‘I still think we should just blow that truck to hell,’ Jam said.
‘That’s your retirement plan down there,’ Camel reminded him. ‘No body, no bounty.’
‘Fuck the money,’ Jam said. ‘That fucker needs to die.’
A pregnant pause indicated a quiet consensus.
The Blackhawk was closing the gap fast. Meat swept in over the roadway. The truck had less than a kilometre lead now.
‘What exactly is wrong with Al-Zahrani anyway, Google?’ Camel asked.
‘Not sure. The medic was running some tests when I left . . . was trying to figure out the problem. But whoever took Al-Zahrani from the tent killed the medic on the way out the door.’
‘I liked the doc,’ Meat said. ‘Good guy.’
The bridge was less than two kilometres away.
The truck accelerated.
‘He’s going for it,’ Meat said.
‘Pull ahead and drop down on the other side,’ Jason said.
Meat pushed forward on the cyclic and eased down on the collective. The Blackhawk swooped low over the truck on a direct path for the bridge.
Below the bridge, Jason suddenly noticed activity – Arab men scurrying out from under the trusses . . . with weapons. Jason screamed, ‘Pull up!’
Through his night-vision lenses, Meat saw an RPG tube aimed directly at him. ‘Oh fuck,’ he gasped. He pulled the cyclic hard to the left. At close range, the chopper was hopelessly caught in the gunner’s sight. In anticipation of being hit, he decreased altitude.
The grenade launched in under a second, and the gunner – whether by luck or design – anticipated the chopper’s movement.
The mortar struck high behind the cabin with the mast and rotors taking the brunt of the explosion. Hot metal shot through the cabin.
The Blackhawk listed hard to the left and through the cracked windshield Jason saw the moonlit horizon tilt like a seesaw. Then the chopper’s nose dropped precipitously and the ground came into view – not even ten metres below.
The ensuing freefall happened so fast, Jason had no time to brace for impact. In an instant, there came a deafening crunch of metal and shattering glass. Jason’s head whipped forward. For a good ten seconds, his eyes saw nothing but white.
The chopper had come to a standstill at a thirty-degree forward pitch so that the harness dug into his ribs. Knifing pain radiated across his chest. A warm, wet sensation came over his feet and legs, which he immediately assumed to be his own blood. When his vision finally came into focus, however, Jason was surprised to see that he was actually submerged in water up to his shins.
The chopper’s entire front end had crumpled into a wall of gritty earth.
Over his right shoulder he saw the glowing moon. The landscape he could see was cleaved by a wide irrigation canal – reduced to a stream, thanks to Iraq’s recurring drought – with steep embankments that snaked through the fields covering the plain. The water flowing through the canal churned around the downed Blackhawk.
‘Fuck,’ Meat groaned, rubbing his neck. ‘Are we dead yet?’
‘We will be if we don’t keep moving,’ Jason said. He tried to think how far the chopper had flown from the bridge. ‘They’re going to come for us.’ He unclipped his helmet and tossed it into the shallow pool that covered the floor, worked the harness buckles next.
Meat did the same.
‘Camel?’ Jason called out. ‘Jam? You guys okay?’
No answer.
Jason slid off his seat and peered into the rear to check on them. What he saw was horrifying. Both men were hanging limply from their harnesses. Camel’s helmet had been blown clear off, along with half his skull. A foot-long metal rod speared through the top of Jam’s helmet and out through his face. Behind them, the fuselage had been punched open by the obliterated transmission.
Feeling his knees starting to wobble, Jason fought to remain focused, called upon his training to override the threatening emotional storm. You won’t survive unless you keep it together. He closed his eyes for a moment and cycled a deep breath.
‘Jesus, Google,’ Meat said, distraught. He gestured the sign of the cross. ‘This is fucking awful. How could this happen?’
Overwhelmed, Jason didn’t have an answer for him.
The distant sound of a roaring truck engine echoed through the canal, gaining in intensity.
‘Now what?’ Meat said.
Jason reached around his seat and grabbed the M-16s stowed there. He tossed one to Meat.
‘Now we make them pay for this.’
