‘I mean, what did these guys do to him?’ Meat said.
‘They didn’t do this, Meat. They
couldn’t
have done this.’
‘Then who did?’
As if on cue, Jason’s sat-com vibrated. He dug in his pocket to find it, saw that it was Flaherty.
‘Tommy?’
‘Yeah, it’s me.’
‘Everything all right in Vegas?’
‘No. Not by a longshot, I’m afraid.’
Jason listened as Flaherty rehashed the candid tell-all discussion he and Brooke had had with Pastor Randall Stokes - the discovery of an ancient contagion that USAMRIID scientists under Frank Roselli’s guidance had weaponized for mass transmission throughout the Middle East. Staring over at Al-Zahrani, Jason felt his nerves turn to ice. When Flaherty detailed Stokes’s sinister objective - to annihilate the Arab male population - he could feel a dark cloud settling over him. He’d had a similar response when in September 2001 his sister Elizabeth had called to report that Matthew had officially gone missing at the World Trade Center.
‘Not sure if I’m buying what Stokes was saying about this virus he and Roselli concocted. Seemed a bit out there to me …’ Flaherty said.
‘He’s right, Tommy. Trust me. We just found Al-Zahrani and he’s dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But you only pulled him out of that cave a few hours ago.’
‘That’s right. We thought he had a fever. But now … God, it looks like something minced his organs and pushed them out his throat. We killed a few others that had been in contact with him … it’s a long story. But they weren’t looking too good either. If you ask me, I’d say they were showing early signs of being infected with this virus.’
‘Virus?’Meat said, looking alarmed.His eyes wentwide with concern as he looked at Al-Zahrani again. ‘What do mean “virus”?’
‘Virus,’ the elderly Arab echoed grimly. ‘Yes … virus,’ he said holding out his hands and staring at them with vacant, yellowed eyes.
‘Shut up!’ Meat demanded, kicking the old man.
Jason stifled Meat with an abrupt hand gesture.
‘The others you killed … were they Arabs?’ Flaherty asked in a low voice.
‘They were.’
A pause.
‘So it’s true,’ Flaherty said in a grim tone. ‘It only kills Arabs.’
‘For our sake, I hope so.’
‘Stokes was pretty proud of the fact that this virus could specifically target Arabs,’ Flaherty reiterated. ‘Let’s not go making any assumptions. I hope you’ll be fine. Are you okay?’
Jason wasn’t so sure. ‘You said this thing can spread through the air?’
‘What?’ Meat said, startled by the bits and pieces he was overhearing. ‘You mean just breathing it—’
‘These men you’ve killed …’ Flaherty said, thinking it through. ‘You’ve got to get rid of the bodies. Burn them or something. Until we find out what’s really happening, we can’t risk letting this thing get out in the open.’
‘Agreed.’
‘There’s something else too. However Stokes was planning to spread the virus, it’s in that cave. He referred to it as a “delivery system”. I don’t know how or what that might mean, but he implied that it somehow uses nature, not warheads. Our friend Crawford has been in on this thing all along. And he’s determined to finish this, understand? So you’ve got to wrap things up there quickly and find a way to get back to that cave and stop Crawford.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Jason said, ruing the fact that he didn’t force the issue of calling for backup earlier. ‘Hey, is Stokes dead?’
‘No. But he will be soon. And not from the bump on his head. Seems there was a mutiny among the ranks. Frank Roselli, the USAMRIID guy, managed to infect Stokes with some military-grade anthrax. Talk about poetic justice. Anyway, when Stokes comes to, I’ll see if we can get anything else out of him.’
‘Great work, Tommy. I’ll take it from here.’
‘How long till Candyman gets here?’ Meat asked, uncapping another of the five-gallon gas cans they’d liberated from the shed where the stolen truck had been hidden.
‘Ten minutes,’ Jason replied with little emotion. His vacant eyes fixated on the elderly Arab whose chant had come to an abrupt halt, thanks to a single shot Meat had pumped through the top of his head. All things considered, the execution was truly a mercy kill. The old man had offered no resistance.
