‘You should take a break,’ Jason said to Hazo in a low tone. ‘Have something to eat with the guys.’ He pointed to the cave entrance where Meat, Camel and Jam were blissfully spooning rehydrated beef stroganoff from foil packs.
Hazo sighed wearily and nodded. Then he went over to join the others.
‘Looks to me like another hiding place for evidence of Saddam’s genocide,’ Crawford said.
‘No,’ Jason said. The only similarity he saw here was the sheer number of bones. ‘Doesn’t look anything like Saddam’s handiwork.’
‘How so?’ Crawford challenged.
‘First off, not one of the skulls we’ve seen on that screen shows signs of execution. No bullet holes, fractures—’
‘Hey, smart guy, Sarin doesn’t leave its mark on bones,’ Crawford countered smartly.
Crawford was right. Sarin attacked the nervous system synapses. So once a victim’s soft tissue decomposed, evidence of the toxin would be erased. ‘There aren’t any clothes on those bones. No jewellery, nothing. How do you explain that?’
‘Maybe they burned the clothes, Yaeger,’ Crawford said. ‘Maybe they were a bunch of sick perverts who liked playing games with naked Kurds. Does it really matter? And we both know that soldiers have sticky fingers, would have confiscated any jewellery and valuables. For all we know, these bones might have been exhumed from another site and moved here for safekeeping.’
Jason wasn’t buying the colonel’s argument, but held back a rebuttal. Crawford was clearly determined to see things his way.
‘Wait . . .’ the engineer interjected. ‘Look at this,’ she said.
Crawford and Jason turned their attention back to the screen.
‘See this?’ she said, pointing to something on the wall just to the right of where the bot had entered the cave. ‘Looks similar to the pictures and writing on the wall of the entry tunnel.’
Jason examined the image. A section of the wall had been hewn flat, then covered in relief images and lines of wedge-shaped text.
‘More pictures and scribble,’ Crawford said. ‘Let’s cut the—’
But the colonel was cut short by a bellowing blast that echoed out from the cave and shook the ground.
39
MISSOURI
Professor Brooke Thompson stared out the jet’s cabin window at the angular patchwork of docile farmland that blanketed the flat Midwest landscape in squares and circles hued in russet and ochre. The layout repeated itself as far as the eye could see, interrupted only by a random village or a grove of naked trees surrounding a rural home.
Even here, far from encroaching cities, humankind had dramatically altered the environment to suit its needs and ensure survival. Come spring, the fields would be sowed with plant seeds not native to this land. Over the centuries, America’s hardy varieties of wheat, oats and various other grains had been imported from Europe. And long before those food staples had been transplanted in European soil and selectively bred over millennia, they’d been naturally thriving in the Middle East’s Fertile Crescent – a veritable paradise for early humans.
Similarly, horses, cows, sheep, chickens and pigs – none of which had been native to the Americas – were brought in by early European settlers. But every one of these domesticated animals and beasts of burden originated from the Middle East.
The same pattern applied to humans themselves. Over 60,000 years ago, the first hunter-gatherer groups ventured out from North Africa and crossed the land bridge into the Middle East (an exodus across the Sinai long before Moses fled Egypt) to embark on their intercontinental migrations.
Though she marvelled at how this jet so smoothly cut the air to move her across a continent in mere hours, humans had been moving around the globe for millennia before planes existed – first by foot, then on the backs of animals, then by boats and ships and trains. Technology had quite literally sped things along. Technology had even permitted modern cities, like Las Vegas, to rise up in the heart of a desert.
All this moving around, she thought. All this trading of ideas and things.
This brief reflection on the pace of progress had her contemplating the fate of the ancient Mesopotamians who’d once inhabited Iraq’s northern mountains. They too possessed sophisticated technology. But where had they gone after the floods had for ever changed the land? Did they go west into Europe? Or did they trek east to India or China? What happened to them?
