The Genesis Plague (2010) Read online

  Jason went to retrieve it. ‘Give me hand with this. I want to get up that hill … see if we can’t peek inside the cave.’

  5

  LAS VEGAS

  It took a lot to fluster Randall Stokes. Plenty of years spent skulking behind enemy lines to stare down the Devil made most of life’s stressors seem mundane. However, when the caller had conveyed what had transpired in Iraq, a sour taste came to the back of the preacher’s throat.

  There’d always been the possibility that someone might accidentally stumble upon the cave installation. Precisely the reason so many security protocols had been built around the programme, including tripwires for unauthorized persons attempting to breach the main hatchway.

  But what had happened just an hour ago was something even Randall Stokes could not dream up. Such an incursion fell far outside the limits of possibility - the outlier of outliers. The caller had indicated that a US helicopter gunship had misfired a missile - a freak accident. But Arab militants storming into the tunnels? Stokes thought. Certainly this was God’s plan. It was the only plausible explanation. Has the time already come?

  Seated at his desk and directed towards his oversized LCD computer monitor, Stokes drafted a secure e-mail. The brief message stated in cryptic terms that countermeasures were to commence immediately. Step one: a comprehensive clean-up.

  There was an outside chance that some random clue left behind might trigger an investigation. Regrettably that meant that outside contractors who’d worked on the project - the most vulnerable links - would need to be eliminated, quickly and cleanly. Because if the media were to somehow get wind of what was happening at the site, one of the scientists might get cold feet and ignore the restrictive confidentiality agreement he’d signed.

  Stored on his computer’s encrypted hard drive were the vital statistics for each scientist - everything from birth certificates, passport information, credit history and social security numbers, to work history, credentials, family contacts and last known addresses. There were passport photos and biometric data too. Stokes attached all eight ‘A-list’ profiles to the e-mail.

  Just as he was about to click the SEND button, the phone’s intercom came to life with a small chime.

  ‘So sorry to disturb you, Randy.’

  ‘I’m busy. What is it, Vanessa?’ he replied agitatedly.

  ‘Mr Roselli is here,’ she reported in a subdued tone. ‘He’s insisting on seeing you. He doesn’t look so good … acting strange too. Should I call security?’

  ‘No. It’s fine.’ Perfect, actually. ‘Give me a minute, then send him in.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  Stokes focused again on the draft, removed profile number ‘4’ labelled ‘ROSELLI-FRANK’. Verifying the content one last time, he clicked a command that encrypted the message and pushed it out into the ether. He leaned back and stretched, considered how exactly to handle the surprise visitor. When he peered at the open door centred in the rear wall of the office, an idea came to him. A brilliant idea.

  Fifteen seconds later, the double door opened and Vanessa held it as Roselli lumbered into the room, hands stuffed in the pockets of his rumpled seersucker slacks.

  ‘I was going to run to the Post Office,’ Vanessa said. ‘Need me to stay?’

  ‘No, no. You go ahead,’ Stokes said. He stood and rounded the desk. She was right: the five-foot-eight portly project manager looked even more ruddy than usual. ‘Frank,’ he greeted him with presidential style. ‘What a surprise.’

  ‘What’s the emergency?’ Stokes asked, calmly reclining in his office chair.

  Roselli was huddled on the edge of the leather visitor’s seat, elbows propped on knees. Sweat peppered his brow below an island of sun-bleached dirty blond hair that looked like a badly replaced divot. His round cheeks and bulbous nose were pink with sunburn, three deep worry lines cut parallel tracks across his forehead, and his dull hazel eyes, set too close together, were too small for his head.

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’ he said. ‘The alarm in the cave? For God’s sake. They’ll find -‘

  Stokes raised a hand to stop him. ‘I’ve heard,’ he replied levelly.

  ‘And you’re still here?’ He spread his hands. ‘Have you gone mad? What if they -‘

  ‘Calm down. Don’t you see? This is better than we could ever have hoped for.’

  ‘What? Are you insane?’

  ‘Now, now, Frank …’ he warned. But Roselli was inconsolable.