In every way, the mission added new meaning to the phrase ‘take no prisoners’. The death toll Jason had witnessed over the past nine hours was as deep as it was wide. Undoubtedly, the demise of Al-Zahrani and his militant underlings was to be celebrated - and in time, would be. After all, he reminded himself, these men were terrorists of the worst variety: extremists hell bent on indiscriminately destroying civilization; brainwashed by radical interpretations of the Qur’an and the Hadith; convinced that sacrificing innocent lives was sanctioned by Allah.
But for Jason, a disturbing truth was fast coming into focus: terrorism was a two-way street. If Stokes were to succeed in unleashing his wretched apocalypse on the Middle East, the combined acts of terror carried out by the minuscule minority of Muslim extremists would seem trivial in comparison. And the fact that evangelical fanaticism stoked the pastor’s fervour was all too similar to the enemy Jason had been fighting all these years. What could have pushed Stokes over the brink of sanity? he wondered. Jason knew firsthand that war could easily blur the lines. Even as he stood over the grand trophy of this conflict - the body of Fahim Al-Zahrani - he felt no true sense of victory.
‘Come on, Google,’ Meat said. ‘We don’t have much time. Soak him really good.’
‘Right,’ Jason said. He uncapped another gas can and began dousing Al-Zahrani and the mattress, trying to avoid breathing.
‘It’s a fucking shame, really,’ Meat said, motioning to Al-Zahrani.
‘How’s that?’ Jason said, pouring out the last of the gasoline.
‘We’re about to light up a ten-million-dollar barbecue. We actually bagged this fucker and now we’re going to destroy any proof of it. For the record, though, it’s not about the money, Google,’ Meat confessed. ‘I’m just glad this fucker’s dead. You know, for Camel and Jam.’
‘Me too, buddy,’ Jason said, patting him on the shoulder. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the camera he’d confiscated from the crash site. ‘But don’t worry, we’re going to show the world this guy’s toast.’
Meat smiled. ‘Awesome.’
Jason snapped a dozen photos of Al-Zahrani’s corpse, including close-ups of the face. ‘That should do it.’ He slipped the camera back into his pocket.
‘Show time,’ Meat said. He handed Jason one of the match-books he’d found in the downstairs kitchen. ‘I’ll give you the honour. I’ll take care of the other room. The downstairs is ready to go. We just need to light it on the way out.’
When Meat left, Jason set the gas can down and filed the image of Al-Zahrani in his memory. He peeled back the match-book’s cover, tore off a match and struck it.
‘Burn in Hell,’ Jason said.
He flicked the match on to the mattress.
‘Oh that is some nasty shit.’ Disgusted, Private Miguel Ramirez aimed his light down on the slippery red goop smeared over the rocks. Seeing that some of the slime was dangling between his fingers - long strands of black hair clumped together by mocha-coloured skin - stimulated his gag reflex. So he looked away, flung the fleshy chunks off his fingers, and wiped his hand clean on his pants.
‘Man up, Ramirez. We’ve got work to do,’ Shuster said.
The pallid marine slid down the steep rock pile and cycled a few calming breaths.
‘You good?’ Shuster asked.
‘I’m good,’ Ramirez unconvincingly replied. He pulled the M-16 off his shoulder and slid the flashlight into the mounting clip on the rifle’s muzzle.
‘All right,’ Shuster said. ‘I’ll take the lead. Ramirez, you’re behind me … then Holt.’ He turned to address the surprisingly resolute Kurd, whose primary concern seemed to be the handgun, which he handled as if it were on fire. But the man had plenty more to worry about, because up close in the glow of the flashlight, Shuster now noticed how pale Hazo looked. The tiny veins in his eyes now formed a web of red around his irises. It wasn’t the most opportune time to come down with a cold. ‘Hazo, you’ll be in the rear. Keep a safe distance, and if for some reason we have company in here, don’t wait around to ask questions. Just make it out as fast as you can. Understand?’
Hazo nodded.
‘You remember how to use the gun?’ he said pointing to the M9.
‘I do.’ The words brought a scratchy tickle to the back of Hazo’s throat. He buried his mouth in his sleeve and coughed to alleviate the discomfort. He could feel a tightness settling into his lungs.
