The Genesis Plague (2010)

by Michael Byrnes

  ‘I think we should stop there and shine some light,’ Jason said. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got.’

  Crawford told the engineer to do it.

  When the floodlight went on, a figure sharpened onscreen, three metres from the camera. It was a man huddled in a fetal position beneath a pile of rubble that completely blocked the narrow passage from floor to ceiling. He was using his headscarf to shield his mouth and nose from the dust.

  ‘Looks like he’s not going anywhere,’ Crawford said. ‘Is he armed?’

  The engineer zoomed in on the bloody hands, down along the body. ‘Doesn’t appear to be armed, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ Crawford stood and called over to a pair of marines posted near the cave entrance. ‘Holt … Ramirez … Put your respirators on, get in there and pull him out!’

  42

  Tensions were high as everyone waited for Crawford’s marines to emerge from the cave with the first captive.

  Jason’s anxiety was particularly acute. Five hostiles had gone into the cave. Only one was in the process of being extracted, the fate of the remaining four unknown.

  The images staring back at him on the PackBot’s viewing screen showed that the mysterious explosion had resulted in a complete collapse of the second tunnel branch. Was this an accident, or had the Arabs decided to buy more time by covering their tracks? Burying themselves in the cave seemed foolhardy. If there truly wasn’t an alternative escape exit, the oxygen might not last very long.

  ‘Miss me?’ a voice interrupted.

  Jason looked up. It was Camel. He was wearing a marine flak jacket and helmet so as not to be confused for a hostile. In his right hand, he gripped a night-vision monocular. ‘Did you see anything up on the ridge?’

  Camel spat tobacco on to the rocks and wiped some dribble from his lip. ‘Nah. Walked the entire ridge. Nothin’ there. Couldn’t really see much on the other side. Lots of rough terrain.’

  ‘All right. Good work,’ Jason said. Where could the watcher have gone?

  ‘Was that an explosion I heard?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jason sighed. ‘Something went off in the tunnel. Take a look.’ He pointed to the screen and Camel studied the image for a few seconds.

  ‘Did they shoot off the RPG again?’

  ‘Not sure,’ Jason said. A commotion started up behind him. He looked back and saw the snipers shouldering their weapons.

  ‘We have visual!’ one of the snipers reported.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Camel asked in a low voice. ‘Visual on what?’

  ‘One of the Arabs,’ Jason replied.

  ‘We caught one of them?’

  Giving Camel a shushing gesture, Jason inched forward. He considered: five went in. One’s coming out. A 20 per cent chance … He watched the snipers’ weapons shift slowly upward as the target drew nearer.

  ‘Looks like we’re about to get some answers,’ Jason said. He stood and crossed his arms.

  ‘Let’s give ‘em some room!’ Crawford barked at the snipers: ‘You two … fall back!’

  Forced to the sidelines, Jason felt like a paparazzo roped off from the red carpet.

  ‘Should’ve been us going into that cave,’ Camel grunted. ‘This prick Crawford shouldn’t be getting any glory.’

  Then three figures emerged from the opening: two marines wearing respirators flanking a tall, bedraggled prisoner. One of the marines had a pistol pressed into the Arab’s back.

  At first, Jason couldn’t make out the Arab’s identity since the man had his bound, bloody hands raised up to shield his face.

  Crawford quickly stepped in, pulled the man’s hands down, and pointed a flashlight into his face.

  Though the captive’s face was smeared with blood and grime, Jason immediately recognized him. Confirmation brought both rage and relief.

  ‘Holy fuck,’ Camel said in astonishment. ‘Is that …?’

  ‘That’s him,’ Jason replied.

  ‘Look who we have here. Fahim Al-Zahrani. Mr Jihad himself,’ Crawford said, full of glee. He snapped off the light, put his hands on his hips, and stepped up to the Arab. ‘As salaam alaikum, asshole.’

  The dour prisoner didn’t reply, glaring defiantly at the colonel.

  Confirmation of the prisoner’s identity rippled through the ranks. The excited marines began gathering at the bottom of the slope, whooping.

  ‘Another pussy ass terrorist pulled out from another hole,’ Crawford said. ‘Like a bunch of fucking gophers. Have the medic clean him up,’ he told the marines. ‘Make him look presentable. We’ve got to take some pictures to send back to Washington.’