57
Jason and Meat climbed the embankment and low-crawled into a dense barley field that bordered the canal. Fifteen seconds later a lone pickup truck made a slow approach through the canal, heading straight for the bright flames shooting up from the fallen Blackhawk.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ Meat whispered, craning his head up and peeking out through the wispy stalks. ‘These guys look like kids.’
Scanning the enemy, Jason counted five men – the driver, a passenger, three men with machine guns in the cargo bed. Meat was right: even with scruffy beards, none of these guys looked older than twenty. Certainly not Kurds, thought Jason. He couldn’t help but wonder why an Iraqi Security Force patrol had yet to respond. Complete autonomy in Kurdistan would be slow coming if this was any indication of a US handover.
Jason felt sick to think that there hadn’t been time to pull Camel and Jam from the wreck, because the chopper’s engines were now fully ablaze. It wouldn’t take long for the bodies to be roasted. However, with the entire fuselage roiling in smoke, it was impossible for the Arabs to notice that the cockpit was empty. This gave them a false sense of security, because when the truck came to a stop, all five men let their guard down, certain of victory. They jumped out from the truck, shouldered their weapons and gathered close to the crash site. They raised their hands to the sky and began ululating and chanting ‘Allahu Akbar!’
When they started posing for pictures, however, something inside Jason snapped. This disrespect for human life was the very cancer that was eating away at the Middle East. Without thinking, he rose up and clasped his M-16. Caught up in their jubilation, the Arabs didn’t notice him trawling the top of the embankment.
Jason’s impulsive move surprised Meat. Left to devise his own tactical response, he opted to sneak behind the chopper to the opposite embankment in hopes of catching the Arabs unawares, should they spot Jason.
The posse formed a tight circle around the cameraman to view the digital shot he’d taken.
Positioned directly above them, Jason’s presence went undetected. He shook his head in disbelief and lowered the M-16. There’d be no satisfaction unless he could see terror in their eyes, so he whistled to get their attention. That did the trick. They turned in unison and a long moment of pure confusion paralysed the posse as they assessed his tatty Arab attire. Jason could tell that they suspected him to be one of their own.
On the opposite embankment, Meat emerged from behind the chopper’s severed, flaming tail. The Arabs had their backs to him, so he readied his weapon and waited for a cue from Jason.
With dramatic fervour, Jason jabbed his fist skyward and yelled, ‘Allahu Akbar!’
Only one Arab echoed his cry, but the man’s gullibility elicited only rebuking stares from the others. Trepidation had taken its hold. Two of the men exchanged calculative glances and prepared to make a play for their shouldered weapons.
‘You want a picture? I’ll give you a picture you won’t forget.’ Jason’s expression turned dark. ‘Everyone smile.’ Finally, he witnessed the terror he’d been waiting for.
Panic seized the Arabs. Before they could scatter or take up their weapons, Jason raised his M-16 with lightning speed and opened fire in smooth sweeps.
Meat followed Jason’s lead, strafing the Arabs from behind with no mercy.
Within five seconds the posse had fallen, riddled beyond recognition.
Neither Jason nor Meat stop
ped firing until their ammo clips had emptied.
When it was finished, the river ran red.
With no words spoken between them, Jason and Meat collected the weapons from the dead Arabs and loaded them into truck.
Jason snatched the camera from the ringleader’s dead grip. He took a few steps back, snapped some pictures of his own and slipped the camera into his pocket. Then he walked over to the truck and dipped into the driver’s seat. He grimaced when he saw paperwork on the dashboard that bore a familiar Arabic insignia.
Meat climbed into the seat beside him and saw it too. ‘Fucking Al-Qaeda. They’re like cockroaches.’
A disturbing realization settled over Jason: this ambush was no coincidence. These men who’d been lying in wait were no mere splinter group. ‘These guys had been tipped off that Al-Zahrani was driven out from the camp,’ he said. Contrary to his original appraisal, the enemy had cast its net wide.
‘They aren’t so stupid after all,’ Meat said in self-recrimination.
For a few seconds, Jason mourned the engulfed chopper, burned the image into his mind and soul. This would be the last time he’d underestimate the enemy. Then he put the truck in reverse and rode up on to the embankment to execute a K-turn.