The bigger mystery was that their incredibly sophisticated language hadn’t made the journey from that cave. If it had, it would have spread like wild fire and set commerce and technology on a fast-track. The world as humans now knew it could be fundamentally different – possibly far more advanced.
Why hadn’t they brought their language with them?
The cave etchings chronicled mass devastation. But could they all have died in the floods? Even the fastest rise in rivers, the most aggressive deluge, would have granted ample time for the Mesopotamians to flee the region. Then again, not all of them would have had the ability to write; only a handful of scribes would have been trained in the language. So it was plausible that the scribes who had stayed behind to complete their work in the cave subsequently drowned in the flood waters.
It amazed Brooke how such seemingly isolated events could ripple through human history.
‘Here you go,’ Flaherty interrupted.
Brooke turned as Flaherty set a plate and can of soda on the table in front of her.
‘Turkey and provolone on wheat,’ Flaherty said, pointing to the sandwich. ‘The best I could do. I saw some chips and cashews in the galley too . . .’ He thumbed towards the front of the plane.
‘No, this is perfect, thanks,’ she replied gratefully. ‘I feel like I should be leaving you a tip.’
‘Very funny.’ Flaherty settled into the comfortable leather cabin chair opposite hers. ‘Not too shabby, eh?’ he said, raising his eyebrows and circling his gaze around the jet’s spacious, sleek interior, aromatic with new-car smell. The rich furnishings included two mahogany tables inlaid with chequerboards of onyx and pearl, a fifty-two-inch LCD television, a fully stocked wet bar and leather divans.
‘Sure beats flying coach,’ she admitted. For Brooke, the jet further confirmed GSC’s deep pockets and clout.
‘I could sure get used to this. Wicked nice.’ He cracked open his can and swilled some cola.
‘I take it this is the first time you’ve been on this jet?’
‘First time,’ he confirmed. ‘This treatment is usually reserved for VIPs, not the peons.’
‘Well then I guess I should feel honoured.’
A phone suddenly rang and Flaherty had to look around before spotting the portable handset mounted in the fuselage wall.
‘I guess that’s for us,’ he said, getting up to retrieve the phone.
‘The odds are in our favour,’ she said.
‘Agent Flaherty here,’ he responded into the handset.
Pause.
‘Wow, that was fast,’ he said, turning to Brooke and giving a thumbs-up.
While eating her turkey sandwich, Brooke watched Thomas Flaherty for a solid three minutes as he kept the phone to his ear and jotted away on his mini notepad. She caught herself examining Flaherty’s hands for a wedding ring.
Who were these people? she wondered. How could they simultaneously work for the government and outside of it? Justice certainly had many faces, and checks and balances were needed. Even the watchers needed watching, she decided.
Flaherty ended the call and returned the phone to its mount on the fuselage wall and came back grinning.
She spread her hands. ‘So?’
‘Good stuff,’ he said, sitting. ‘Remember back in 2008 when the FBI nailed that guy for mailing anthrax-tainted letters to a couple of senators right after 9/11?’
She nodded. On the coat-tails of the terror attack of September 11, 2001, it was hard to forget the frenzy resulting from the incident that killed five and infected seventeen others dur
ing September and October 2001. Letters containing refined anthrax had been mailed to Washington, New York and Boca Raton. She recalled that network news offices were among the targets, including ABC, CBS and NBC.
‘Okay. Well, turns out the guy, Bruce Ivins, had been a senior biodefence researcher at USAMRIID. He was working on a vaccine for anthrax . . . and supposedly wanted to test it out in a real-life simulation. Bit of an eccentric . . . wound up dead before he was formally charged. Officially from suicide, unofficially murdered. Anyway, after those investigations implicated USAM-RIID, Fort Detrick set out to account for every vial in the Infectious Disease unit’s inventory. Took them four months to complete it. By June 2009, over 70,000 samples had been catalogued . . . 9,000 of which had not been previously documented in the agency’s database. Everything from Ebola to’ – he paused to check his notes – ‘stuff called “equine encephalitis virus”. And among the overlooked samples were some very interesting specimens procured by one Colonel Frank Roselli.’ He looked at her and smiled. ‘Or, just plain “Frank”.’
