The Genesis Plague

by Michael Byrnes

  Smiling, she stood up and went to take a look at the impressive photo montage. It took only a moment before the pen began moving rhythmically across the notepad.

  ‘You tell the architect that’s how it’s going to be. Remind him that we’re the client.’ There was plenty of biographical material on that wall to please any reporter, Stokes thought: Randall Stokes front and centre with international dignitaries; Randall Stokes rubbing elbows with Hollywood power brokers; Randall Stokes shaking hands with secretaries of state, presidents and generals spanning three presidential administrations. He noticed that Ms Peters paused longest on the shot of Stokes striking a pose alongside the Pope.

  She continued along the wall to the portrait of a teenaged marine cadet in dress blues. Then came the photos of a twenty-something, more fit Randall Stokes with his war buddies, grinning and armed to the teeth amid the ravaged backdrop of half a dozen battle zones – Kuwait, Bosnia and Baghdad among them. She admired his glinting marine officer’s Mameluke sword mounted on a hook, then finished with the impassioned stills capturing Stokes in his most familiar role: preaching to the masses – his ever-swelling evangelical flock. In two other frames, those photos had morphed into Time magazine covers.

  ‘Don’t be afraid to use a little backbone, all right?’ Pause. ‘God bless you too.’ As he cradled the phone, he let out an exasperated sigh and folded his hands over his chest. ‘My apologies,’ he said to the reporter. ‘Been wearing too many hats lately.’ He rolled his eyes.

  ‘Not a problem,’ she said, and made her way back to the chair. ‘Still okay to use this?’ She pointed to the slim digital micro-recorder she’d set on the end of his desk.

  ‘Sure.’

  She hit the device’s record button.

  ‘Where were we?’ Stokes asked.

  ‘The megachurch,’ she reminded him, pointing with her pen out the wide plate-glass window at the nearly complete gleaming glass, steel and stone construction superimposed over the distant backdrop of the Mojave Desert Valley’s sprawling casino metropolis. ‘How most confuse it for a sports arena,’ she reminded.

  Stokes chuckled. ‘There will be no monster truck rallies or hockey games here, I assure you.’

  ‘Many call you a modern-day Joseph Smith – the proselytizing, the temple in the desert . . .’ she said, almost accusatorily with a tip of her left eyebrow.

  Stokes made a dismissive gesture and grinned. ‘Ms Peters, I didn’t transcribe the Word of God from golden tablets scrawled in hieroglyphics.’ Not exactly the truth, he thought. ‘We’ll let the Mormons make those proclamations.’

  The interview continued with innocent questions about the church’s tremendous growth and Stokes’s ambitious mission to transform faith not only in America, but in countries around the world – to ‘baptize the world in the name of the saviour, Jesus Christ – the only path to redemption and salvation’. She then asked probing questions about his ‘retirement’ from the military, which went largely unanswered. Next, the reporter tactfully solicited his perspective on the motivational lecture series he’d parlayed into a global ministry, and why his fresh message of revelation proved so timely for Christians who saw the US invasion of Iraq as fulfilment of End Times’ prophecy heralding Christ’s return.

  As Stokes anticipated, things soon turned serious when Ms Peters turned her queries to the contributions that funded both his global mission and this extraordinary construction project. Venturing into the minefield, the reporter had smartly turned up her charm. It began with some innocent nibbling on the tip of her pen – a mildly seductive act that Stokes had to admit was a potent distraction.

  ‘As you know, your past and current political affiliations have many speculating as to how the church raises its funds. There’s rumours that a major network is producing a scathing primetime exposé which suggests that large transfers have been deposited into your accounts. Transfers that can’t be traced –’

  Stokes held up a hand. ‘Ms Peters, let 60 Minutes speculate all it wants. Success always draws detractors. But I suggest you stick to the facts.’

  ‘Which are?’

  Feisty, he thought. He sighed, tapped his thumbs together. ‘Our major contributors and benefactors choose to remain anonymous,’ Stokes simply replied, ‘just how Christ himself would have wanted it.’

