Pandora's Legion

apparently in comprehension of the generous sentiment, but pantomimed his intention to stay with Johnson.

They set out at an easy lope, approaching the border crossing from the southwest. That seemed the least likely avenue of approach from the starting point east of Chaman.

Johnson kept the AK at high port, holding the magazine from Tahirkheli’s rifle with his left hand. They had left the sack and quilt at their starting point in case they had to move fast. At 4,300 feet the evening air had an edge; both men saw their breath as they exhaled.

A few moments along the way, Tahirkheli pulled up. Johnson almost overran him. The Pakistani squatted, shading his eyes against the sunset. To his left the American took a braced kneeling position, the AK’s selector on semi-auto. The Pakistani said something that sounded like “dish man,” looking at Johnson and gesturing to their right front.

Johnson did not know that dushman was Urdu for enemy.

“Bhagna!” Tahirkheli bolted from his squatting position like a sprinter. His exhortation to run required no translation. He began eating up the ground toward the checkpoint.

Semi-automatic fire erupted from the gathering dusk. Johnson glimpsed muzzle flashes, guessed the range at 250 meters, and held slightly high. Damn! Shoulda taken the chance to check zero on this thing. He fired two rounds to let the terrs know that he was armed, then took to his feet. But Johnson was slowed by his injuries and ill-fitting sandals.

The Pakistani showed surprising speed, quickly pulling away from the mercenary. He’s one tough sumbitch; spent his life in the mountains.

Abruptly the other man stopped, throwing himself prone. Johnson looked ahead and saw the reason. Two men raced toward them from a cluster of rocks. Johnson took a glance toward the border crossing. No visible motion yet.

Johnson looked again to his right. Two more gunmen had emerged from cover. They gotta get me before the guards arrive.

Both hostile pair were about 150 meters out. Johnson felt relatively safe at that distance: Most of ‘em can’t shoot for shit. He squirmed into a prone position, facing the right-hand threat first. With no idea where his rifle shot, he took a center hold on the nearest opponent, focused on the front sight, and pressed the trigger.

The 7.62mm round snapped out — and vanished. Johnson could not tell where it went, other than it had missed its target. Briefly he wished that he could get Kelly to spot for him, but there was no time to pantomime it.

Both the gunmen approaching him were upright, alternately firing and running. Ballistic cracks popped over his head; a few rounds hit the earth around him. Johnson’s mind was racing: There’s still time. Try something else. Reckoning that his first round likely went high, he held on the target’s knees. He pressed the trigger and the Kalashnikov bucked in recoil. Johnson’s focus went from his sights to the target and saw the man flinch. Nicked him or it’s real close. Applying Kentucky windage, he held low on the target’s right side and fired twice.

The terrorist staggered, turned away, and tumbled sideways.

Immediately Johnson shifted targets. The second opponent was inside seventy meters, now kneeling. Johnson applied the same sight picture and pressed the trigger twice. No good. The man kept shooting.

He’s not as tall a target. Hold lower. Johnson put his front sight on the man’s left foot and fired again. Nothing. I think I flinched. Try again. Two more rounds went downrange. One connected. The target rolled onto his side and began crawling away. Johnson let him go.

More firing erupted from the second pair, now dangerously close. Johnson estimated they were no more than fifty meters out. As he swung on them, he felt a sharp impact. I’m hit — keep shooting. He put his front sight on the right-hand man and fired. No good. He fired again. And again. Sweat blurred his vision and the gathering dusk degraded his sight picture.

The rifle jammed.

Johnson’s pulse, already elevated, hit high C. He recognized the physiological signs: tunnel vision; short, shallow breaths; leaden feeling in the arms; fine muscle skills diminished. He glanced down at the AK and was appalled to see a neat hole in the magazine. That was the hit! The wonderfully reliable weapon had continued functioning until the warped follower and deformed cartridge had reached the chamber.

Immediate action drill. Johnson released the magazine, pulled the charging handle twice, and scooped up the reload. Belatedly he remembered to roll the rifle on its right side and repeated the drill again. Small metal particles were ejected downward.

Johnson’s trembling hands reseated the new magazine and he chambered the first round. Firing now was heavy and close. Rock fragments and clods of earth spattered his face. Rolling away from the impacts, Johnson was vaguely aware that he had wet his trousers.

“Kelly” leapt to his feet and began shouting frantically at the assailants. One paused, uncertain of the Urdu speaker’s intent. The other continued firing from twenty yards. Johnson put his sights squarely in the shooter’s middle and pulled the trigger two, three, four times.

Kelly screamed and went down. More gunfire split the dark.

* * *

Johnson shifted his aim to the remaining threat. The man was getting close — terror close. Firing from an under-arm assault position, the gunman hosed a long, scything burst at the prone American. Johnson felt the sonic pain as 7.62 rounds barked past his head. He wanted full auto — now — but there was no time. He raised his muzzle toward the assailant’s middle and began mashing the trigger. He kept firing until the man dropped. The conventional wisdom came to him: Shoot until the threat goes away. He fired some more.

When he came up for air, Johnson looked at Kelly, who was trembling visibly. He’s in shock. Gotta get help. The legionnaire rose to his knees and scanned the darkening landscape. He saw three men jogging toward him, perhaps seventy meters out. They were armed, rifles at high port.

Johnson went prone again, wondering how many rounds he had left, and asking the most important question of his life: Are they friendly or hostile?

22

QUETTA AIRBASE

“Say again?” Leopole held the phone tighter, hardly daring to believe what he heard. After a pause he exclaimed, “My god!”

Mohammed caught the excitement in the team leader’s voice as Leopole hung up with a fervent “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.” His eyes were wide, fixed on his associate. “Johnson’s alive!”

Mohammed shook his head as if clearing a fog from his brain. “Jeremy Johnson? He’s been missing for three days!”

Leopole was on his feet, grinning hugely. “Damn straight it’s J. J.! Who else?” He clapped the reserved Muslim on one shoulder.

“Tell me!”

Leopole began pacing, uncharacteristically excited. “Buster Hardesty didn’t have the full story, but we can send one of our helos for him. J. J. should arrive later today.”

“Frank, tell me!”

“Oh, sorry, Omar.” After so many losses, Leopole felt part of the emotional burden drain away. “C’mon, let’s tell the others.”

Minutes later, Leopole convened an impromptu meeting in the hangar. About half of the operators were present.

Breezy leaned toward Bosco. “Frank’s smiling like the fucking cat that ate the fucking canary. What’s