Keeping the lights turned off, he backtracked through the canal towards the roadway.
Within two minutes, the dark silhouette of the bridge came into view. As he moved in cautiously, he spotted a dark form tangled on the rocks underneath the span.
‘What is that?’ Meat said. ‘Is that—?’
Seeing nothing moving, Jason flipped on the headlights. Now the form was easy to identify. ‘Yeah. It’s a body.’
Making a slow approach, Jason scanned the immediate area. No vehicles. No men.
‘All clear,’ Meat confirmed with a second set of eyes.
Jason parked the truck close to the bridge. He and Meat got out and slogged over to the dead man.
‘Is it one of them?’ Meat asked, focused on the headwrap and tunic.
‘No,’ Jason said. He pointed to the feet. ‘He’s wearing marine-issue combat boots. And that’s the same turban Al-Zahrani’s driver was wearing.’ He crouched next to the body, clasped the shoulder, and turned it over.
The head slumped back and the throat yawned open like a grisly smile where it had been deeply sliced from ear to ear.
‘Awh, Christ,’ Meat said, putting his hand to his mouth. ‘That’s foul.’
Immediately, they both recognized the face . . . and it was no Arab.
‘Staff Sergeant Richards,’ Jason said, shaking his head. ‘Figures.’
‘I never liked that guy,’ Meat said. ‘What a prick.’
Jason kicked the body into the water. ‘Damn, Crawford. What were you thinking?’ he seethed.
‘Hate to state the obvious, Google. But there must’ve been more of those guys under this bridge. ’Cause they killed this fuck,’ he pointed at the dead staff sergeant, ‘and the truck he was driving isn’t here any more. I think that means Al-Zahrani is gone.’
‘Not exactly,’ Jason replied confidently.
58
LAS VEGAS
Brooke Thompson and Thomas Flaherty strolled up the cathedral’s centre aisle, their eyes pulled in every direction by the interior’s ambitious design.
Shafts of muted sunlight penetrated the gravity-defying geodesic dome and wove together above the voluminous prayer hall. The outer walls were clad in alternating blocks of polished and crenulated Jerusalem limestone. The central altar, dominating the rear wall, resembled a concert stage with its huge viewing screens, speaker clusters and spotlighting arrays.
Most impressive to Brooke was the magnificent bronze baldachin that formed a lofty canopy over the altar. It depicted the haloed Jesus with rockstar hair and flowing robe, His welcoming arms spread wide in blessing, His feet surfing a cloud. Throughout the space she noticed no other iconography: no Holy Mother; no apostles or saints; no dove nor crucifix. Simply the Saviour.
Thousands of seats arranged in tiered arcs had already been installed on the main floor, but the balcony was still an unfinished piece of curved concrete.
‘I guess tithing really does pay,’ Flaherty said.
‘I’d say,’ Brooke agreed.
‘Welcome,’ a cheery voice called to them from somewhere in the front of the hall.
Flaherty spotted the greeter first. ‘Over there,’ he said, pointing near the centre stage where a small hive of workers was busily assembling a mammoth pipe organ. Off to the left, a gaunt man with a pure white pompadour waved and headed for the front steps to meet them.
The guy shot like a bullet up the main aisle, and opened his arms as wide as the bronze Saviour overhead. ‘Welcome, my friends!’ He planted himself at arm’s length and proffered a hand, first to Brooke. ‘Minister Edward Shaeffer, at your service.’
‘Hi, I’m . . . Anna,’ she said, accepting his soft, manicured hand.
‘May Christ’s love shine upon you, Anna,’ he said with Broadway flair, clasping his other hand over hers.
Anxious to get her hand back, she said, ‘And this is my fiancé, Thomas.’
‘Oh . . . fiancé. How exciting. Such a joyous time. Congratulations.’
‘Thank you,’ Brooke said. She noticed that when the minister glimpsed her modest ring, his enthusiasm diminished notably.
Shaeffer relinquished her hand and took up Flaherty’s.