  ‘I see,’ she relented. Some more notes. She paused the micro-recorder. ‘Off the record . . . do you miss all that?’ She pointed with the pen at the military photos. ‘The action, the glory?’

  Spoken like a true civilian. ‘Memories of war aren’t like fond recollections of one’s first love.’

  ‘True. An ex-girlfriend might take your favourite sweatshirt and CDs . . . but not your leg.’

  It was common knowledge that Stokes’s military career derailed in 2003 when a bomb in the road outside Mosul had claimed his right leg just below the knee. However, Stokes could tell by her reddening cheeks that she was well aware that the thin line of etiquette had just been crossed. Smiling tightly, he replied, ‘I suppose you’re right. Every soldier leaves a piece of himself on the battlefield. Some of us, more literally so.’

  She nibbled the pen with more zeal and back-pedalled with, ‘It’s just so amazing how after all of that . . . with all that you saw . . . you found God. I’ve read that it was after your . . .’ a pause to hunt for the right word ‘. . . accident . . . that He began speaking to you. Is that true?’

  ‘That’s right. And I have no doubt you’ve also read that my critics attribute my revelation to post-traumatic stress disorder.’ Stokes’s pundits didn’t merely cite the mental and physical trauma he’d suffered from his violent disfigurement. They even went as far as to blame the drug pyridostigmine bromide, or PB, which had been given to US troops during the 1st Gulf War to counteract the effects of chemical agents, such as nerve gas. By the way she smiled, he could tell he’d stolen some of her thunder. ‘Utter nonsense,’ he said loudly for the micro-recorder.

  ‘So you were chosen by God? You’re a prophet?’

  ‘Something like that, I suppose.’ His posture became more guarded.

  The manner in which she now set down her pen implied that her next question would be off the record. ‘But you hear Him? When He talks to you, I mean.’

  ‘Loud and clear,’ Stokes soberly confirmed, casting his eyes heavenward.

  She stared at him in wonderment for a long moment. ‘Wow.’

  Now he could see her feline eyes subtly assessing him in impure ways. Charisma was like catnip for ambitious women like Ms Peters. Despite forty-six years and his mild ‘handicap’, he’d vigilantly maintained a physique that was nothing but lean muscle stretched over a wide six-foot frame. Strong jaw, a full head of hair that was still cropped into a high-and-tight, and a smooth bronze tan that made his green eyes flash. No doubt Ms Peters’s article would make note of his commanding presence. After all, there was no denying that the right image had buttressed his star power.

  She snatched up the pen again, turned on the micro-recorder, her starry gaze turning clinical once more. ‘How about all this recent economic and political turbulence? Do you think it benefits the Christian Evangelical movement?’

  Stokes shrugged. ‘Certainly humbles even the non-believers . . . forces introspection.’

  ‘Are the End Times here? Are scripture and prophecy being revealed?’

  He swivelled his chair, peered out the window to the distant city centre where construction cranes hung motionless over the skeletons of unfinished casino resorts. Though not in a literal sense, sulphur and fire were raining on Sodom and Gomorrah. ‘Best to assume that judgement can come at any day, any hour.’

  ‘Do you think God’s judgement will fall on terrorists, like Fahim Al-Zahrani, for past atrocities and the recent attacks orchestrated against religious monuments around the world?’

  The preacher’s expression turned severe.

  Two months ago, Fahim Al-Zahrani – Al-Qaeda’s newest top lieutenant and the man rumoured to be O
sama Bin Laden’s heir-apparent – had claimed responsibility for the most fearsome terror attacks since 9/11. With the industrialized nations still in the throes of global economic crisis and waning political support for an increased military presence in the Middle East powder keg, his timing had been perfect. He’d masterminded wide-scale attacks on soft targets with the express intent of unravelling the fabric of Western society. Al-Zahrani was like a patient torero weakening the bull for a final thrust of the sword.

  Stokes’s voice went down an octave as he replied, ‘Any man who sends suicide bombers into holy places like St Peter’s Basilica and Westminster Cathedral should expect eternal punishment beyond human comprehension. To murder innocents on such a grand scale is unconscionable, even by the standards of fundamentalist Islam. Regardless of what happens here, on this earth . . . whether perceived as justice or injustice . . . no manhunt, no supreme court, will ever compare to the wrath of God.’

