Pandora's Legion

As Koali turned to go, he heard Kassim giving orders to three men. “Keep low but work uphill behind that boulder. The doctor wants her alive.”

* * *

Come on, come on, you twit. Padgett-Smith mentally urged the young Pakistani to walk faster. She realized the incongruity: the longer she stalled the men below, the more time for Lee and Khan to find her. But the tension grated on her.

At length the Pakistani was back in talking distance, carrying his AK muzzle low. “Lady, my leader he does not have names. We can call on radio in truck.” He gestured vaguely to the east. “We call when you come down.”

A thought pushed its way to the front of her mind. “Who is your leader?”

The sharp, unexpected question caught Koali off guard. “What?”

“I said… who is your leader?”

Koali was nonplussed. He decided to take the path of least resistance. “He is Kassim.”

“What rank?”

“Rank?”

“Yes, rank, you clot! Sergeant, lieutenant? What rank in the army?”

“Oh, he is… captain.”

“Captain Kassim.”

“Yes, yes. Please, lady. Come.”

Nor bloody likely. Padgett-Smith flicked her safety to semi-auto. “Thank you for your offer. I believe I will stay here.”

Koali had enough of the foreign woman’s damnable games. He took two steps closer. “You come! You must come! Danger here!”

She kept her voice clear and firm. “No. I will stay.”

The gunman felt his hackles rising. “Woman! Enough! You must come!” He started uphill.

Padgett-Smith raised the Klimov’s muzzle and placed the front sight on the man’s chest. “Go away.”

Koali had been shot at but never threatened by a female, armed or otherwise. His eyes went saucer-wide as the 5 .45mm bore seemed to expand to 12-gauge diameter. Reflexively, he raised his own AK.

His guardian, still crouched in the depression fifty meters downslope, saw the apparently deadly pantomime. He responded as a fighting comrade would.

The first 7.62 round snapped past Padgett-Smith’s head, eight inches left. Frightened and angry, her own reflexes kicked in. She pressed her trigger twice.

* * *

Lee’s team heard the first three shots. After that, the hillside a few hundred meters ahead of them erupted with gunfire.

The SSI men deployed into a skirmish line and advanced as fast as the contradictory concerns of urgency and prudence dictated.

* * *

For the first time, Carolyn Padgett-Smith had made a life or death decision on behalf of herself. She briefly registered the fact that she felt coolly detached after shooting the young man with whom she had conversed. Then she was concerned with his partner, firing at her position from fifty meters downslope. The incoming fire from the group on the trail did not immediately bother her; it was rapid and ill directed.

Kassim hobbled on his prosthesis, trying to control his men’s fire. The distance was greater than normal and about thirty degrees uphill. He hoped that at least it would pin the she-devil to her boulder, allowing his flankers to gain position. He sent two more men wide to the right. He knew that the two teams might shoot one another, but it was worthwhile if it delivered the female scientist to Dr. Ali.

Though relatively safe from frontal fire, CPS realized that she was vulnerable on both sides. I’ll go back uphill, they can shoot at me in the open. But if I stay here they’ll surround me. She leaned out the left side of the rock and fired two rounds at the nearest gunman. Then, keeping the rock between herself and the shooters, she scampered uphill toward the next defensible position.

Dodging left and right, hearing rounds cracking past her and ricocheting off rocks, Padgett-Smith flopped into a depression sixty meters above her previous site. She tried to control her breathing, knowing she was doing a poor job. Fear aggravated the physical effort of running uphill, spoiling her concentration. She knew that the ammunition remaining in her rifle was as important as the blood in her veins: the curved magazine was growing lighter as she fired cautionary shots at vague figures even as her lungs experienced oxygen debt. She breathed in mouths full of mountain air, willing her heart to settle down.

A round snap-cracked from the right front, farther downslope. She looked over the top of her berm, trying to spot the shooter. He was well hidden. Her focus swung back to her previous boulder, where she thought that the English speaker’s partner might appear. So far he remained out of sight.

I’m so… winded. But can’t stay here. Must reach my night position. Last stand there. With an athlete’s ego, she willed herself onto her feet and moved again.

* * *

Kassim was almost livid. The men he had sent uphill to flank the English woman were acting like females themselves. Whenever she fired at them, the fighters went to earth. The uphill chase was taking far too long. He had to move two men to his rear to watch for the Americans who must have heard the shooting by now.

* * *

Padgett-Smith reached her goal with seventeen rounds to spare. Sliding beneath the rocky outcropping, she almost felt at home. Though she had never heard the term, she had chosen the military crest of the hill — the last defensible position before the physical peak. The overhang that had helped keep the wind away meant that the pursuers could not shoot at her from behind. They would have to approach from the front or sides, where she had a decent view from sixty to ninety meters.

Kassim’s two flanking teams converged on the outcrop from left and right. They had no way of coordinating their movements but realized that while one group fired at the woman’s position, the other could advance.

It worked — up to a point. The teenager rushing forward from her left was as healthy as he was young, and he dashed straight uphill toward a protected position.

Padgett-Smith swung on him, got three seconds’ tracking time, and pressed the trigger. The boy took an A- zone hit below the notch of the sternum and went down hard, his spine broken. For an instant he raised his head and the enemies locked eyes. From thirty-five meters the British doctor saw the Pakistani youngster mouthing unheard words. Then he went limp.

The boy’s death affected Kassim’s flankers in different ways. Of the four remaining, three were enraged and one grief stricken. The trio kept firing at the infidel’s position but she had proven herself: they had to respect the threat. The fourth sobbed aloud, repeatedly calling his brother’s name.

By alternating rushes, the three effective fighters tried to gain a favorable angle on the flanks. Each time one of them appeared, the English woman fired single shots, halting the advance or forcing a move to cover.

During a lull, CPS withdrew the rifle’s magazine. She saw three rounds, with one in the chamber.

Plus the salvation round in the pistol. Then she had a dreadful thought: What if it’s a dud?

No time to speculate. The mujahadin were moving again. She focused on her front sight as Tony had drummed into her so long, long ago at Credenhill. She decided to ignore the bullet impacts on the surrounding rocks. Two men were rushing her at once. She put her sight on the nearest one and fired twice. He ducked or dropped; she couldn’t tell. She swung on the other. He was so close. She fired once, twice, and felt the bolt lock back.

Carolyn Padgett-Smith dropped the AKS and grabbed her Browning, knowing what she needed to do.

What if it’s a dud?

* * *

A sonic wave swept uphill from the trail: a surging, roiling volume of gunfire.

Lee’s team arrived within range of the al Qaeda men with mixed assets: good position, almost equal numbers, plenty of ammo, and short of breath.

Kassim’s rear guard had seen them coming, fired several hasty shots, and dashed back to the trail. The