  From a neighbouring mountaintop to the south, the vigilant watcher - one of the dozen scouts sent to locate the besieged convoy - peered through a night-vision monocular and anxiously waited for the two marines who’d gone into the cave to reappear.

  It had been almost seven hours since his lieutenant received the distress call from blessed brother Fahim Al-Zahrani’s aide. With all the gunfire in the background, the message had been difficult to understand. However, the critical points had been successfully conveyed by the aide: an ambush was under way, many had already been killed and urgent assistance was needed. As to the convoy’s precise location, however, the aide had been far from clear. Perhaps Al-Zahrani’s men had been disoriented with the redundant landmarks of this foreign country. Or maybe the local Al-Qaeda contact designated to navigate the convoy through the terrain had been killed at the onset of the firefight. Nonetheless, the aide had only been able to estimate that the attack had taken place four or five kilometres northwest of the intended rendezvous point.

  The true locale was eleven kilometres to the northwest.

  By the time the watcher had spotted the stranded trucks on the roadway, an American marine platoon had already arrived. The Americans were highly focused on clearing debris from a cave at the foot of the mountain that overlooked the roadway. Creeping in close to the encampment, the watcher had overheard them saying that five men remained trapped inside the cave. And he was hopeful that the intensity of the effort meant that Allah, in His bountiful grace, might have spared brother Al-Zahrani.

  As the marines came out from the cave, the watcher’s heart raced when he saw that they’d dragged a prisoner out with them. He tightened the monocular’s zoom. Though the moon shone brightly from above, he strained to make out the prisoner’s face. Then the platoon leader briefly shined a flashlight on the prisoner. The moment the captive’s face came into view, the watcher’s instant elation quickly gave way to terror. Our leader has been captured!

  The watcher scrambled up over the ridge, his legs shaking coltishly beneath him, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  Since the marines routinely monitored radio communication, he was forced to use a more discreet signal to alert the rescue team. In the pale moonlight, he could see the trucks parked in the valley below. He stood high up on the outcropping designated as the signal relay spot. Then he pulled a plastic glow stick out from under his tunic, cracked it, and continuously waved the luminescent green tube side to side in wide arcs.

  43

  Central to Crawford’s encampment were two Compact All-weather Mobile Shelter Systems, or CAMSSs - barn-shaped, military-grade tents ten-and-a-half feet high at the eaves, twenty feet wide, thirty-two feet long, which four men could assemble in less than thirty minutes.

  The first tent served the dual role of central command and billeting Crawford (not that he did much sleeping) and his staff sergeant.

  Normally, the second tent stored boxed rations, and accommodated ten sleeping mats, used on rotation by the platoon detail. But Crawford had ordered the marines to clear out the sleeping area so that the space could be used for Fahim Al-Zahrani’s temporary detainment.

  The prisoner sat on an empty munitions crate, his hands bound tight with a nylon double-loop security strap. A second strap looped snugly around his ankles. Two marines with M-16s stood to either side of him.

  The company medic, Lance
Corporal Jeremy Levin - a scrawny 31-year-old bachelor, family practitioner, and reservist from Detroit who was five months into his third tour in Iraq - sat on a crate facing Al-Zahrani. He’d already flushed the wound on Al-Zahrani’s hand with Betadine and cleaned the prisoner’s face with sanitizing wipes. But he was concerned by Al-Zahrani’s condition: clammy complexion, despondency and wheezing. So he immediately began a medical exam.

  He inserted an otoscope in Al-Zahrani’s left ear, which was perforated, then the right ear, which was leaking blood and clear fluid.

  Crawford was watching over his shoulder. Jason and Hazo stood behind him.

  ‘Hey asshole,’ Crawford said loudly to Al-Zahrani. ‘I know you speak English. Just want to let you know that I think the Geneva Convention is a load of camel shit. So don’t expect me to respect your civil liberties.’

  ‘The right ear shows severe tympanic perforation too,’ the medic reported, peering through the otoscope.

  ‘So both his eardrums are blown out?’ Jason said.

  ‘I’m afraid so. He must have been very close to the explosion.’

  ‘Not close enough,’ Crawford grunted.

  ‘Unless he reads lips, Colonel, he won’t understand a word you’re saying,’ Levin said. He cleaned the otoscope with a sanitizing wipe and put it back in the carrying case. Next he retrieved the opthalmoscope, flicked on its tiny light, and moved close to examine Al-Zahrani’s unblinking, blank eyes. ‘Pupils are responding just fine … no apparent neurological damage. Doesn’t appear that he’s in shock.’