  ‘I told you this might happen!’ he overrode indignantly. Pointing a pudgy index finger at Stokes, he said, ‘We should’ve permanently sealed the opening.’ He shook his head with dismay. ‘Christ, we knew that hatch might draw attention.’

  ‘And how do you suppose what’s in the cave could be released without a doorway?’

  Rolling his eyes, Roselli didn’t have an answer.

  ‘Let me remind you that it was a missile, Frank. A missile that accidentally veered off course. Sorry, but we didn’t plan for that.’ Stokes got up again. ‘Let’s not have someone overhearing this conversation,’ he said conspiratorially. He waved for Roselli to follow, led the way to the open door in the rear of the office.

  Huffing, Roselli got up and went over to him, hesitated at the entry threshold to assess the keypad on the doorframe. His head tilted to calibrate the thickness of the door - five, maybe six, inches. Then he peeked inside. ‘What is this place?’

  ‘My private gallery. We can talk more freely in here.’ Stokes offered a composed smile, placed a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder and urged him inside.

  The spacious, windowless gallery housed an impressive collection of ancient artifacts in sturdy display cases - mostly Middle Eastern, as far as Roselli could tell. No surprise since Stokes was obsessed with anything remotely linked to Mesopotamia or Persia, both past and present. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls; dozens of compact clay tablets were neatly laid out behind thick glass doors. He could also make out jewellery, pottery and Bronze Age tools and weapons stored there too.

  But the room’s centre featured the relics Roselli knew intimately.

  Mounted atop a wide granite plinth was an enormous limestone slab; maybe six feet high, four feet wide, he guessed. On the monolith’s face were intricate relief etchings of two winged beasts, spirits facing one another in profile, as if courting for a dance - each half human, half lion. The stone seal they’d removed from the cave entrance and replaced with a heavy-duty metal door.

  In the display cases beside the seal, Roselli spotted some of the cursed artifacts they’d recovered from deep within the labyrinth: an assortment of clay tablets stamped with ancient wedge-shaped symbols and pictograms; a beautiful necklace of glossy shells; a clay jar painted in symbols and whose bizarre contents remained locked within rock-hard resin. But the most prominent display case was covered with a veil. The thought of what might be inside it made him shudder. ‘You must be insane … keeping all these things here.’

  ‘Do you really think anyone would know where these treasures came from? I’m a mere collector, Frank. Stop being paranoid,’ Stokes suggested delicately.

  ‘Paranoid? Do you know what will happen if anyone finds what we left behind in that cave?’ Then he turned pale when he thought of the most serious consequences. ‘My God … what if those American contractors go inside … what if they all die?’

  With hands behind his back, Stokes paced over to the stone slab and admired it for a long moment. ‘When God expelled Adam and Eve from Eden, the cherubim were posted outside the entrance so that the humans could never return to paradise. The sacred guardians …’

  ‘Now is not the time for Bible-thumping,’ Roselli fumed. ‘We need to focus on the cave. What are we going to do?’

  Stokes shrugged and contemplated the situation for five seconds before responding. ‘The cave being discovered like this … well, it can only be considered divinely inspired, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘I understand
you’re upset,’ Stokes said.

  ‘Damn right I’m upset.’

  ‘Let me get us drinks. Then we’ll talk about this, figure things out. Scotch?’ Another of Roselli’s Achilles heels.

  In Pavlovian fashion, Roselli licked his lips. Then he sighed and ran his fingers through the divot. ‘That’d be good.’

  ‘Neat?’

  Looking wounded, Roselli nodded.

  ‘All right.’ Stokes patted him on the back. ‘It’ll be okay. I promise. Be back in a minute.’

  Stokes pivoted on his good foot and made his way outside.

  Roselli turned back to the centre of the room and stared at the veiled display case. The loose ends of the silky cover billowed against air pumping in from overhead vents. Or maybe something beneath it was stirring. Curiosity got the best of him and he stepped cautiously towards it. Cringing, he reached out and began to lift the cover. But the sudden sound of the door closing made him jump in fright. His eyes snapped to the door.

  ‘Stokes?’

