The bot was now parked in the cave’s voluminous burial chamber, panning its camera left to right. For those viewing the bot’s video transmission, the macabre sight would be nothing less than terrifying – like glimpsing Hell itself.
All those skeletons, he thought.
He remembered the first time he’d seen the massive bone piles. He’d tried to imagine how gruesome it must have been when the festering bodies had first been interred in that cave, so many millennia ago. Pools of rancid blood. The stench of decaying flesh. Insects and vermin feasting on the rotting corpses.
He vividly recalled the skin-crawling sensation he’d felt upon entering that chamber – an unsettling energy which could only come from another realm where the souls didn’t rest. It was the first time he’d come to terms with the idea that true evil – a malevolent force – had been trapped beneath that mountain.
Not just evil: a weapon.
This subterranean mass grave was even more shocking than the excavated pits unearthed in Iraq’s southern deserts. Stokes had no doubt that the marines, and particularly the Kurdish interpreter who Crawford had said was assisting the mercenaries, would attribute the atrocity to Saddam’s secret police. But they’d be sadly mistaken.
On another panel, Stokes honed in on the distraught Arabs, slowly making their way deeper into the tunnel and still determined to find a way out. He shook his head in amusement.
The Arabs were very close to the cave’s most secret chamber now. Too close. And Stokes was concerned that if they were to stumble upon the installation that was the heart of the operation, they might try to destroy his precious handiwork.
‘It is time,’ a voice suddenly called out to him.
Startled, Stokes sat bolt upright and scanned the room.
‘Let loose the fury,’ the voice calmly commanded.
‘Yes . . .’ Stokes said, still hoping the Lord would reveal His countenance. The voice was all around him. It even seemed to permeate his skull. How would God eventually manifest Himself? ‘I understand.’
Composing himself, Stokes brought up a new window on his monitor to access the cave’s command interface module.
‘Let loose the fury,’ he said to himself.
He stared at the seven icons blinking ‘SEALED’. It was time to slay the Hydra. Time to eliminate the Middle East threat. For too long, humankind had interfered with the natural order of things. The balance God intended needed to be restored – the checks and balances that truly determined history’s winners and losers.
With trembling fingers, he clicked each icon in turn, and the flashing indicators flipped from red to green; ‘SEALED’ now changed to read ‘OPEN’. When the password box came up to confirm the changes, he paused.
Finally the appointed hour had arrived. The culmination of years of research and sweat. After taking a few seconds to savour the moment, he whispered, ‘When the lamb had opened the first of the seven seals, I heard the first of the four beasts say with a thundering voice, Come and see. And I beheld, and lo a white horse; and he that sat on him had a bow: and there was given unto him a crown, and he departed as conqueror and to conquest.’
Pastor Randall Stokes slowly typed in the password – A-R-M-A-G-E-D-D-O-N – then entered it again to authorize the command.
36
BOSTON
The black GMC Yukon zipped through the Callahan Tunnel, making Brooke Thompson’s pulse accelerate. Her mind was flashing a fireworks display of images from the earlier car chase. Tunnels had never bothered her before. But they did now. She imagined the SUV careering into the tight walls – envisioned a ceiling collapse that brought the harbour flooding in around her. Crossing her arms over her stomach and squeezing tight, she glanced over at Flaherty, seated to her left in the rear passenger seat. He was staring through the SUV’s bulletproof glass, entranced by the streaming lights high up on the tunnel wall.
Agent Flaherty had enough on his mind to ignore irrational fears, Brooke thought. In fact, it had to be rational fears that plagued his thoughts. Prior to leaving the office, he’d spent twenty minutes in a closed-door session with his firecracker of a boss. He’d been highly contemplative ever since.
Feeling her anxiety ballooning into panic, Brooke couldn’t help but reach over and grab his right hand. He turned, unsure of her intention, but quickly realized by her clammy complexion that she needed some consoling. ‘Sorry, but I’m kind of freaking out,’ she said, her fingers clamping tight around his palm.
‘It’s all right,’ he said with a reassuring smile. ‘I’m feeling it too. Don’t know if I’ll ever look at a tunnel the same way again either.’ He placed his other hand on top of hers.
