Pa'an

Ancient mountains of gneiss and granite form a natural barrier between Spain and France. Older than the Alps, with deep, hidden valleys and long, stretched ridges penetrated by only a few passes at high elevations, the Pyrenees held memories of daunting journeys and heroic acts. Herodotus claimed that Princess Pyrene, daughter of the Gallic King Bebryx, gave hospitality to Hercules in a village near Pico D’Aneto, a hogback mountain reaching over 11,000 feet into the region of permanent snows. Hercules, in a characteristic drunken rage, repaid his hostess by raping and killing her. Much later, the French legendary hero Roland made passage across the mountains at a place that still bears his name, La Breche de Roland. Charlemagne’s giant warrior diplomat, Thurien, was dispatched across this same pass to make, or force, a treaty with a Spanish king, but Thurien got trapped in the mountains by an early blizzard and was weathered in until spring, thus losing the opportunity and forcing Charlemagne into war.

Amidst the rugged trails and cataracts of this range are scattered people who spoke neither French nor Spanish, but Basque, Catalan, Arragonese and Occitan. Nestled into the Eastern portion, within the drier climate zone of the Mediterranean, lies the Principality of Andorra. Apart from a few flat valleys, Andorran villages run up nearly vertical streets paved with stone, and lined with towers and houses built out of head-sized rocks by patient and skilled native masons.

There are no airports in Andorra. The Citation jet landed at a private airport in Spain, at La Seu D’Argell, on runway 24, two hours after local dawn. Jag and his team were met by a fleet of black SUV’s and a team of mercenaries led by Captain Antoine Lederman, composed of well-armed and experienced former Basque separatist soldiers from the ETA, IRA and Cosa Nostra. Jag sized up the commando leader, who seemed a little offbeat for a soldier.

“Captain Lederman, I’m Jag Kunstler. Call me Jag, please. These are my people.” He swept his arm around to encompass Deepak, Sara and Elexi. “The crates are our critical payload and contain sensitive electronic equipment. We’re going into those mountains to take over a forward position, hopefully lightly defended. How many men do you have here?”

The Captain was a tall, rangy fellow with an impressive auburn cookie duster that hid his upper lip. He had a slight squint, as if he was taking aim at you through an invisible gunsight. His pants and jacket were straight out of Soldier of Fortune magazine - high-tech fabrics with enough pockets, straps and Velcro to drive a pickpocket insane. None of those pockets was empty. His headpiece was a leather watch cap with crossed rifles and red number 7 logo of Strategy Seven Company. A long woolen muffler trimmed in leather the same color as his moustache was thrown back over his shoulders to give clearance to his sidearm, an expensive Kimber 1911 with white linen phenolic handles. He just let Jag complete his visual inspection and gave him a slow grin.

“What you expected, ah, Jag? My men call me Leathers.” He crossed his arms and waited.

“OK, Leathers it is. You as good as your reputation?”

“Well, I’m still alive so whatever you heard, I’ve got to be better than that by now. I’ve got 20 men in this squad. Let me introduce you.” He bellowed to the men handling baggage and several carrying bullpup repeating shotguns that were obviously posted as guards, “Form up for inspection,”

Within a few minutes the ranks of mercs stood in an orderly crescent. No one looked hurried but there were no stragglers. Jag was impressed.

“Sergeant Honker is my next in command,” pointing to a burly fellow in a T-shirt with a crooked nose. “This is Wally Sparks, our electric guy, and Ralph, he calls himself a cook.”

Awe, Leathers, c’mon. Sir, my name is Jack MacDonnell and no one ralphs after I feed ‘em.”

“Jack Mac, then,” Jag grinned.

“Here are Joyce and Janey. Don’t shake hands with them, you’ll lose your arm.” Joyce and Janey had huge arms that ended in equally enormous hands. The guards wore tattoos of naked women, one named Joyce and the other Janey.

“Sal, Marco, Giorgio and Fat Frank are all Sicilian. We, ah, liberated them from the Cosa Nostra.”

“Sorry Sam, here and Patrick, Devan, Big Brent, Reilly and Ian claim to be Irish. Say a few words, lads.”

“Fuykin’ A, how’s that?” replied Big Brent, who was the smallest one in the group, and probably weighed 20 stone, all of it bone and gristle. “Sorry, sor, he’s an animal,” said Sorry Sam.

“We’ve got Kenny on comms, Mike the mechanic, Houdini, our breacher and explosives guy, Doper Doc our medic and chemical warfare expert, Flintlock and Mouse, our rangers and sharpshooters.”

Leathers led Jag over to a lorry covered with tarps. “Have a look in here. We’ve got a pair of Barrett miniguns, a couple of RPG’s, and four 50 millimeter sniper rifles with special ammo.” He opened a metal ammo case the size of a breadbox. “Copper armor-piercing rounds, shaped charges. Here are kinetic rounds, spent uranium. These are phosphorus. Hate ‘em, but sometimes there isn’t any other choice.” The range of illegal and impossible to get military weapons left Jag shaking his head. Did they just drive across the border with this arsenal?

