75
IRAQ
Ramirez blazed like a thunderbolt through the cave, determined to return to the outside world in record time. Doing his best to keep the light directed towards the dodgy ground, he pumped his arms and legs like pistons, remembering how it felt to sprint the fifty at high school track meets. Normally he’d be looking over his shoulder for anyone sneaking up in his wake. For this race, however, he wasn’t looking back.
He could barely stomach the idea of his niece’s caged gerbil, Felix. The hell with Felix. Felix was nothing but a pimped-out mouse.
But rats? A cave full of huge, filthy rats? Repulsive. Made his nuts pull up into his stomach. And these rats seemed to be out for blood. The way they came at him like that? Pursued him? That couldn’t be normal. Rats didn’t eat live meat, did they? he wondered. But they sure liked the taste of Holt. The poor bastard was covered in the things. And there was nothing Ramirez could’ve done about it. It’s not like he could’ve swatted them away or shot them off Holt’s chest. There were so many of them.
There was only one option: run … hard.
Back in the cave, when he’d discarded his M-16, he’d barely glimpsed Hazo marooned on top of one those sadistic breeding kennels where some twisted psycho nurtured those flesh-eating-rodents-from-Hell. He’d be sure to send some guys with flamethrowers and grenades back inside to fry the critters and pull Hazo out — assuming he didn’t die from demon pestilence first.
As Ramirez tore through the tunnel, the squealing din faded and he became confident he’d make it out from the mountain unscathed. In fact, it sounded as if the rats had stayed inside the cave.
Ramirez’s relief, however, instantly withered when up ahead in the tunnel’s dark throat, a series of bright flashes coincided perfectly with the metallic hammering of automatic gunfire delivered at point-blank range.
The bullets struck him low — one shattering his left kneecap, six more to the groin and thighs. His legs instantly went out and his face slammed into the ground like a pile driver. It was so fast, so shocking, that he didn’t even scream. With all the adrenaline pumping through his system, even the pain was slow coming.
But when the gunman emerged into the glowing cone of his fumbled flashlight, the sting of treachery came instantaneously.
‘Crawford?’ he groaned, blood streaming into his right eye from a ragged gash that split his forehead. ‘Wh — why?’
There was no answer. The colonel simply pressed the M-16’s muzzle against Ramirez’s head and delivered the kill shot.
76
The huge rodents — bodies as large as eggplants — were teeming over Holt, clawing their way up his legs, chest and back. Hazo watched in horror as the marine flailed his arms violently, flinging rats in every direction. Blood covered dozens of tattered holes in his sleeves where he’d been bitten (though his flak jacket had protected his torso). A sickly-looking thing squirmed up on to his shoulder and sank its teeth into his ear. Holt screamed in rage, tore it free, hurled it into the darkness like a football. By then, another horde of rats was grappling up his pant legs. Trudging through the knee-deep brood, it looked as if Holt were slogging through wet cement.
‘Up here!’ Hazo screamed again. ‘Up—’
The coughing seized his voice again. Spitting up more blood and bile, Hazo watched helplessly as Holt tried to quicken his pace. Then desperation and frustration got the better of Holt and he raised his knees to try to run. It was a costly mistake.
Trampling the spongy rats underfoot caused Holt to lose his footing. He faltered, caught himself, faltered again. The rats piled on to him. He got back up again and shook some of them free, before slipping and going down a final time.
Hazo shined his light on the spot, praying that Holt would get up.
He didn’t.
The rats swarmed over their prey.
Holt’s arms thrashed a few more times, as if he were drowning. Then he disappeared beneath the roiling current.
‘Hazo!’ a voice called out over the maddening squeals.
Hazo turned and saw Shuster pulling himself up over the edge of the neighbouring container. He’d lost his helmet and his pant legs were torn up and bloody. Otherwise, he seemed unharmed. ‘Are you all right?’ Hazo called back.
Breathless, Shuster rolled on to his back. ‘I’m okay,’ he said, panting.