‘Thomas,’ the minister repeated, ‘A name straight from the gospels,’ he said. ‘Though I trust you are not a doubter, Thomas.’
‘Seeing is believing, but I’m flexible,’ Flaherty said with a smile.
‘Excellent.’ The minister stage-whispered to Brooke, ‘He’ll make a find husband, I’m sure.’
‘We’ve just moved into town,’ Flaherty explained, ‘and we were hoping to have our wedding ceremony here.’
‘I’m sure we can work that out, though the cathedral won’t be open for another three or four months.’
‘We were thinking about next October,’ Brooke said.
‘That should do just fine.’
‘While we’re here, would it be possible to meet Pastor Stokes?’ Flaherty asked.
The directness of the request caught Shaeffer off guard. ‘Oh, I’m afraid he’s indisposed at the moment.’ The minister hadn’t a clue as to why Pastor Stokes had been holed up in his office all day. Typically Stokes was a diehard advocate of ‘open-door’ management. But Shaeffer had twice been turned away by Stokes’s assistant, even when he’d made it clear that the company who’d delivered the organ had important questions about the installation. ‘Been a very busy day.’
I’m sure it has, thought Flaherty. ‘But he is here today?’ he delicately pushed.
‘Last I checked, yes,’ the minister said with growing incredulity. ‘Though for wedding arrangements, you’ll need to speak directly to our Minister of Ceremonial Rites, Maureen Timpson. And she’s on vacation until next Wednesday. I’ll gladly give you her card and some information . . .’
‘That won’t be necessary, Edward,’ a warm voice called out.
A tall figure materialized from the shadow beneath the balcony.
Brooke immediately recognized Randall Stokes from the glitzy picture in Flaherty’s file.
‘Well, I stand corrected.’ The minister’s blushing cheeks showed genuine surprise.
‘Did I hear “wedding”?’ Stokes said with a well-rehearsed smile. Striding down the main aisle, his artificial leg limped slightly on the incline. ‘How exciting.’
Brooke immediately understood how Stokes had achieved celebrity status. The man had presence – tall and handsome, meticulously dressed. Though she noticed his complexion was pallid and his red eyes showed fatigue.
‘I’d shake your hand, but I’m feeling a bit under the weather today,’ Stokes apologized. ‘Edward, I’ll talk to Anna and Thomas so you can finish what you’re doing.’
The minister was momentarily stumped, but knew not to question
Stokes. ‘Splendid. That will do just fine. It was very nice to meet you Anna, Thomas. Once again, welcome. And we look forward to seeing you on Sunday!’ He put his hand over his heart and half bowed before ambling back towards the altar.
‘Please, walk with me,’ Stokes said, giving each of them equal attention. ‘We have so much to discuss. We can talk in my office.’
‘I figured I’d save you some trouble,’ Stokes said, pressing the button for the elevator at the end of the long corridor that connected to the lobby. ‘I’m sure you have many questions.’
Unsure of the context of his remark, Brooke and Flaherty remained silent.
‘However, if we’re all going to be honest,’ Stokes added, ‘shouldn’t you use your real name, Ms Thompson?’ He looked deep in her eyes. ‘Ms Brooke Thompson. Isn’t that right?’
Brooke gave Flaherty an uneasy glance.
Flaherty spread his hands and squared his shoulders. ‘Look Stokes—’
‘I must admit . . . I don’t know who you really are, my good man. And I don’t like that.’
‘Smith. John Smith,’ Flaherty replied curtly.
Stokes grinned tightly. ‘Of course. Have it your way, Mr Smith.’
The elevator chimed and the doors slid open. ‘Please,’ Stokes motioned them inside.
‘Maybe we’ll take the stairs,’ Flaherty said.
‘Fine by me, though it’s seven flights to the top.’ Stokes boarded the elevator and kept his thumb on the control panel to hold the doors.
With reluctance, Brooke and Flaherty stepped in beside him.
‘Good choice.’ Stokes pushed the top control button, the doors glided shut, and the elevator began its imperceptible ascent. Gospel music pumped in from overhead speakers.
‘How was your flight from Boston?’ Stokes asked.
The Genesis Plague Page 24