“Truly impressive, Captain Leathers. Truly impressive.” He recalled something about the miniguns: portable, accurate Gattling guns that spewed 50 caliber rounds the size of Coke bottles at the rate of 3000 rounds per minute. There were many boxes of belt and cartridge ammo for them.

“Just Leathers, if you don’t mind, Jag. We’re not big on ranks in the Company. The men know each other and they know how to take orders.”

Under the fussy direction of Deepak, they loaded Aura’s crates into the back of a Land Rover while Sara and Elexi sank gratefully into the plush leather upholstery. Jag took the wheel and led the expedition for half an hour northeast on the twisting highway, finally branching off on a gravel road. The next few hours were spent navigating switchbacks, gullies and precipices leading to the fenced region of an abandoned iron mine. The last stretch was up a steep hill and was blocked by a timbered gate. The mercenaries simply blasted the lock with a 12-guage shotgun and Jag shoved the heavy hinged gate aside with the Land Rover’s bumper. A waterfall lunged off the side of the mountain in a cold, rainbow spray. Close by, partly hidden by the waterfall, a mine entrance gaped out of the side of the mountain, a mouth ready to swallow all comers. The mercs swarmed the entrance, taking no fire and clearing the entrance for Jag and his lab people. They found and captured only a pair of guards, who were duly taped, tied and dumped into one of the SUV’s.

Good, thought Jag, this location was not expecting visitors. He thought back to the day Aura had asked Elexi to go shopping for her gown. Mentor’s group had no way of knowing that Elexi’s cell phone text message had been traced to this location by Aura. Jag glanced at the satellite antenna array on the top of the mountain and sent two men up to secure it with orders to sever the antenna cables without destroying the antennas themselves. Motioning them to silence, he led the lab team inside.

Beyond the guard booths hidden inside the entrance, the tunnels showed evidence of Mentor’s indulgence. The walls were covered in stone and topped by a beamed wooden ceiling. There were offices, bunk rooms and a well-equipped galley in a side corridor. Dead ahead, the corridor slanted down, and a surface covered in paving stones showed evidence of heavy traffic. The corridor ended in a set of heavy wooden doors with iron hinges. Jag thought they looked like the entrance to a medieval castle, or Dr. Caligari’s dungeon.

The mercenaries had set up one of the Barrett miniguns and were about to destroy the door when Jag motioned them to stop. He waved them to either side of the door and toward positions in the corridor behind him. He motioned Deepak to stand well back and had Sara pull Elexi away to a safe distance. Then Jag simply knocked on the door.

The door creaked open enough for a wiry red haired fellow in woolen vest, lederhosen and horn rimmed glasses to come out and close the door behind him. “You must be Jaeger Kunstler. I’m Dr. Roald Maartine, at your service.” Dr. Maartine spoke in a quiet voice with a heavy unidentifiable accent. He looked around nervously and seemed to develop a tic when he saw the heavy artillery pointed at the door. Jag answered something that sounded like “Si, Dottore,” and motioned Deepak to come forward. “This is Dr. Deepak Advani.”

At this, the red-haired fellow got very effusive, “Dr. Advani, I’m highly honored to finally meet you. I’ve followed your work for years, especially your Sharpie designs and methods. Please excuse me for not greeting you at the main gate. My, umm, employer is not aware that you were coming.”

“Deliberately, I might add,” scowled Jag.

Deepak was slightly embarrassed, but obviously pleased, as Dr. Maartine pumped his hand vigorously. “Very good, sir, very good. Are you in the AI field as well?” Jag motioned the doctors to keep their voices down.

“On the fringes, I would say. My area is neurology and cybernetics. I’m a physician.”

“Neurology and cybernetics?” Deepak looked at Jag, “What do we have here?”

“Better let me go in first, Deepak,” whispered Jag, “Roald, here, is indicating trouble.”

Deepak, deeply mystified, waited for them to pass through the armored entrance. The heavy door opened a crack, admitting the red-haired doctor and Jag. Deepak followed cautiously. Inside was a complete surprise, a large, spotless white room with excellent lighting, every surface clean, and without visible clutter. The inside of the door was a white steel surface like the inside of a vault, with triple seals – an airlock, or something similar. Two white, armored equipment cabinets sat in the center with a white steel console along one side. There was a camera on a tripod, and it tracked them as they entered. The walls were white, and twenty feet above him the rest of the tall cavern was hidden behind a heavy black grating.

A familiar precise, raspy voice nearly shocked Jag out of his shoes, “Well, well, Jaeger Kunstler. Roald, you’re treachery does not surprise me. I’ve been expecting you since I haven’t heard from my original in Geneva, nor from Ogu. I’m quite disappointed you did not arrive sooner. But perhaps you did not know about me until Dr. Maartine informed you?”