‘Wait. Frank? Our Frank?’
He held up a hand, and said, ‘Wait, it gets better.’ He referred to his notes. ‘In late 2003, Colonel Roselli was heading up the Infectious Disease lab at USAMRIID, but was asked to step down after it was discovered that he was overseeing unauthorized tests on live animals.’
‘What kind of tests?’
‘Didn’t say. But the important part is this: the specimens Roselli brought into Fort Detrick’s bio labs all originated from a cave excavation in northern Iraq.’
‘No way.’
‘Way. And . . .’ Flaherty put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. ‘When my office tried to contact him at home a little while ago, they were told by a babysitter that just this morning Frank Roselli wrapped his car around a telephone pole in Carver Park, Nevada. Only a few miles from Vegas.’
‘My God . . .’ she gasped. ‘That’s awful.’
But Flaherty had more to tell. ‘So my office contacted the coroner, who said that no official cause of death has been determined. Of course, they suspect he had a heart attack at the wheel. But I think we’d both agree that foul play shouldn’t be dismissed.’
‘Can’t be coincidence,’ she muttered. ‘God, if they sent someone for him too . . . How high does this thing go?’
‘Pretty high.’
‘Exactly what samples did Frank send back from the cave? Had to be organic specimens, right?’
‘Definitely. But not the kind USAMRIID normally collects. Seems Frank was studying bone samples. Lots and lots of bones.’
Brooke felt her blood curdle. ‘Bones? From the cave?’
‘Yup.’
‘So what . . . like, animal bones?’
Flaherty shook his head, ‘Human. And strangely enough, the samples were mostly molars. You know, teeth,’ he explained pointing to his cheek. ‘Almost a thousand of ’em. The inventory entry wasn’t very detailed, but did indicate that every tooth had been drilled to perform genetic analysis.’ He checked his notes again. ‘Oh, and this was weird too: every tooth was from a male.’
Why teeth? she wondered. ‘That’s all the description said?’
‘No. It also said that, like most of the 9,000 mystery samples not formerly sanctioned by the programme, Frank’s tooth collection was incinerated.’
40
LAS VEGAS
Stokes stared at the computer monitor, befuddled by this most peculiar turn of events. The mysterious blast had knocked two of the tunnel’s cameras offline. The heavy airborne dust was making it near impossible to see anything in the passage where Al-Zahrani had fled. What could have caused the explosion? Even a grenade couldn’t cause this much damage. And he didn’t recall seeing any of the Arabs holding one.
‘Shit.’ Stokes rubbed his knotted neck muscles. A sudden dread came over him. If Al-Zahrani was killed in the blast . . .Well that would prove most unfortunate. Could anyone have survived an explosion in such tight confines?
‘Come on . . . show me where you are,’ Stokes said, grabbing at both sides of the monitor with his hands and shaking it. ‘Come on you son of a bitch. Show yourself.’
The desk phone suddenly beeped.
A cautious voice came over the intercom: ‘Randall? Is everything okay in there?’
Stokes stared at the phone, sweat beading on his forehead. ‘Everything’s fine, Vanessa. Just fine, thanks.’
‘Okay. By the way, your wife called again and was asking what time—’
He jabbed a finger at the disconnect button. His swollen hands felt like they’d been held over fire. He rubbed his raw palms on his legs, leaving blood smears on his trousers. For a brief spell, his vision became blurry with stars as a wave of nausea churned his stomach. He put his head in his hands and waited for equilibrium to return.
What’s wrong with me?
Then his vision came back, crisp and focused.