She nodded and released a long breath to calm her nerves. Focusing on the back of the driver’s huge, shaved head somehow calmed her. The guy was like a caricature – a mountain of muscle. Even his ears seemed pumped up. The handgun strapped under the man’s arm, however, implied that his duties involved more than simply playing chauffeur.
‘I still don’t think you should be coming with me,’ Flaherty said. ‘I can’t guarantee your safety. I don’t want to be responsible for—’
‘Tommy, if you have a waiver form, I’ll sign it,’ Brooke said. ‘Otherwise, let it go. You need me and you know it. And your boss seems to be okay with it too.’
Lillian had indeed given him the green light to bring Brooke along. Logically, it made sense, since Brooke was the only person who’d actually met the conspirators face to face, and her visual confirmation could certainly expedite matters. ‘With the high stakes involved, we need to be certain about this, Tommy. Any slip-ups could cost us dearly,’ Lillian had said.
‘Are you always this stubborn?’
Brooke thought about it for a moment. ‘Pretty much.’ She leaned to the middle, looked forward out the windshield. ‘Could this tunnel be any longer?’ she pleaded, squeezing Flaherty’s hand even tighter.
Flaherty chuckled.
They sat there holding hands for a few seconds until Flaherty asked, ‘You ever been to Vegas?’
‘Once . . . two years ago. The Archaeological Institute of America had its convention at Caesar’s Palace. Hard to forget, because they didn’t realize that there was a swingers’ convention going on in the adjacent ballroom.’
‘So you got to kill two birds with one stone?’
‘Very funny,’ she said, scrunching her face. ‘I’m not that kind of girl. How about you? Are you a Las Vegas guy? “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas”, and all that?’
‘Nah,’ he said, with no elaboration, and shifted his eyes to the floor.
She gave him an incredulous look. ‘I’m not buying it. Remember, I’ve seen the way you drive. You’re a guy who likes to take chances.’
He sighed. ‘Not to be a downer, but my dad’s a wicked gambler. When I was a kid, he lost a year’s salary in one night at a poker table. Caused a lot of heartache for my ma. Didn’t stop with him, either. My oldest brother Jimmy lives by the ponies. And Chris, the middle child . . . he’d wager the weather if he could. Seems the Flahertys are genetically predisposed to bad bets. Seen enough to know that I shouldn’t even buy a lottery ticket.’
‘Then you should be happy I’m coming with you,’ she replied delicately. ‘I’ll keep you away from the casinos.’
He smiled. ‘I doubt there’ll be any slot machines where we’re going.’
Up ahead Brooke spotted an emerging circle of dull daylight at the end of the tunnel. She relinquished her grip on Tommy and pulled her hand back. Their destination returned to the forefront of her thoughts. ‘What kind of evangelical preacher builds a humongous church in Las Vegas, anyway?’
Flaherty shrugged. ‘Actually, it’s a pretty smart idea. In Sin City there are plenty of misguided sheep to herd.’
‘I still can’t believe a preacher is involved in all this. It’s so absurd.’
‘Don’t let the righteous-holy-man stuff fool you. From what my office dug up on this guy Stokes, he’s in dee
p. Lillian told me Stokes is under investigation for untraceable offshore funds running through his not-for-profit corporations. He’s got some powerful, highly influential friends too. You ever see him on television?’
She shook her head.
Flaherty took out the folder Lillian had prepared for him, flipped to a picture of Stokes.
‘Recognize him?’
Studying the photo, she couldn’t quite place the handsome face. He looked like he belonged on a daytime soap opera. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘He’s got this weekly show that’s huge in the south. He’s got a band, celebrity guests, the works. Big production with big aspirations. Not so big here in the northeast, though.’
‘Too many liberal thinkers,’ Brooke said.
‘I suppose. Around here, Pastor Stokes broadcasts on some obscure Christian cable channel. I forget the station. Anyway, he’s managed to build quite a following. With everything going on in the world these days, people are looking for answers. And his message seems to resonate.’
‘Exactly what is his message?’
Tommy shrugged. ‘I’ve only seen his show once. From what I remember, he’s pretty positive. Focuses on finding inner peace, Jesus as a personal saviour . . . Mixes in some apocalyptic material to keep folks honest. Really animated guy . . . super charismatic, smooth talker. Could charm the stripes off a zebra. Like a New Age version of Billy Graham. He’s got a good line of patter.’
