’s awkward gait, the doctor recognized Kassim.

Ali gathered up his prayer rug and placed it inside the rude building. Then he went forward to meet his colleague. He knew the Syrian to be less than devout in matters of piety — Kassim certainly did not pray five times a day — but the man’s loss of a foot against the Russians and his dedication to destroying the Crusaders were unquestioned.

Allah would make allowances.

Kassim limped to the door, where Ali invited him in for tea. But the Syrian declined with a perfunctory thank- you. “There is interesting news from Quetta.”

Ali turned from the stove where the water boiled. “Yes?”

“Infidels at the old airfield. Working with government forces.”

Ali forgot about the tea. He sat down, beckoning his friend to join him.

“We have eyes inside the perimeter,” Kassim began. “Believers who share their knowledge with us.”

“Yes, I recall.” It was well known that the Pakistani armed forces had no shortage of al Qaeda supporters and sympathizers. Kassim’s organization threw a wide net: The Base was global.

“Two days ago one of the faithful saw Americans there. They stole a dog.”

Ali was slightly disappointed; he expected more. There were Americans and other westerners throughout