  The door’s locking mechanism turned over with a clunk.

  ‘Stokes!’

  On the other side of the door, Stokes punched a code into the keypad mounted on the doorframe and activated the hermetic seal. Roselli’s screams barely permeated the dense walls. But soon, all would be silent.

  6

  Roselli’s fists throbbed as he pounded on the door again, leaving splotches of perspiration on the cold metal. Helpless anger blinded him to the futility of escaping the vault.

  He’d tried unsuccessfully to access the sealed shelving units containing the bronze tools, thinking he might somehow be able to use an axe or chisel to pry open the door lock. With every fixture in the room bolted to the floor, and no loose implement to use as a striker, however, he’d resorted to using his fists on the glass. That effort, too, proved a waste of time and energy. Even if he’d been able to get to the tools, he knew that the primitive bronze would be too flimsy to have any effect on the formidable security door.

  So he’d been reduced to what amounted to a child’s tantrum.

  The ceiling vents steadily hummed. Instead of the climate control system scrubbing away contaminants, however, it was now sucking oxygen out from the room. The air reeked of ozone.

  Finally, he turned and put his back against the door in defeat, slid down to the Berber carpet. He loosened his necktie, unbuttoned the shirt collar. Scanning the room again, he cursed the fact that there were no windows or secondary doors. Even the air ducts, he’d observed, seemed too tight for a mouse, let alone a 205-pound middle-aged man.

  Each laboured breath became more shallow, more painful. It felt as if he was being slowly strangled by invisible hands. The grim reality quickly settled over him: there’d be no escape. This vault was to be his tomb. Ironically, what angered him now was that the cunning preacher had not made good on delivering the Scotch. All those years watching each other’s back in the most inhospitable war zones on the planet, and it came down to this. ‘If you’re going to kill me, a little civility would have been nice,’ he grumbled.

  He wondered where Stokes would dump his body: at home, where his wife would assume high cholesterol and runaway blood pressure had finally gotten the best of him? At his office, where his secretary would grumble that he’d finally succeeded in working himself to death? Or in a Caesar’s Palace hotel room, where one might think his mounting gambling losses and excessive boozing had finally taken their toll?

  ‘Devious bastard,’ he said in a thin, wheezy voice.

  His starved lungs made his chest heave up and down. His senses were beginning to feel foggy.

  Perhaps this was a fitting end for what he’d done to assist Stokes these past years - to enable his ambitious plan for world domination, Armageddon, or whatever moniker might be ascribed to the delusional end game. Would justice ever find Stokes for what he’d done? If there was a God, why would He grant victory to such an evil prick? Whatever happened to good ole wrath, retribution and smite?

  Determined not to go down without a fight, Roselli tried to think of how he could warn the others whom Stokes would consider a threat. From his jacket pocket, he pulled out his BlackBerry, confirmed that not one signal bar showed on the screen.

  Lethargically, he moved towards the room’s centre with the PDA held close to the ceiling, hunting for a signal. Nothing. ‘That’s just great,’ he huffed.

  The room started to spin, so he sat on the floor and propped himself up against the plinth. Every breath was a struggle.

  Using the PDA’s stylus, Roselli navigated his address book and began drafting a mass e-mail - a warning to all who’d worked on the project, plus an admission of his participation in a most egregious act with consequences that potentially threatened humankind’s existence. That should get their attention, he thought. Maybe then the scientists would learn how they’d unwittingly participated in a sinister plot that would make the Manhattan Project seem like child’s play. Maybe then they would rally together and seek justice. The possibility gave Roselli hope.

  Finally … full disclosure, he pondered.

  Next, he prepared a second e-mail message, but assigned it a later delivery time. This one was meant for Stokes. What would prove to be Roselli’s shocking final message from the grave. When he finished the draft and read it over a final time, he couldn’t help but grin, despite the bleakness of his predicament.

  Roselli edited delivery instructions for the two messages to ensure completion of two tasks: attempt delivery every minute until a signal is obtained and delivery confirmed; auto-delete the messages upon successful transmission.

  The wheezing was heavier now; his vision, spotty.