‘All right. Here we go.’ Shuster used his sleeve to mop the sweat from his eyes, then directed his M-16 straight down the tunnel. The muzzle-mounted flashlight cut four metres into the darkness, revealing solid rock. He felt like he was staring into the entrance to Hell itself. Even with all his military training and field experience, he wasn’t prepared for a hostile encounter in this environment. Should an enemy be lurking in the shadows, there’d be no choice but to face him head on - no cover, nowhere to run. The light would provide plenty of warning to anyone hunkered down in the darkness, mark a clear target even for a novice shooter. The weighty Kevlar-lined flak jacket that covered Shuster’s chest offered little solace, feeling like nothing more than tissue paper. And at close range, he felt that his combat helmet would shield his skull no better than a Tupperware bowl.
Shuster set off down the passage. The tunnel ran straight for fifteen metres and felt perfectly level underfoot. With the scuffing of boots and the clattering of gear, it was difficult for him to hear anything. So every few metres, he’d signal for the procession to stop. Then he’d listen for any sounds that might be emanating from within the mountain. When all went still, however, the only noise he detected was the wheezing sounds coming from Hazo’s chest.
Fifteen minutes had elapsed since they’d left the entry point forty metres back. The ground began to gradually pitch downward as the passage narrowed and began curving in a wide arc.
As they went deeper, the cool air got thinner.
The passage straightened again, just before the ceiling seemed to disappear. When Shuster aimed his light upward, he felt like he was staring up from the bottom of a crevasse - as though a colossal axe had cleaved the inside of the mountain. Instead of opening into sunlight, however, the sheer walls tapered gradually inward until fusing once more about ten metres up.
Shuster halted the procession once more to listen for activity.
This time, he thought he heard something. And it wasn’t the Kurd’s stuffy chest. The lofty ceiling was amplifying a sound that seemed to be carrying up from inside the mountain.
‘What the hell is that?’ Ramirez whispered.
‘Don’t know,’ Shuster said. The persistent churning sounds were difficult to place, but didn’t seem to indicate a human source. ‘Maybe an underground water source. Like an aquifer or an underground river.’ He pressed forward.
‘Wait,’ Ramirez protested.
Shuster stopped and turned back to the private. ‘What?’
‘That doesn’t sound like water to me. I don’t like it.’
‘Only one way to find out,’ Shuster said, motioning ahead. But Ramirez wasn’t moving.
‘I say we tell Crawford to go fuck himself. Let him send his robot down there.’
‘Hey!’ Holt interrupted. ‘I saw something moving up there.’
Shuster spun and took aim with his M-16. He swung the light side to side, up and down. Ahead, the passage was still.
‘Oh that’s it,’ Ramirez said, repeatedly looking back the way they’d come. ‘I’m getting the fuck out of here.’
‘No you’re not,’ Shuster said. Shaking and fidgeting like a caffeine junky, Ramirez clearly had an extreme case of jitters. ‘Pull yourself together, will you?’
Hazo shimmied past Holt, saying, ‘Excuse me, please.’
Confused, Ramirez backed up to the wall to let the Kurd through. ‘Where are you going?’
Hazo didn’t answer. When he tried to squeeze past Shuster, the corporal grabbed him by the arm, saying, ‘Hold up, Hazo.’ He glanced back at Ramirez. ‘I’m not about to send our interpreter to do your job. Ramirez, be a man for God’s sake.’ He patted Hazo on the shoulder and motioned for him to return to the back of the line. ‘We’re got a plan. Let’s stick to it. Stop wasting time.’
Shuster raised his M-16 and moved forward.
‘You’re a pussy, Ramirez,’ Holt said, giving the dissenter a prodding push.
‘Fuck you. You would’ve been right behind me and you know it.’
‘Thanks for getting here so fast,’ Jason yelled to Candyman over the sound of the Blackhawk’s whirling blades. Once in the helicopter, he buckled his harness, tightened the chin strap on his flight helmet and adjusted the mic boom on his headset. Next to him, Meat fussed with slackening the shoulder straps to accommodate his bulk.
‘No problem,’ Candyman said. ‘It was easy to find you. That’s a mighty big fire you boys lit up. Could practically see it the second I got up in the air. Didn’t even have to bother with the GPS.’ He motioned to the ravaged outline of the safe house, engulfed in orange fire. A column of thick black smoke boiled straight up from the conflagration into the windless sky before melding into the night.