Before he could give the bout of vertigo further consideration, he spotted movement on the monitor and his heart skipped a beat. Though hard to make out through the dust, a dark form was cutting swiftly through the passage. Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone. Nerves ablaze, Stokes’s eyes moved from frame to frame hunting for the runner. ‘Come on . . . come on . . .’
The figure appeared two seconds later, slower now. It was one of the Arabs – which Arab was still unclear. On the periphery of the frame, the man stopped and pressed his back against the tunnel wall, panting. Stokes still couldn’t make a positive identification since the man was using the tail of his headscarf to shield his mouth and nose from the dust. But with the air in this section much cleaner, he let his hand fall away and the scarf dropped to his shoulder. However, he immediately crouched and directed his eyes to the floor.
‘Look up . . .’ Stokes grumbled. ‘Look at me, you son of a bitch.’
Then the Arab dropped to his knees and prostrated himself along the floor, hands pressed to the ground.
‘What are you doing?’
Then the Arab began a familiar-looking ritual. Stokes immediately cranked up the audio level.
The chanting came through loud and clear: ‘Allahu Akbar . . .’
Praying? ‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ Stokes said.
Only one way to get a fast answer. Stokes clicked on the control module window, resized it to long strip, and moved it to the bottom of the screen. Then he waved the mouse pointer over a square control button marked with a light-bulb icon.
‘Smile,’ he said. He clicked on the control button.
There was a slight delay as the command bounced through satellites. Then halfway around the world, the camera’s bright floodlight activated and lit the praying Arab from above.
The effect amused Stokes. The astounded Arab screamed out in fright. He seemed to think that Allah was shining his brilliant countenance inside the cave. His head snapped up and the dark eyes squinted into the blinding light.
With the runner’s face now in full view, Stokes smiled.
41
IRAQ
‘For the love of God!’ Crawford yelled. ‘Someone tell me what the hell just happened in there!’
The combat engineer held up her hands. ‘Everything’s clear here,’ she said, pointing to the PackBot’s remote display.
‘Damn it all,’ Crawford growled, crouching to confirm her observation. Sure enough, the bot’s feed remained unchanged. The cave was clear, the bone piles undisturbed.
‘Sounded to me like it came from the other side of the tunnel,’ Meat yelled over from the cave entrance.
Jason folded his arms and said nothing. He was tiring of Crawford’s whipsaw moods.
‘All right,’ Crawford said. ‘Let’s back that lawnmower up and send it down the other passage.’
The engineer went back to the controls, spun the bot 180 degrees, and guided it out from the cave. It took less than three minutes for it to backtrack through the winding passage.
‘Here she comes,’ M
eat called over. ‘I can see the light.’
The engineer saw light spilling in on the screen’s left side, indicating the spot where the entry tunnel joined the passage. She kept it moving straight.
‘Yeah, there she is,’ Meat said, peering to the end of the entry tunnel. The bot came in and out of view before disappearing to the left. He kept reeling in the slack fibre-optic cable.
‘Keep in on night vision,’ Crawford instructed the engineer.
‘Yes, sir,’ she said.
The bot roved through the tight, rocky walls that glowed dull green in night vision. There wasn’t much to see, but then the audio began to detect activity.
‘Wait,’ Jason said. ‘Hear that?’
The engineer brought the bot to a stop. The sounds became more pronounced.
They all listened intently. It was a voice.
‘Someone’s definitely in there,’ she said, adjusting the audio level. ‘Sounds like he’s . . .’ She tried to decipher the singsong chant.
‘He’s praying,’ Hazo said to them. ‘He’s reciting the Maghrib. The Muslim prayer that follows sunset,’ he specified.
‘Well, it’s a little late for that,’ Crawford said. ‘Let him pray all he wants. He’s gonna need it.’
‘Let’s get visual confirmation,’ Jason suggested. ‘See what we’ve got. Use gas to root him out, if necessary.’
The Genesis Plague Page 17