Hazo looked towards the entry tunnel and saw that the glow of Ramirez’s light seemed to be growing stronger again — coming back towards the cave.
77
Years had passed since Bryce Crawford last walked these tunnels, yet he still recognized every oddity and anomaly inside the mountain as if they were the birthmarks of a former lover. Even the familiar loamy smell invoked fond memories of the extensive time he’d been stationed here — like grandma’s turkey roasting in the oven on Thanksgiving Day.
Once Frank Roselli had declared the installation ‘complete’ the previous spring, the single entrance to Operation Genesis’s self-sustaining breeding facility had been sealed. Every mechanical part of the gnotobiotic isolator cells that housed the rats had been designed for remote operation, thanks to technology borrowed heavily from NASA’s unmanned space stations. Similarly, the facility generated its own power from a state-of-the-art compact nuclear reactor capable of continuously churning out electricity for ten years before needing refuelling.
Even replenishment of the feeding tanks was handled by a cleverly concealed pipeline to a dairy farm situated a kilometre to the west. The milky nutrient solution manufactured there was a potent brew infused with plague virions and gonadotropin hormone that stimulated the brood’s pituitary development (to promote aggressive behaviour).
What they’d built inside this mountain was the most sophisticated installation of its kind. Such a pity that not long from now, not a trace of it would remain, Crawford thought.
As he neared the cave, his apprehension intensified with the sounds of squealing.
These are no ordinary rats, he thought.
He remembered Roselli saying that the proper name for a brood of rats of was a ‘mischief’, and how the Chinese revered the rat for its cunning and intellect, so much so that it earned top rank as the first of the twelve years in the Sheng xiao zodiac cycle. But this genetically enhanced batch of vermin would add a whole new meaning to ‘Year of the Rat’, thought Crawford.
In one year, the typical female black rat — sexually mature at three months — gestated every twenty-four days, gave live birth to twelve pups and spawned 16,000 offspring. But thanks to Roselli’s ingenious breeding technique, the birthing rate had been increased to an average of sixteen pups. Therefore, the growth algorithm for Operation Genesis conservatively assumed that each female in the initial set would account for an astounding 24,000 descendants in the first year alone. Naturally, the descendants would carry that trend forward exponentially.
Much of the epidemiological detail was lost on Crawford. But he remembered Roselli referring to the rats as a natural ‘intermediate host’ for plague transmission. Stokes preferred to call them a ‘delivery system’. All Crawford knew was that once the brood had reached critical mass, they’d be released from the cave into the Zagros Mountains.
Once unleashed on their new habitat, the rat population would spread out in all directions. And all the while, they’d rampantly breed; just like they’d been doing in this cave — just like their cousins, the Asian black rats or ‘ship rats’, had done before spreading out from China centuries earlier to transmit the Black Death throughout Europe.
Highly intelligent survivalists by nature, the rats would evade capture by burrowing underground, hiding in the mountains’ nooks and crannies, and building hidden nests inside the walls of homes and buildings. Even if they were to be spotted out in the open, the rats were virtually impossible to catch, because for their body size they were among nature’s best athletes: able to sprint at nearly forty kilometers per hour, swim half a kilometre, climb vertically up walls and jump up to o
ver a metre, even squeeze their rubbery bodies through a hole smaller than a quarter. Trapping them was no easy task either since their chisel-like teeth, with more crushing force than a crocodile, could gnaw through metal and wood. At the genetic level, rats were 90 per cent identical to humans — the reason they were favoured for clinical laboratory testing. But a rat’s most important physiological similarity was its brain — nearly identical to a human’s in its ability for spatial memorization.
These rats will be impossible to contain or destroy.
Throughout history, rats had been the carriers and transmitters of over seventy diseases lethal to humans, including typhus, salmonella, parasitic trichinosis and, of course, Yersinia pestis, commonly known as bubonic plague. Similarly, according to Roselli, there’d be numerous ways the rats would transmit the Genesis Plague virions to humans. Crawford could only recall the top three: contamination of food and water supplies via blood, urine, faeces, or saliva; primary contact through a bite (less likely); or most potently, through blood-sucking sand flies and mosquitoes (prolific throughout the Middle East), that would feast on the rats, then relay the virus to humans and livestock through bites. The perfect transmission vector.