  ‘So he’s just pretending to be mute?’ Crawford asked.

  ‘I’m sure he’s a bit overwhelmed, Colonel,’ the medic replied curtly as he went back to the case for an aural digital thermometer. He took the temperature in both ears and made a sour face. ‘Hmm. He seems to be running a high fever. That could explain the apathy.’

  ‘You telling me he caught a cold?’ Crawford said.

  ‘More than a cold,’ Levin replied coolly.

  Apathy was an understatement, thought Jason. The world’s premier terrorist seemed lifeless. His dark, emotionless gaze remained fixed on the ground. What could he be thinking? Was he humiliated or afraid? Jason wanted him to fight … wanted him to react. He wanted to choke the life out of him.

  Levin swabbed some mucus out from Al-Zahrani’s dripping nostril. ‘Not sure if this is due to the dust he inhaled, or if it’s something else. I’ll test him for the flu, just in case.’

  Crawford backed up a step. ‘If this son of a bitch gets me sick …’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be just fine,’ the medic said, cracking open a plastic vial and sealing the swab stick in it.

  ‘If Mexican pigs caused a problem, imagine what this one could be carrying,’ Crawford said.

  ‘Muslims aren’t permitted to handle swine,’ Levin reminded him. Next he wrapped a pressure cuff around Al-Zahrani’s left arm, put the earbuds of a stethoscope in his own ears, and used the rubber bulb to inflate the cuff. Everyone remained silent as he assessed the patient’s vitals. ‘Given all the excitement, his blood pressure is awfully low.’ He placed the stethoscope’s chest-piece over Al-Zahrani’s heart and listened intently. He moved it to the ribs and monitored the pulmonary functions. ‘He’s got a lot of obstruction in there. Lots of fluid. Probably inhaled a lot of dust.’

  Not as much dust as the innocent civilians who’d been at Ground Zero, thought Jason, trying to reconcile how men like this were capable of evil on such a grand scale.

  The medic removed the stethoscope, picked up Al-Zahrani’s limp hand and studied the deep, ragged puncture wounds. Already, it seemed to appear worse than only minutes ago.

  ‘What do you think happened to his hand?’ Jason asked.

  ‘Probably caught some shrapnel, or a ricochet. Could be a wound he already had. Not sure. But I don’t like how the tissue looks - this discoloration and swelling.’ He rolled up the sleeve of Al-Zahrani’s tunic, turned the arm over, and traced his gloved finger along the protruding, dark veins in the wrist and forearm. ‘Seems he’s got a nasty infection. I’ll give him some antibiotics … some ibuprofen for the fever.’

  ‘Why don’t you boil some tea for him while you’re at it?’ Crawford barked.

  The medic’s face twisted in a knot.

  Jason spoke for the medic: ‘If Washington wants to interrogate him, he won’t be very useful if he’s dead.’

  ‘You mean he might not be worth ten million?’ Crawford jabbed.

  Jason was fast losing patience. ‘The Department of Defense’s bounty specifies “dead or alive”,’ he replied tartly. ‘I don’t have a preference. But for the sake of all parties, I’m sure we’d agree that “alive” would be preferred.’

  ‘You and your boys get to keep that money, isn’t that right, Yaeger?’

  ‘That’s right. It’s part of our incentive plan. Keeps us all motivated. So yeah, the money will be ours to keep.’

  ‘Must be a nice bonus,’ Crawford huffed. ‘You and your rag-head buddies can retire to Thailand and have hookers suck your balls dry till the day you die. How about the Kurd?’ he said, thumbing at Hazo, who stood close to the door. ‘You gonna cut him in on this?’

  ‘Absolutely. He’s part of our team.’

  ‘Two million apiece.’ Crawford looked over to Hazo and whistled.

  ‘Tax-free,’ Jason said, to rub it in. The veins on Crawford’s forehead instantly bulged, looked ready to pop.

  ‘You’re a disgrace, Yaeger.’ The colonel’s words seethed with loathing. ‘Nothing but a sellout. And just remember that it was the US marines who pulled that cocksucker out from the cave. That’s the story everyone here knows. So I wouldn’t suggest spending your money just yet.’