  The reporter had to catch her breath before continuing. She held up her pen, cleared her throat, and said, ‘On that note . . .’ She skimmed her list of questions. ‘With the tide reversing on the recent troop withdrawals in the Middle East, some say we may soon embark on a modern Holy War. A new crusade between West and East. In your opinion, will military intervention ever change the dynamic in the Middle East?’

  His reply was anything but direct. ‘Not until every human being has accepted Christ as humankind’s saviour will the war for souls end.’

  Stalemate.

  The desk phone buzzed quietly – a ring-tone assigned to a secure, dedicated line. ‘Excuse me.’ Hiding his alarm, Stokes stiffly picked up the phone. He listened as the caller calmly reported without preamble: ‘They’ve found the cave.’

  Chirp. Delay.

  ‘I see,’ he replied. ‘Hold a moment.’ Stokes glanced up to the reporter. He covered the receiver and said to her, ‘I’m afraid we’ll need to stop here.’

  4

  IRAQ

  While Camel and Jam scoured the interiors of the four pickup trucks the Arabs had abandoned on the roadside, Jason strode towards the rectangular mobile command shelter his team had erected in east–west orientation at the bottom of the foothill. From a distance or from the sky, the structure’s black goat-hair sheathing and simple wood framework were easily confused for Bedouin – a purposeful ruse since Arabs shunned nomads in much the same way as Westerners spurned gypsies.

  However, nomads weren’t as common in the north as in southern desert regions like the Ash Sham, the Sahara, the Sinai and the Negev. Plus a Bedouin bayt, or family unit, typically travelled with women, children and small livestock such as sheep or goats. So it was no surprise when four months earlier the team had been approached by an overly eager Iraqi Security Force patrol unit. Luckily, a pair of marines had been shadowing the Iraqis, and Jason had pulled them aside to explain in great detail how they were all playing for the same team. The marines quickly herded the ambitious Iraqis into the Humvee and the patrol disappeared as quickly as it had come.

  Jason pulled back the door flap and dipped inside the tent’s cool interior.

  Provisions were stacked around its interior perimeter, leaving just enough room to accommodate three sleeping mats at nighttime (two men always remained awake and rotated watch duty). A section of the roof had been peeled back to let in some light. Crammed into a camping chair, Meat sat in front of a folding table that hosted his laptop and techno gear.

  Jason swilled some water from his canteen and watched Meat tap away on the laptop’s keyboard. The guy looked like the ultimate terrorist, with his chequered headscarf, cocoa tan, bushy jet-black beard and eyebrows, and determined dark eyes searing with suppressed rage. But, unlike the jihadists who simmered on rigid interpretations of the Qur’an or gummy Middle East politics, Dennis Coombs struggled to reconcile an alcoholic mother, an absentee father, sibling rivalry, rural poverty and a fiancée’s serial infidelity. All of which had made him easy pickings for the marine recruiters’ notorious ‘poverty draft’.

  ‘Any luck?’ Jason asked.

  ‘Yeah, actually. The outside was cooked.’ He motioned with his head to the cracked-open plastic casing. ‘But the inside was raw.’ Pinched between tweezers, he held up the extracted circular, wafer-thin computer chip that was no bigger than the fingernail on his pinky. ‘Just like I prefer my steak cooked: black and blue.’

  Jason smiled.

  Next, Meat examined each side of the chip with a magnifying loop. ‘No stamps. Nothing. The data’s probably encrypted too. RSA or something similar, I’d bet.’

  ‘What do you think it was used for?’

  ‘It’s no library card, I’ll tell ya that. I’m thinking it’s an IPS chip.’

  The Identity and Passport Service data chip, Jason recalled, was a smart card for biometric access systems – encrypted files containing a user’s retinal scan, fingerprints and other unique identifiers.

  ‘No worries, though,’ Meat said. ‘I’m sure we can crack it.’

