The Genesis Plague

56

‘That’s them,’ Jason said, lowering his binoculars. From the sky, the rogue pickup truck was easy to spot as it sped along an open ribbon of dusty roadway leading west over the expansive plain.

‘Where do you think they’re taking him? Kirkuk?’ Meat asked.

‘Probably. And we can’t let that happen.’

‘No problem.’

‘Without killing them,’ Jason clarified.

‘Well, who doesn’t like a challenge?’

‘If you get us low alongside them,’ Camel cut in over the intercom, ‘I can shoot out the tyres.’

‘Much appreciated,’ Jason said, scanning the terrain in infrared through his binoculars. ‘But I think I’ve got a better idea. Meat, the road crosses a bridge about three klicks out. Think you might be able to set us down on the west side, block them in?’

‘Hell yeah,’ Meat said. ‘We could just take out the bridge too.’

‘That would be a waste of taxpayer dollars,’ Jason said with a smile. ‘Let’s not be lazy, okay?’

‘I was just joking,’ Meat replied sheepishly.

‘And if the truck turns around?’ Jam asked.

‘If they turn around, they’ve got nowhere to go,’ Jason said. ‘We’ll just keep them moving until they run out of gas. Then we’ll get on the ground and surround them. It’s just the driver and Al-Zahrani. Al-Zahrani’s in no condition to run and the driver certainly won’t be able to carry him far without help.’

‘I still think we should just blow that truck to hell,’ Jam said.

‘That’s your retirement plan down there,’ Camel reminded him. ‘No body, no bounty.’

‘Fuck the money,’ Jam said. ‘That fucker needs to die.’

A pregnant pause indicated a quiet consensus.

The Blackhawk was closing the gap fast. Meat swept in over the roadway. The truck had less than a kilometre lead now.

‘What exactly is wrong with Al-Zahrani anyway, Google?’ Camel asked.

‘Not sure. The medic was running some tests when I left … was trying to figure out the problem. But whoever took Al-Zahrani from the tent killed the medic on the way out the door.’

‘I liked the doc,’ Meat said. ‘Good guy.’

The bridge was less than two kilometres away.

The truck accelerated.

‘He’s going for it,’ Meat said.

‘Pull ahead and drop down on the other side,’ Jason said.

Meat pushed forward on the cyclic and eased down on the collective. The Blackhawk swooped low over the truck on a direct path for the bridge.

Below the bridge, Jason suddenly noticed activity — Arab men scurrying out from under the trusses … with weapons. Jason screamed, ‘Pull up!’

Through his night-vision lenses, Meat saw an RPG tube aimed directly at him. ‘Oh fuck,’ he gasped. He pulled the cyclic hard to the left. At close range, the chopper was hopelessly caught in the gunner’s sight. In anticipation of being hit, he decreased altitude.

The grenade launched in under a second, and the gunner — whether by luck or design — anticipated the chopper’s movement.

The mortar struck high behind the cabin with the mast and rotors taking the brunt of the explosion. Hot metal shot through the cabin.

The Blackhawk listed hard to the left and through the cracked windshield Jason saw the moonlit horizon tilt like a seesaw. Then the chopper’s nose dropped precipitously and the ground came into view — not even ten metres below.

The ensuing freefall happened so fast, Jason had no time to brace for impact. In an instant, there came a deafening crunch of metal and shattering glass. Jason’s head whipped forward. For a good ten seconds, his eyes saw nothing but white.

The chopper had come to a standstill at a thirty-degree forward pitch so that the harness dug into his ribs. Knifing pain radiated across his chest. A warm, wet sensation came over his feet and legs, which he immediately assumed to be his own blood. When his vision finally came into focus, however, Jason was surprised to see that he was actually submerged in water up to his shins.

The chopper’s entire front end had crumpled into a wall of gritty earth.

Over his right shoulder he saw the glowing moon. The landscape he could see was cleaved by a wide irrigation canal — reduced to a stream, thanks to Iraq’s recurring drought — with steep embankments that snaked through the fields covering the plain. The water flowing through the canal churned around the downed Blackhawk.

‘Fuck,’ Meat groaned, rubbing his neck. ‘Are we dead yet?’

‘We will be if we don’t keep moving,’ Jason said. He tried to think how far the chopper had flown from the bridge. ‘They’re going to come for us.’ He unclipped his helmet and tossed it into the shallow pool that covered the floor, worked the harness buckles next.

Meat did the same.

‘Camel?’ Jason called out. ‘Jam? You guys okay?’

No answer.

Jason slid off his seat and peered into the rear to check on them. What he saw was horrifying. Both men were hanging limply from their harnesses. Camel’s helmet had been blown clear off, along with half his skull. A foot-long metal rod speared through the top of Jam’s helmet and out through his face. Behind them, the fuselage had been punched open by the obliterated transmission.

Feeling his knees starting to wobble, Jason fought to remain focused, called upon his training to override the threatening emotional storm. You won’t survive unless you keep it together. He closed his eyes for a moment and cycled a deep breath.

‘Jesus, Google,’ Meat said, distraught. He gestured the sign of the cross. ‘This is fucking awful. How could this happen?’

Overwhelmed, Jason didn’t have an answer for him.

The distant sound of a roaring truck engine echoed through the canal, gaining in intensity.

‘Now what?’ Meat said.

Jason reached around his seat and grabbed the M-16s stowed there. He tossed one to Meat.

‘Now we make them pay for this.’