Pandora's Legion

The women’s facility was empty. Mirrors shone; tile gleamed; blood drops tracked the floor. Keegan looked behind him—Always check your six in a combat zone—but he seemed alone. He eased against the wall, protecting his back while willing his breath to abate. He used the opportunity to pull on his respirator, then lowered his valise to the floor.

Deep breathing; almost sobbing. Far end of the room.

Keegan backtracked to the entrance and took a quick look. He saw neither Marsh nor Mannock, and no cops or security people. The crowd was still writhing inward upon itself. Keegan took off his shoes and padded to the last stall. The door was closed but no one seemed inside. The strained breathing told him that Alpha was there, probably perched on the commode, catching his breath.

Two college-age women came in, chattering animatedly about the mysterious confusion. They saw the gloved and goggled male and stopped in their tracks. Keegan’s first instinct was to raise a finger to his face, signaling silence, but he had a better idea. He crooked a finger at them in a come-hither gesture. They screamed and ran for the exit.

Keegan backed into a stall, left the door mostly closed but still ajar, and waited.

Hazrat Sial appeared from Keegan’s right. Drawn by the prospect of more infidels, he broke cover and stalked carefully down the line, proceeding past Keegan.

Shoes on the floor. Men’s shoes. In the women’s room.

Sial pivoted on one foot, raising the spray bottle as Keegan tackled him. They went down hard, rolling once. Keegan felt a stabbing pain as the back of his head impacted the tiled floor. Damn! Hurts! Gotta keep in the fight. He shook off the blow, increased the pressure of his grip on Alpha, and began leveraging an advantage. Though younger, the terrorist was smaller and weaker than the American. But Sial possessed an inherent advantage: he fought to die while his opponent wanted to live. Keegan got hold of the Pakistani’s wrists and rolled him onto his back. Now on top, the aviator had neutralized the fight. It occurred to him that he was like the proverbial Great Dane that chases sports cars — what to do when you catch one?

Keegan could not release either hand without giving Sial a no-miss shot with the bottle or the knife. His mind racing, the erstwhile sub hunter decided to accept the lesser hit in order to prevent the greater damage. He shifted his right hand to his opponent’s left, and began a heartfelt effort with both hands to snap the younger man’s wrist. The spray bottle was constantly in motion. Keegan felt the mist against his exposed skin, behind the respirator and below the goggles. At some point in the fear and rage and violence, he realized that the bottle was empty.

Gotcha, ya little bastard.

Without intellectualizing it, Keegan employed an engineering concept: opposite torsion. He twisted in different directions with each hand, finally forcing the knife from Sial’s grasp. The terrorist now was spitting into his assailant’s masked and goggled face, and when the knife hit the floor, Keegan used his right fist to smash the man’s nose. Momentarily stunned, Hazrat Sial did not see the infidel scoop up the knife. The living martyr only glimpsed its arcing descent an instant before its point entered his trachea.

Hazrat Sial, age twenty, transitioned to full-fledged martyrdom on the floor of a women’s restroom far from Baluchistan.

36

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Cabinet members seldom bother reading press releases, but Secretary Bruce Burridge wanted to screen this one. He adjusted his reading glasses and read the draft press release. It was the product of two deputy undersecretaries in his outer office.

The Department of Homeland Security has completed its investigation of the alleged terrorist incident at Phoenix International Airport two weeks ago. After consulting with other federal, state, and local agencies, DHS has concluded that original reports about terrorist activities were issued before a thorough evaluation was concluded.

Following dozens of interviews with airport officials, security officers, and air travelers, DHS determined what actually occurred during a brief but confusing disturbance at Sky Harbor Airport on the nineteenth. The incident was limited to one terminal, and passengers on other airlines were not subjected to unusual delays.

The only fatality was a foreign national who apparently was carrying forged documents. His identity has not been positively established, though competent observers testified that he exhibited signs of mental instability. Federal investigators concluded that the man, reportedly in his twenties, was not an airline passenger and never breached the security gates for any of the airlines in that terminal.

The only confirmed injuries were inflicted on six people who sustained knife wounds. Most were treated and released from area hospitals that evening, though one woman was being held following surgery. All are expected to recover.

Homeland Security Secretary Bruce Burridge praised alert travelers and the quick response of security personnel in limiting the potentially deadly effects of the apparently deranged man’s attack.

Media reports about chemical or toxic sprays wielded by the assailant are not sustained by available evidence, Burridge added.

Burridge grasped his trademark green pen and made a notation. “OK for release. BB.” He dropped the sheet in his out basket.

The secretary plopped his spectacles onto the desk and leaned back in his overstuffed chair. According to the medicos, the Marburg incubation period had passed, and then some. Fortunately, none of the exposed individuals had come down with the disease, largely because nothing was found on the assailant’s knife blade. The spray with diluted blood was ineffective, but penetrating wounds could have carried the filovirus deep into living tissue. Like that gallant British lady — something Smith.

Burridge briefly mused about the late Hazrat Sial. That name would never be made public, nor would the body ever be claimed. It could not be — the infected corpse had been incinerated within hours and the ashes given a proper burial.

The U.S. Government occasionally had need of patriotic Muslim clerics.

SSI OFFICES

“That’s quite a list,” Wolf muttered.

“It keeps growing,” Derringer replied. “I guess it always will.”

“Well, at least we don’t have to use anonymous stars like the memorial at Langley.”

Derringer nodded, making no comment. Both men had conducted professional dealings with the CIA. The gray stars precisely carved into the marble wall bore silent tribute to the casualties the agency sustained in the shadow world of the Cold War.

The two friends looked again at SSI’s honor roll, newly updated in the briefing room: seventeen men and two women killed in the company’s employ. Five had died in accidents — three in an Iraqi helicopter crash — proving that combat often involved the lesser risk.

Wolf knew that one name was missing. He looked at his friend and boss. “Emily’s family still won’t let her name go up?”

Derringer shrugged. “I guess not. Her brother said they’d let us know if her mother changed her mind.”

“I thought they’d be glad that somebody wants to remember her.”

“Yeah, you’d think so, Joe. I mean, she was doing a really fine job in Mexico, beyond the translator work. But…”

“I know. We have to honor the family’s preferences.” Wolf caught the scowl on Derringer’s face, knew what was behind it, and risked a question. “Mike, I never knew. Did the police ever catch the guys who took her?”

Derringer shot a sideways glance. “No.” After a pause he added, “Not the federales, that is.”

Wolf was satisfied with the partial answer. He had heard reports, and he could read between the lines of expense vouchers. There were thinly disguised entries from Mexico and Guatemala for three months after Emily Castillo-Beltran had disappeared on assignment. Michael Derringer had a long memory — and SSI had a long reach.