  ‘I’ve already sent plenty of video and pictures back to my office … make a nice documentary about the six-month manhunt that led us all here. Not to mention all the thrilling images of my unit’s ambush, which feature this guy’s ugly mug all over them,’ he said, pointing to Al-Zahrani. ‘Funny thing is, there aren’t any marines in those shots. So don’t you worry about us,’ Jason said, grinning smugly.

  And GSC’s home office was equally keen to cash in on the bounty since its contract with the Department of Defense included a sliding scale of bonus payments for terrorism’s most wanted targets. At the top of that list, Al-Zahrani fetched a 50-million-dollar kicker. There was even a chance that a few million more could still be had from the four militants yet to be extracted from the cave. After Lillian saw the pictures Jason had transmitted to her e-mail, she’d been fully behind Jason’s requests - even commissioned a private jet to take Flaherty to Vegas. The almighty dollar was still a potent motivator. Though financial enticements didn’t factor well into the military’s strict moral code, they worked wonders in the enterprising private sector.

  Levin pulled a blood-filled syringe out from a thick vein snaking up Al-Zahrani’s forearm. ‘We’ll need to lay him down.’

  Crawford took a few seconds to decompress before saying, ‘Fine. Set up a cot for him. But you be sure to hang an American flag next to him. Remind him that he’s ours now. When you’re done, I want you to set up a video camera in here too.’ He turned his attention back to Jason, who still wore a smug grin. ‘All right, Yaeger. Time for you and your boys to earn your money. This cocksucker may not be able to hear us, but his hands are working just fine. So we’ll do this with writing.’ He pointed to Hazo and said, ‘He stays with me, just in case Al-Zahrani decides to scribble some Arabic. You speak Arabic, isn’t that right, Haji?’

  Hazo nodded. ‘I do, Colonel.’

  ‘Of course you do. You’re no millionaire yet, so go fetch a pen and paper. We’ve got work to do.’

  Hazo paced to the other side of the tent and began rummaging.

  ‘In the meantime, Yaeger, we’ve got another goddamn tunnel to unclog. Four more gophers to pull out … and God knows what else. And we still need to figure out what in hell blew up in that cave. Wrangle up your boys and
get working on that. I’ll have Staff Sergeant Richards help you.’

  ‘I’d prefer to assist you in questioning the prisoner, sir.’

  ‘Don’t wet your panties, Yaeger. We both know he’s not going to give us anything useful. If he does, your Kurd can fill you in later.’

  Jason knew that Crawford was right on both points. ‘Fine. But now that we’ve confirmed his identity’ - he tilted his head to the prisoner - ‘I need your assurance that backup is on the way. We can’t risk losing him now.’

  ‘Don’t cry … You’ll get your money—’

  ‘I’m not worried about the money, Crawford!’ Jason snapped. ‘For Christ’s sake! We’ve just captured Fahim Al-Zahrani! And up in those mountains, I saw someone who might well have already called for help to try to set him free. As far as I see it, the entire fucking battalion should be here!’ He snatched the sat-com off the colonel’s belt and held it up. ‘Make the fucking call to General Ashford … or I will,’ he threatened.

  The two guards exchanged nervous glances. Even Al-Zahrani took interest.

  Crawford’s baleful eyes went wide. ‘I don’t take kindly to insubordination, soldier,’ he hissed through clamped teeth.

  Jason stepped closer, so that his nose practically touched the colonel’s. ‘I don’t take kindly to incompetence,’ he rebuffed confidently. ‘Fuck this up and you’ll be facing a shit storm in front of a military tribunal. Plenty of men here are witness to how you’re handling this. I’m hugely interested in the success of this mission. Lots of innocent lives depend on it. Need I remind you, sir, that is why we’re all here.’

  Without breaking eye contact, Crawford plucked his phone from Jason’s hand. He cocked his head sideways. ‘That’ll be all, Sergeant.’

  ‘Make the call,’ Jason repeated. He took two steps back and paused. Before he turned to leave, he added, ‘And just so we’re clear, Crawford: I’m not your soldier.’

  44

  Though Jason wasn’t fond of Crawford’s leadership style, he had to admit that the colonel’s platoon was a well-oiled machine. In less than fifteen minutes after relaying Crawford’s command to Staff Sergeant Nolan Richards, a human chain of twenty marines outfitted with respirators stretched through the cave’s passages and began ferrying out the blast debris. Camel, Jam and Meat joined them. The remainder of Crawford’s platoon went about securing the camp.