‘Sounds to me like you’re a fan.’
‘Nah. I just find it fascinating.’
The Yukon emerged from the tunnel and curved along McClellan Highway towards Logan Airport. Overhead, a wide-body jet was roaring in for a landing.
‘Jason says Stokes has been talking to that platoon colonel in Iraq?’ she asked.
‘That’s right. And he wants me to find out why. There are a few more things you’ll need to know about the preacher.’
Flaherty didn’t need to go to the folder to relay what Lillian had told him. He explained that in a previous life, Stokes was a Special Ops commando who’d served loyally in some of the most hostile regions on the planet, alongside Bryce Crawford. Then he told her how in 2003 Stokes had been discharged from service after losing half his right leg to a soccer ball packed with explosive.
By the time he’d finished, the Yukon had turned off Logan Airport Service Drive and was angling between the massive aeroplane hangars bordering the airstrip.
‘Aren’t you going to tell him that he missed the terminal?’ Brooke whispered to Flaherty, motioning to the driver.
‘We’re not going to the main terminal,’ Flaherty said. ‘We don’t have time for that. Especially with all the flight delays from the storm. Lillian made other arrangements for us. She’s fond of Jason. Pretty much gives him whatever he wants.’ He pointed through the window to a sleek Cessna Citation X jet idling on the tarmac. It was brilliant white with no markings. Not even an N-number on its tail fin. ‘We’ll be getting express service at 700 miles per hour.’
37
LAS VEGAS
Like those of a fiendish voyeur, Randall Stokes’s prying eyes glimmered with immense pleasure as he watched how his unwitting Arab detainees reacted to the eerie noises emanating deep within the mountain’s belly. In the background, mechanical sounds echoed through the passage – gears engaging, pistons whining, a droning whoosh. The Arabs were mistaking the noises for guns, or artillery. A man with a patchy beard was trying to hush the others, but to little avail. Adjusting the audio level, Stokes listened to them yammering on in their native tongue. During his extensive tours in the Middle East, Stokes had picked up enough Arabic to get the gist of the animated exchange. The Arabs spoke of infidels, Allah’s divine plan and retribution in the name of the Great Prophet. All the while, they were readying their weapons. And while the four underlings, huddled around the dim cell phone light, attempted to hash out a hasty defence strategy, Al-Zahrani was surprisingly cool; resolute beyond what the situation warranted. Though he stood away from the light, the infrared clearly showed him studying the exchange – assessing behaviour; mentally separating the strong from the weak. Clearly he wasn’t pleased with what he was hearing.
There was an unmoving solemnity and drive about Al-Zahrani that commanded respect – qualities typical of a general. The fact that this revolutionary was a star Oxford University graduate and hailed from a wealthy Saudi oil family was most intriguing. Most men could only dream to gain the luxurious life that Al-Zahrani had staunchly abandoned. Such indifference to material things required incredible inner strength, yet, to Stokes, underscored the potency of the new enemy that threatened the modern world. Tainted ideology was a most fearsome force.
In videotapes Stokes had heard Al-Zahrani repeatedly mention that Allah spoke directly to him and protected him like an avenging sentinel. If that claim once seemed farfetched to Stokes, Al-Zahrani’s current actions dispelled any doubt that the man believed his own story. The dire circumstances Al-Zahrani was facing would ruin even the best of men. Clearly, however, this cave bore little threat for him.
‘Who are you?’ Stokes said, glaring at the notorious terrorist.
In Al-Zahrani, Stokes couldn’t help but see his own reflection, for he too claimed to speak directly to God and proclaimed to know the path to Heaven. And just as Al-Zahrani had been tutored by Islam’s most prestigious imam, Stokes, too, had been enlightened by a prodigious mentor. For an iota, Stokes entertained the possibility that God might be pitting him and Al-Zahrani against one another.
Lord, show me the righteous way, he thought.
Suddenly, Al-Zahrani silenced his four underlings in a punishing tone. Stokes watched as the fearless leader pointed towards the noises and scorned the men for their faulty appraisal. ‘What you hear is not soldiers,’ he seemed to be saying. Stokes pieced together his next words: ‘The soldiers are behind us . . . back there.’ Al-Zahrani pointed in the opposite direction. ‘If there is an enemy in our midst, it is not human. Yet we must confront it. We cannot turn back now.’