Rats provided everything Stokes had wished for: efficiency, cost-effectiveness and anonymity.
At first, Crawford thought Stokes’s plan to settle the score in the Middle East sounded insane. Now that the mission was nearing completion, however, he felt nothing but reverence for the man. Stokes was a visionary; a crusader; a saviour. Stokes would rewrite human history.
And Crawford was determined to play his part — to make history right alongside Stokes. During the past critical hour, however, Crawford had been unable to establish further communication with Stokes. Ye t like every operational detail of Operation Genesis, there was a failsafe for this dilemma — a manual workaround. At this juncture, the mission’s success hinged upon getting the rats out from the cave. Crawford had hoped that despite their neophobic tendencies, the rats would have already made their way outside. But the two blasts that had decimated the cave’s entry tunnels had likely forced the rats to seek an alternative exit; the very survival mechanism that would account for their staying power in the outside world.
At this juncture, all Crawford needed to do was act the role of the Pied Piper and herd the critters out the front door. Though he wasn’t counting on that being the easiest of tasks. With the rats having been down here breeding for over a year, he could hardly imagine just how many there might be inside. And since he recalled that rats evolved three times faster than humans, he wondered what effect the hormone infusions might have had on their behaviour and physiology.
If rats felt threatened, they would defend themselves. These rats, however, were likely far more unpredictable — exactly the reason Crawford had brought along the rodent repeller that had been designed for just such a snafu. The transmitter had been cleverly integrated into Crawford’s walkie-talkie. After all, the simple technology could easily piggyback on the radio’s circuit board. With the touch of a button, he powered on the transmitter and a steady ultrasonic signal began transmitting in the 45,000 Hz range. For the rats, the high-frequency, pulsing waves — inaudible to the human ear — were like Kryptonite to Superman.
On approach to the cave, he could hear the horde’s high-pitched drone. He wondered what the rats might be trying to communicate to one another. Were they coordinating an attack on Holt, Shuster and the Kurd?
The tunnel walls fell away from his light, giving way to the cave’s soupy black void. Without pause, Crawford stormed inside, machine gun raised high on his shoulder, ready to cut down any moving target larger than a rat.
78
‘Don’t worry, Hazo,’ Shuster yelled over the squealing rats. ‘Ramirez made it. He’ll get help. Just stay where you are.’
But Hazo didn’t respond because he was still watching the light intensifying inside the entrance tunnel. He estimated that Ramirez had only gone into the tunnel less than a minute ago. Definitely not enough time to have assembled a rescue team. So why would he be coming back inside now?
The light flashed inside the cave and caught Shuster’s attention. He turned, scowled at the light, shouted, ‘Ramirez! Get out of here!’ He motioned for him to retreat. ‘Go and get the others!’
Hazo watched the sharp luminescent beam sweep side to side. Against Shuster’s order, Ramirez advanced closer. If Ramirez didn’t hear Shuster, he should certainly have understood the overt hand signals. Certain that the light would attract the rats, Hazo was confused when the writhing brood cowered back and curled into itself like ebbing surf. It looked as if an invisible wall were pushing out in front of the light to press them back, like some kind of fantastical force field.
‘Ramirez!’ Shuster shouted in an angry voice that echoed through the cave. ‘Go back!’
But the corporal’s plea quickly went silent as the swell of rats continued to retreat from the light. Like Hazo, he was trying to figure out how this was happening.
Advancing to within fifteen metres of the containers, the light stopped and swung up to spotlight Shuster. The corporal shielded his eyes from the glare while trying to discern the identity of the man holding the light. It was impossible. His frustration grew. ‘Ramirez, what are you doing? Get that fucking light out of my face!’
No reply. The light remained fixed on Shuster.
‘Ramirez?’
