Pandora's Legion

The infidels had left the holy warriors’ bodies in a row. At least there was no desecration, and someone — probably a Pakistani — had covered them with blankets and a tarp. The scout pulled back one corner to study the lifeless faces of his fellow mujahadin. He recognized only two. Mohammed and Weanus had fought at his side a time or two. The others were newer recruits. One appeared to be about fifteen. Now, all were honored in Paradise.

Kassim followed the point man by less than five minutes. When he appeared, they briefly consulted on the best course to follow. The scout, a twenty-six-year-old laborer named Dualeh, noted where two mules had run off, frightened by the sudden gunfire. The third emerged from the hard ground onto a softer path, obviously walking rather than running. A few bootprints indicated that the animal had been under human control.

“This way,” Dualeh said.

The twelve men began following the trail northeasterly, keeping intervals with flankers on each side, according to Kassim’s orders.

A single gunshot split the crisp morning air.

The hunters stopped in place, then spread half and half to each side of the trail, rifles pointed uphill. They were somewhat slow, but Kassim was pleased with their response. A little training could go a long way.

Another shot. Kassim thought that it was a pistol. Somewhere behind them.

About one minute passed. A third shot, then nothing.

Kassim turned to Dualeh. “That is no coincidence. It must be some kind of signal.” Without waiting, the Syrian jogged to the rear of the column, his awkward gait evident but of little hindrance. He shouted, “Aana!” Come! The others turned to follow their leader, now up front again.

* * *

Half a kilometer northeast, Steve Lee and Rustam Khan heard a faint sound. Abruptly they stopped and listened. Bosco and Breezy were close behind. Bosco asked, “What’s up, dude?”

Breezy raised a hand for silence. He heard the next pop and checked his watch.

Sixty-one seconds later another shot cracked out, ringing off a canyon wall. Breezy paced the distance to Lee. “Sir, that’s gotta be her. Remember? I told her to cap off three rounds a minute apart.”

Lee regarded Mr. Brezyinski with newfound respect. Maybe he’s not such a juvenile delinquent after all. “All right, you convinced me. We’ll hustle off that way with six of us. The rest will stay here with the mule and the casualties.”

Breezy asked, “Should we shoot three in reply?” As soon as he spoke, he realized the answer.

“Negative, Brezyinski. There could be hostiles out there. No point in telling them where we are. Besides, she’ll repeat the signal in ten mikes, right?”

“Uh, yessir.”

Lee turned briefly to face his team. “Combat check, gentlemen. Round chambered, safety on, drop your rucks. We may have to move fast.”

Lee, Khan, Breezy, Bosco, Hendricks, and O’Neil set a quick pace with the rising sun at their backs.

* * *

Padgett-Smith waited nine minutes, then hefted the pistol again. She was disappointed in hearing no response but realized that her friends might not be within earshot yet.

Once again she ran the math. With ten rounds remaining she could fire the three-shot signal for thirty more minutes with one round left. Save the last one for yourself, she gloomed. Then she looked down at the shorty AK, mindful that it held thirty more rounds. At that moment, how any female could object to firearms was far, far beyond her.

She held her watch close, waited the final minute, and raised the Browning once more.

* * *

Another shot echoed off the rocks. Dualeh walked forward while Kassim raised a hand, signaling a stop. Again his men deployed to either side of the road, forming a rude skirmish line. Kassim thought to look at his wristwatch. He seldom gave much thought to time — it was either a precious gift or a useful commodity, depending upon circumstances. He had experienced events in which men literally lived a lifetime in a few ticks of the clock — and the celestial sweep hand came to an abrupt stop.

He had also witnessed strong men praying aloud to their deity for time to end.

However, there were occasions when one badly wanted chronological precision. Coordinating troop movements or noting the routine of guard changes could be most useful. In this instance, he thought he discerned a pattern. He stood to one side of the path, watching his Russian timepiece. The second shot came approximately sixty seconds after the first.

The third was exactly on schedule.

Dualeh was facing southwesterly, his educated ears sensing the compass arc of the gunshots. He raised his AK’s muzzle and said, “This way, brother.” Then he was jogging down the trail.

Kassim whistled to his men. He would lead them in a fast walk for the next several minutes, then stop to listen again.

* * *

Lee raised a hand. He sensed his five men kneeling in a semicircle behind him, weapons pointed outward. “You heard that?” he asked.

“Yes,” Khan replied. Both men checked their watches. “She is punctual, this lady.” He smiled beneath his well trimmed mustache. “Like clockwork.”

Lee grunted in appreciation of the humor. It was not what he expected of most Pakistani officers, who in his experience tended toward the studious. The team continued walking, gaining more ground before the next two shots.

At the third round, Lee stopped again and raised his pocket binoculars. He knew he was still too far to see the doctor but he wanted a better idea of the terrain. More to himself than to Khan he said, “She’ll probably be in the high ground where she can see us coming.”

“Or them,” Khan added.

With a start, Lee realized that CPS would have a hard time distinguishing friendlies from hostiles. Both sides dressed much alike and bore the same weapons. Without explaining, he broke into a trot, leaving the others to catch up.

* * *

Padgett-Smith capped her twelfth round thirty-eight minutes after the first. The sun was well up, but she had seen no indication of any people on the trail some 220 meters downslope. She holstered the Browning with its one remaining cartridge and picked up the AKS. She wondered how much of her precious ammunition she should continue expending with no result.

* * *

At the fourth set of shots, Kassim’s searchers had closed the distance toward the English woman’s rocky tor. His focus had increasingly been drawn to the most prominent overhang on the south side of the ravine. He turned to one of his men. “Koali, you speak English.” It was a statement but was meant as a question.

Achmed Koali, an erstwhile engineering student, stepped forward. “Yes, brother.”

“When they fire again, I will reply with three fast shots. You be prepared to call out.”

“What shall I say?”

Kassim’s face reddened in the slanting light. “Young fool! Just call to them. Ask where they are. Ask if they need assistance. Anything!”

Koali absorbed the mild rebuke with a nod and downcast eyes.

* * *

There they were!

Padgett-Smith caught the movement along the trail. Shadows appeared before the shapes of the men, their drab clothing blending with the surroundings. “Thank you, God!” she exclaimed aloud. She pointed the AK upward and fired three rounds spaced a few seconds apart.

Kassim stopped and turned his face upward to his left front. He could not see anyone but there was no doubt. The mysterious person or persons had to be somewhere near the military crest of the hill. He elevated his AKM and fired an identical response: three spaced rounds. Then he gestured to Koali.

The youngster raised a hand to his mouth. “Hello! Where are you?”