Goosebumps ran up Stokes’s spine; he was amazed by Al-Zahrani’s remarkable precognition.
Next, Al-Zahrani commanded the men to move forward – towards the commotion.
Stokes eased back in his chair and pressed his fist to his chin, wondering how this might play out. He hadn’t expected them to press on. A retreat was the expected outcome – the sane choice. Either Al-Zahrani had profound faith . . . or a death wish. Harbouring concern that the Arabs might critically impact Operation Genesis, Stokes quickly dismissed the notion that these five men could materially affect what was now under way. The numbers were heavily weighted against them.
Concern quickly gave way to intrigue. Stokes squared his shoulders and leaned forward with renewed intensity.
The Arabs disappeared from camera view for a three-count before the next camera picked up their trail. Now the passage was tightening, allowing just enough room for single-file procession.
The ringleader, a man with a patchy beard, was at the front, cell phone light extended out in his left hand, AK-47 clutched tight in the crook of his right arm. The other three men trailed in his wake, weapons at the ready, and Al-Zahrani pulled up the rear, swinging a handgun at his side. They’d stopped talking and their trepidation was rising to a fever pitch. Now even Al-Zahrani was visibly tense, because the metal-on-metal sounds they’d been hearing had given way to something much different.
Ahead in the darkness, something was moving.
Writhing.
‘Best to turn around, my friends,’ Stokes muttered, his left eyebrow tipping up.
The audio crisply picked up scratching and clicking.
The procession halted abruptly as the ringleader made the first visual confirmation.
When he spotted the horror that lay ahead, he screamed out in terror and wheeled around so fiercely that he barrelled into the two men behind him. He stumbled and the cell phone fumbled out of his grasp, clattered along the rocky ground.
Then the panic infected the others.
‘Go back! Go back!’ the ringleader was pleading as he regained his footing. He shoved at the others, trying to speed them along. Spinning, he attempted to retrieve the cell phone, but it disappeared beneath the slithering mass that crashed into him like a violent wave. He recoiled, levelled the AK-47, and opened fire. The weapon’s consecutive muzzle bursts flashed brilliant white in the infrared images on Stokes’s monitor; the deafening retort squelched the computer’s speakers.
‘No . . .’ Stokes grumbled.
Comfortably ahead of the others, Al-Zahrani was now back in the previous camera frame, blindly clawing his way through the darkness. But something scurried beneath his feet and caused him to trip and fall. He screamed out when something took a chunk of flesh out of his hand.
Then Stokes’s eyes bounced back to the other frame where the gunman lost his footing and suddenly tumbled backwards, forcing the assault rifle to swing up over his head, spraying bullets along a wild arc. The lethal barrage strafed the two men trailing behind him about the face and chest, sending the pair crumpling to the ground.
An instant later, a ferocious explosion ripped through the passage and obliterated the camera.
38
‘What in God’s name—’ the combat engineer gasped. ‘What happened to those people?’
On the LCD panel, the bot’s camera swept slowly side to side for the second time, panning over the ghastly bone pile forming an enormous ring ten feet high.
‘Looks like a fucking mausoleum,’ Crawford grumbled.
Jason looked up at Hazo, knowing that for him, the images would slice deep. It was a similar portrait of mass death that drove Hazo to become an ally to the Americans.
The Kurd stared emptily at the screen.
In 2006, US forces had used satellite imagery to scan the Ash Sham Desert for undulating mounds that hinted at the presence of mass graves. Over 200 sites had been identified for potential exhumations. One of the first confirmed graves contained three dozen male skeletons wearing Kurdish attire, all of which had been blindfolded and bound with arms tied behind the back. Every skull bore an executioner’s bullet hole. Though most of the bodies could not be identified, Hazo’s father – formerly an industrious carpet retailer – had been carrying business cards in his vest pocket. The name on the card, Zîrek Amedi, enabled forensic investigators to match dental records for the partial denture still affixed to the skeleton’s jawbone. The positive identification brought bittersweet closure for the victim’s surviving family members who’d already suffered tremendous loss at the hands of Saddam Hussein.
The Genesis Plague Page 16