Pandora's Legion

Gunny Foyte grasped the implications; frequently he could read between Frank Leopole’s lines. “But our Latin American team is committed, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. We have discussed pulling Julio’s people back but even if we did, they would need days to reposition, get briefed, and learn the bio gear.” He motioned around the hangar. “Whereas each of you…”

“Already knows about Marburg.”

“Quite correct, Gunny.” Mohammed rarely used the familiar title, but this time he wanted to make a point: unit cohesion. “You… we… have worked together and we know each other’s moves, as you say. That is why SSI is asking you to extend your contract for as much as two more weeks.”

Bosco raised a hand. “Excuse me, sir. I mean, does the same scale apply over here?”

Omar Mohammed was fluent in colloquial American. He smiled to himself: Gotcha. He looked to Derringer.

“Yes, Mr. Boscombe. Everyone who re-ups will work for the same bonus: foreign pay, combat pay, and the bonus for exceptional hazards. Full insurance coverage continues. That’s definite.”

Leopole and Mohammed exchanged knowing glances. They knew that Mike Derringer would wrest the extra funds from the board of directors if he had to mortgage the Arlington building to do it. However, both felt it far more likely that the United States Government had already committed to the extra funds.

Foyte looked at Leopole and winked.

Bosco glanced at Breezy and grinned hugely. Both imagined themselves on a clothing-optional beach carpeted with Victoria’s Secret and SI models.

Jeffrey Malten thought of a comfortable house with one woman: The Woman. Whomever and wherever she was. He said, “When do we need to decide, sir?”

Derringer was ready for that. “Before you leave this hangar, son. We need a team in Arizona tomorrow.”

Derringer turned his attention to Terry Keegan again. “I understand you’ve flown about fourteen hours in less than two days. How are you guys holding up?”

“We’re okay, Admiral. Legally there’s no problem because we’re under Part 91 regs. As long as we’re corporate rather than commercial we can pretty much set our own hours.”

“Would it help to hire another crew just as backup?”

“Well, that could be a problem on short notice. Not many corporate guys are current on the Jurassic Jet these days. Maybe I can find some freighter dogs, though.”

“Okay. Tell them we’ll pay top hourly rate and buy their return fare.”

As Derringer walked away to consult with Leopole, Keegan turned to his copilot. “You know, Eddie, in all my time in the Navy, nobody ever asked if I felt okay to fly. I was expected to down myself, but nobody ever asked.”

Marsh grinned. “Nice to know somebody cares, ain’t it?”

34

COCHISE COUNTY, ARIZONA

Agent Runnells needed a pit stop.

Based on fourteen years of Border Patrol experience, Robert Runnells knew that around 0100 hours, he would have to stop somewhere to relieve the pressure in his bladder. His wife and doctor both told him that he drank too much coffee — the nightly caffeine intake did more harm than good. Privately he was grateful for his swing shift assignment: he had worked graveyard before and that was a non-starter.

“Ah, Katie, pull over, will you?”

Agent Branch knew the drill by now. In the two weeks she had been partnered with the veteran, she had developed a grudging admiration for his professionalism, if not for his un-PC attitudes. She considered it a definite sign of progress when Bob Runnells had suggested that they alternate driving the Dodge SUV.

Branch slowed and turned off the packed-dirt road. In deference to her training officer’s thin veneer of modesty, she turned off the lights but left the engine running. Runnells opened the right-hand door and exited, walking twelve paces rearward.

Katie Branch rolled down her window and looked at the sky. One nice thing about USBP work: it allowed an agent to enjoy an uncluttered view of God’s handiwork. She smiled to herself. Burly, curmudgeonly Bob Runnells believed in a supreme being but fortunately he kept the evangelical rhetoric to a minimum.

Agent Branch did not share his confidence in a higher power. Between them, the Baptist and the agnostic had worked out a tenuous truce. Tonight the stars were clear as diamonds on black velvet, twinkling at Kathryn Branch across thousands of light years.

Sometimes there really did seem to be a Plan.

* * *

Sixty meters south of the parked SUV, three men watched with rapt attention. Their night vision equipment — Gen III — was adequate for their purpose. Fourth-generation NVGs afforded more clarity and detail, but the price also soared commensurately. Tracking La Migra was a professional necessity, but smuggling was a business and, like any firm, the one run by Pablo Ramirez tried to keep the overhead to a minimum.

Lying atop a hummock, Ramirez scanned the area to either side of the white and green Dakota. After a few moments his partner whispered, Quantos?

Ramirez held up two fingers. Dos.

By tacit consent, they edged downward, reaching the bottom of the rise. Ramirez had seen one man relieving himself while the other remained in the vehicle. The leader signaled to his team: We wait. It should not be long.

Getting across the border had been relatively easy. A few minutes’ work with pliers and wire had removed a section of cyclone fence nearly one meter wide. Previously prepared for that purpose, it had been replaced upon crossing to the American side. The egress route half a kilometer away was similarly ready. Even in daylight, one had to look closely to pick out the clipped segment.

Ramirez settled down to wait. At twenty-nine he was a fifteen-year veteran of his trade; in that time he had learned the ultimate value of patience. It was his major advantage over the Norteamericanos. For all their wealth and vehicles and helicopters and surveillance gear, they lacked his sense of time, the most valuable commodity on earth. It was an asset to be accumulated, saved, and expended when profitable.

Of course, it also helped to buy information now and then.

Ramirez gave a tight-lipped grin in the shadow of the hummock. The Yanquis’ new intelligence structure, intended to produce greater efficiency, had yielded new vistas. Ramirez had predicted that with greater information sharing among federal and state agencies, more windows would open on the American government’s operations. Ramirez’s uncle, who taught the boy his trade, had always been an advocate of informed planning. Were he still living, Tio Guillermo would be astonished at the extent and the means of acquiring intelligence about one’s enemies.

That was, after all, how Ramirez knew that this stretch of border would be lightly patrolled tonight. Two groups of emigrants led by expendable coyotes ensured that most of the Yanquis’ attention was focused on areas well east. It was just another part of the overhead.

* * *

Bob Runnells finished “wringing out the sock” and walked back to the SUV. He opened the door, illuminating the dome light, and Katie Branch could not resist a jibe. “Feeling better, sir? A couple pounds lighter?”

The senior agent summoned up a loud, clear belch. “Why, yes. Thank you for asking. And how’s your itty-bitty bladder?”

She responded with a dramatically sour expression. “Men!”

“We’re disgusting, ain’t we?”