Russell Brooks - Pandora's Succession

Fox spewed his stomach contents into the sand a second time. Tears soon followed. He’d become a killer with a single-minded purpose-not the man Jessica was going to marry.

“Listen, buddy. You don’t look so great,” said Hiller. “Extraction’s supposed to be in precisely four minutes. The Chad border ain’t too far away. Are you sure you can handle the helicopter ride?”

Fox took out a handkerchief, dabbed his eyes, and then wiped his mouth. “I’ll be okay. It’s probably just traveler’s sickness.”

“Traveler’s sickness my ass. We’re getting you to a medic.” Hiller helped Fox get up. Fox walked back to join the other SEALs and looked at each of them. He didn’t know their personal stories, only their individual skills. Looking at them, he saw himself as he was five years ago. Those were the days when testosterone drove him, rushing into battle-whether he was rescuing hostages from Somalian pirates, or from other terrorist cells. Those were the days, when he killed an enemy, it was out of self-defense. Since Jessica’s death, self-defense for him was nothing more than a euphemism. It was only now that he began to realize this. It must be why he threw up.

A helicopter would be arriving soon to pick them up. He’d know by the time it landed whether or not he could continue with this life.

Novinsky Boulevard, 121099, Moscow, Russia, 12:03PM local time

The white-haired man twirled his pen as he gradually squeezed the phone harder by the second.

“Yes, I heard you the first time. Just remind them that we’re not responsible for the safety of their men or any breach in their security.”

“They’re arguing that the security breach came from our end,” said the man on the phone.

“Pandora was in their possession when it went missing. You tell the Sudanese officials that we have an endless supply, which we’ll sell to other clients that we regularly do business with. Let them know that if they want to continue doing business with us, they’ll have to guarantee that there won’t be any more security breaches, especially since it puts us at risk also. And tell them that whether we choose to accept them as clients again will be at our discretion.” He slammed the phone into its cradle. Bloody salespeople, don’t know when and how to control the clients.

He got up from his desk and walked over to the window. He was on the ninth floor of the modern office building at the corner of Novy Arbat and Novinsky Boulevard. Thirty years ago he never would have imagined working in a clandestine organization, much less being the leader of one of its cells-the October Cell-named after the month it was established.

There were other cells throughout Europe, mostly consisting of ex-intelligence and military officers. He told himself that nations rise and fall, but wars are common, and have been since the beginning of time. He mused that war would always yield great business. He might consider the fall of the Soviet Union, and his inactivity in the former KGB, as a mixed blessing. The knowledge and experience he had acquired had allowed him to help jumpstart the Arms of Ares, which had seen worldwide revenues of over four billion in the last eight years in arms sales. He expected those revenues would triple with Pandora in their possession.

There was a knock at the door. He stopped twirling the pen and inserted it into the breast pocket of his charcoal-gray suit.

“Enter,” he said, without taking his eyes off of the traffic below. Through the window, he saw the reflection of one of his staff members, closing the door behind him.

“Excuse me, sir. There’s been some troubling news.”

“If it’s about our loss in Darfur, I’m fully aware of it.”

“It’s not about Darfur, sir. It’s about our satellite laboratory.”

The white-haired man turned away from the window to face him. “What do you mean?”

“There’s been an attack. We’re not sure when, but it must have been recently.”

The white-haired man approached him slowly. “Pandora, is it safe?”

The man didn’t answer immediately. Either he didn’t know or he was afraid to tell him.

“Is it safe?” he yelled.

“We don’t know, sir,” the staff member said. “We got a distress signal that was cut off within seconds of it going off. When we tried to contact them, there was no reply.”

“Valerik, where is he?”

“He cannot be reached, sir.”

“Find out what happened there. I want some answers within the next half hour. I want you to also contact the unit and have them assembled and waiting for me at our usual rendezvous point. Have my car waiting for me downstairs.”

“Yes, sir.” The man then walked out the door, closing it behind him.

The white-haired man took out his pen and twirled it, trying to calm his agitation. This couldn’t have been Fox-again. If it was, he would’ve known in advance from his mole in the CIA, unless Fox caught onto him. But then, a more dreadful scenario occurred to him, and the more he thought of it, the faster he twirled his pen. Valerik stole Pandora to sell it himself, and it was the last remaining stock. If he was out there hiding, his cell would track him down and he would personally end the traitor’s life.

US Air Force Base at Entebbe Airport, Uganda, 5:40 PM local time

The two F-16 Fighter Jet escorts broke away as the C-130 Hercules turboprop aircraft made its final approach to the runway, touching down nearly ten minutes later.

“Welcome to Entebbe Airport, the latest in new American bases,” said Hiller.

“Any place where I could avoid being shot at for the next forty-eight hours will do,” said Fox, eager to get off the plane.

“Is this your first time here?”

Fox nodded. “I haven’t been to many bases here on this continent. Most of my time has been hopping around Europe and the Middle East.”

“Well, we ain’t going to be needing those bases much longer-the European ones, that is. The Soviet threat’s not the big issue-the terrorist threat is. Over the next few years the Pentagon’s going to be relocating those bases right here in Africa and the Middle East.”

Fox nodded. Makes sense. It’s a better way to keep a close eye on terrorists and oil resources.

Once the Hercules aircraft had taxied to a stop, Fox and the SEALs didn’t waste time unbuckling their seatbelts, getting up, and lining up at the back cargo door.

Hiller motioned Fox forward with his right arm. “Ladies first.”

“Dumb blondes in back,” Fox quipped, which was followed by laughter from the other SEALs.

Hiller patted Fox on the back. “It’s good to have you back. You had me worried back there in Darfur.”

“I’m fine. I told you not to worry.”

The back cargo door lowered and touched the runway. The heat hit him as though an oven door had just been opened. It wouldn’t be long before he’d need another cold shower once he got indoors. It’d been a while since Fox wore army fatigues. He remembered that he wore a similar pair while with Hiller after they had rescued Canadian and American hostages from pirates in the Indian Ocean in a joint SEAL-JTF2 mission a few years back. But it was the only clothing they provided him with back at the Chad-Sudan border base.

He looked at the red-colored sky that surrounded the setting sun over the forest. A commercial plane roared overhead as it took off. Soon afterwards he heard a Jeep approach. “Here’s our ride, right on time.”

“Correction, Warrant Officer. That’s our ride. We’ve got to get this here weaponized virus, or whatever you want to call, it out to the CDC compound northwest of here.” Hiller pointed to another Jeep that raced along the tarmac and screeched to a stop beside the other. “I believe that’s your ride coming right now.”