  Jason watched as Meat hooked a rectangular USB device, no bigger than a deck of playing cards, into his laptop – a hi-tech data reader developed by the NSA, which Meat commonly used to skim embedded information off passports.

  Meat placed the chip on the reader’s flat surface.

  The software interface launched on the laptop screen. It took only seconds before the chip reader identified the protocol, matched its key, and brought up the data.

  ‘That was fast,’ Jason said.

  ‘There’s good reason to be worried about cyber terrorism.’ Scrolling through the biometric data, what looked like a passport photo came up on the screen – the face of an attractive, thirty-something female. Meat whistled. ‘Yummy.’

  Leaning in, Jason’s brow rumpled with confusion. ‘How can that be right?’ he said. The green-eyed brunette with a flawless complexion looked like a spokesmodel for Revlon. ‘That’s no Iraqi.’

  ‘Nope.’ Meat scrolled the data. ‘That’s Ms Brooke Thompson. Sorry, make that Professor Brooke Thompson. Female, as you can see . . . US citizen . . . Born April 19, 1975 . . . last clocked-in 15.02, May 2, 2003. No social security number, but her passport number’s here.’

  ‘What would she have been doing here?’ Jason aired his thoughts aloud.

  ‘And right after the Battle of Baghdad, in fact. This place was a battle zone back then.’

  ‘Transmit that data to the home office and ask them to send an agent immediately to find her and vet her.’

  ‘Got it.’

  Jason waited for him to wrap up the call on his sat-com, then encrypt the data file and bounce it off a satellite to Global Security Corporation’s Washington DC headquarters.

  ‘Anything else?’ Meat asked.

  Jason unclipped the binoculars from his neck strap, handed them to Meat. ‘Let’s have a closer look at some of the video I took earlier.’

  Meat patched the binoculars’ hard drive into the laptop with a fire wire. A new program launched onscreen. ‘Tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll freeze the image,’ Meat said.

  Jason leaned in close to review the playback. The high-resolution images were crystal clear. The frames skipped backwards until Jason spotted what he wanted. ‘There.’

  Meat hit a key to pause the image.

  ‘Zoom in on the tall guy in the middle.’

  ‘That Al-Zahrani?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  For a good minute, Meat replayed and advanced the footage. Satisfied that he’d found the best full frontal view of the guy’s face, he froze the image, dragged a frame over the head, and zoomed in. The enlargement pixellated before sharpening on the screen.

  Meat slumped back in his chair and gave his beard a long, hard stroke. ‘Fuck me, Google. You’re right. That’s definitely him.’

  ‘We need to be 100 per cent on this.’

  Meat held his hand out at the laptop. ‘That’s not a face to forget.’

  ‘Humour me and run facial recognition on it.’<
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  Huffing, Meat leaned forward again to work the keyboard. He opened the biometric software in a new window, imported the picture file, and initiated the analysis. The program deconstructed the photo using virtual lines that measured eighty nodal points between the irises, the ears, the chin and nose, and various other facial landmarks. Ten seconds later, the ‘face print’ was complete. Using an encrypted signal, he linked to the military’s satellite network and routed an inquiry to the FBI. Meat’s limited clearance enabled him to pull Al-Zahrani’s biometric stats from the agency’s database. Then he instructed the program to compare the biometric statistics.

  ‘As close as I’ve ever seen to a precise match,’ Meat reported. ‘See for yourself.’

  As Jason verified the results, excitement and concern came in equal measure.

  ‘Imagine if we catch this fucker alive,’ Meat said. ‘We’d be goddamn heroes. Not to mention the bounty. Shit. Ten mil? Forget this soldier-for-hire gig. We could all retire.’ He flitted his eyebrows.

  ‘Right. You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself,’ Jason scoffed. ‘The hunt’ gave them all purpose, and allowed them to exorcize their demons. Back home, a small fortune would do little to dispel the haunting memories that drove them here to begin with.

  Meat considered the dream, then dickered it down in his mind to settle for something more realistic. ‘I’d at least take some R&R . . . eat some cheese steaks instead of MREs and vermin roast. Maybe even shit in a toilet instead of a trench with sand flies nipping my ass. You know, take a dump with dignity.’