The rats’ squealing cries were suddenly drowned out by the clamour of automatic gunfire, and beneath the light, Hazo saw tiny white flashes spit in rapid succession.
In the same instant, Shuster’s face ripped open and the back of his head exploded in a spew of blood and brain matter. The force from the impact threw him backwards and he tumbled off the container.
Dropping to his knees, Hazo flashed his light down at the body. The rats responded instantly, swarming over it.
Then the light shifted to Hazo.
There was nowhere for Hazo to go. He was penned in by the platform’s railings. He scrambled for the handgun that Shuster had given him and sprang to his feet. Squinting in the light, he failed to make visual confirmation of a target, but blindly fired three shots. The light didn’t budge.
‘Drop the gun, Hazo!’ the gunman yelled up at him.
Hazo wasn’t surprised that it was Crawford’s voice. ‘No!’ he replied.
‘I’ll shoot you dead right now if you don’t drop the gun,’ Crawford threatened in a menacing tone.
‘Fine! You do what you must,’ Hazo screamed. ‘I’m already dead. Don’t you see?’
A pause.
‘Get off that platform,’ Crawford yelled.
Get off the platform? Hazo repeated to himself. Why would Crawford want him to come down? If he had no problem shooting Shuster off the container …
‘Get off … now!’
Having witnessed Holt’s horrible demise, there was no way Hazo was willing to sacrifice himself to the rats. Best to take a few bullets and avoid the suffering, albeit the rats or the plague. Hazo turned his back to Crawford, raised his arms and shut his eyes tight. ‘Shoot me!’ he yelled out. ‘Shoot me in the back like the coward you are!’ He gritted his teeth and waited for the end — waited for Crawford’s bullets to finish the job his microscopic assassins had already started.
No shots came.
Confused, Hazo eased his eyes open. ‘What are you waiting for!’ But directly in front of his face, he saw the answer to his own question. There, in plain view, a peculiar sticker was plastered on to the sheet metal housing covering a huge, tubular machine. The ominous symbol — a circle cut like a pie into six alternating yellow and black slices — carried a universal warning.
Radiation.
‘This is your last chance!’ Crawford screamed.
Hazo ignored him, as he tried to process this new information. He quickly assessed the huge machine. Why would there be radioactive material down here? Unless …
Could this be a nuclear reactor?
Normally a nuclear reactor was a huge thing that powered cities. And they were always shielded with thick concrete to protect against radiation leaks. But Hazo quickly determined that a radiation leak so deep inside a mountain probably made such safety precautions a moot point. Clearly, if Crawford wanted him to back away from the reactor, it could only mean that he feared a stray bullet might pierce its volatile core.
‘Fine,’ Crawford yelled. ‘I’ll come and pull you down.’
Hazo turned and pointed the gun directly at the reactor, the way an executioner might — the way a Saddam loyalist might threaten a Kurdish carpet retailer from Mosul. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘You move, I shoot.’
For ten seconds there was no response.
Then the light beam shifted.
Hazo hesitated.
Still no reply from Crawford.
Hazo called down to him: ‘This is a nuclear reactor, is it not?’
Again, Crawford didn’t answer.
Without warning, something hurled out from the light — glinting in fast bursts as it pinwheeled directly towards Hazo. Before he could react, it struck him in the chest like a fist, pushed him back against the reactor. He crumpled down on to the platform. All feeling to his right hand instantly turned to pins and needles. Involuntarily, his fingers went limp. The gun slipped out from his ruined grip and skittered to a stop, close to the edge of the platform.
This time, Hazo found it impossible to catch his breath. He looked down and saw a black handgrip, buried to the hilt, sticking out beneath his right clavicle, close to the shoulder. When he tried to move towards the gun, bolts of pain shot down his arm and over his chest, making him see pure white. He screamed out in agony.
Then he could hear Crawford’s boots clanging up the ladder rungs.
79
It hadn’t taken much effort for Jason to persuade Crawford’s disenchanted marines to step aside so that he and Meat could get into the tunnel.
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