  From his pocket, he withdrew a tiny glass vial filled with white powder and uncapped its rubber stopper. With utmost care he sprinkled the tacky granules over the PDA’s keyboard and control buttons. Then he slipped the empty vial back into his jacket pocket, followed by the powered-on PDA.

  He let his arms drop limply to the floor. The room seemed to be crushing in around him.

  Burn in Hell, Stokes, he thought.

  A minute later, darkness crept in from the corners of his vision. Then everything slipped into oblivion.

  7

  IRAQ

  ‘Keep back from the opening,’ Jason reminded Jam. ‘Let’s not have you catch a bullet with your face.’

  ‘Yes, mother,’ Jam replied.

  Having clambered to the highpoint of the rubble heap that blocked the cave entrance, Jam had pulled away enough debris and stone to enable Camel - straddled beside him - to punch five feet of three-inch-wide conduit clear through to the other side. Not hard for Jason to imagine someone on the other side attempting to put a few bullets through the PVC pipe.

  ‘Good to go,’ Camel reported. ‘Pass the line up.’

  The sand-coloured armoured flex cable hung in long loops from Hazo’s crooked elbow. The slight-statured Kurd passed Camel the business end of the line - a shielded optical lens tip. The cable’s other end connected to a toaster-sized portable command unit that was mostly lithium battery.

  Camel began threading the Snake through the PVC.

  ‘Clear?’ Jason asked.

  ‘Yeah, it’s going through,’ Camel said. ‘Smooth as a colonoscopy. Keep it coming, Hazo.’

  Meanwhile, Meat flipped back the device’s lid, which doubled as the LCD viewing screen, and powered on the unit. The setup was similar to a compact laptop: full-size keyboard, touchpad mouse, some simple controls. From the carrying case, he retrieved what looked like a videogame joystick, plugged it into a port on the unit’s rear panel. With the touch of a button, the halogen floodlight mounted on the Snake’s tip lit up. The streaming video came through bright and clear.

  ‘We have eyes,’ Meat reported. He reached into the case again, grabbed the unit’s headphones and put them on. Then he adjusted the audio level on the integrated microphone.

  Jason came over and crouched beside him to get a look at the images coming back fr
om inside the cave.

  As Camel pushed more flex cable through the pipe, the camera advanced further down the bumpy slope of rocks until it found gravel.

  ‘Hold it there,’ Meat said. He pulled back on the joystick while pressing his thumb on the control button. Like a charmed cobra, the cable curled at the tip (an integrated hydraulic balance kept the camera level). The first clear pictures immediately shone bright and clear.

  ‘We’re in,’ Meat said. Just behind the blocked entry, smooth parallel walls set roughly two metres apart tapered off into the darkness. ‘Not your typical cave.’

  ‘No, it certainly isn’t.’ Jason studied the image, saw no sign of activity. ‘All right, Camel, keep it moving … slow and steady.’

  ‘Hear anything yet?’ Jason asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ he reported. ‘It’s quiet in there. Really quiet.’

  Jam jumped off the pile and helped Hazo feed more loops to Camel.

  A few metres in, Meat spotted something on the walls. ‘Hey, see that?’

  ‘Hold up,’ Jason called up to Camel. The picture steadied. ‘What is it?’ he asked Meat.

  ‘Something on the left wall,’ he replied, squinting tight at the screen. He toggled the joystick to get a better angle, then zoomed out for a wide shot.

  When the picture came into focus, Jason was amazed at what he was seeing: the entire left wall was filled with narrative scenes carved in pristine bas-relief. The central figure depicted in the scenes was a shapely woman holding a cylindrical object that emanated wavy lines. Assembled around her were men and women presenting gifts and food. There was even a group genuflecting as if in worship. Beneath her feet was a repeating pattern of nautilus-shaped swirls. ‘Whoa,’ Meat said. ‘That’s weird.’ He panned side to side. ‘Looks like a mural or something.’

  ‘Sure does,’ Jason agreed. ‘Hazo, come take a look at this.’

  The Kurd passed the coiled cable to Jam and joined them.

  ‘What do you make of that?’