The Genesis Plague

8

Once the muted thumping inside the vault stopped, Randall Stokes sauntered to the wet bar, pulled a tumbler off the shelf, and poured two fingers of very expensive single-malt Scotch, neat. He withdrew a plastic pillbox from his jacket pocket, popped open the lid, and pinched out a pure white Zoloft tablet.

Putting the pill on his tongue, he raised the glass towards the vault door.

‘Cheers, Frank.’

He nipped at the Scotch and swilled down the dose of tranquillity. Then he went and sat behind the desk.

It hurt when good men — loyal men — were sacrificed for the greater good. Military life had a way of hammering into one’s head the notion that brotherhood always came first. Survival could be a singular effort, but lasting victory could never be. Fighters are made, not born. And that was certainly true with Frank Roselli.

Roselli was an extremely valuable asset. He’d perfectly coordinated the project in Iraq, which, given the mission’s complex logistics and broad scope, was no easy task. Though it was Stokes’s brainchild, Roselli had tackled recruiting the multi-disciplined talent who took the project from concept to reality. From around the globe, he’d assembled a team of renowned archaeologists and anthropologists and brought them into the middle of a war zone to unlock the greatest discovery in human history. It was Roselli who’d designed the ingenious security protocols and eliminated redundancies so that each scientist working on site knew only a piece of the cave’s intricate puzzle. Most impressive was Roselli’s brilliant handling of high-ranking members of Congress, the FBI and the armed forces, to bring together the funding and technological know-how. And as far as the stakeholders were concerned, it was all an anonymous debit against the defence budget in the name of national security. So thorough was the mission’s cover that even the president’s eagle-eyed Cabinet members would give the appropriations a mere cursory glance.

Stokes and Roselli had been together since the beginning: through twelve weeks of boot camp at Parris Island and the gruelling fifty-four-hour Crucible march; side by side at the Emblem Ceremony, receiving their eagle, globe and anchor pins; at Marine Special Operations School learning the tactical art of irregular warfare.

Best friends.

Brothers.

Staring out the window, Stokes lost himself in the muddled reflections that danced across the cathedral’s reflective glass dome. The colours pinwheeled and shifted like a kaleidoscope. Entranced, his mind’s eye brought him back to the Kuwaiti desert: distant oil fields burning like torches against a night sky as black as oil; the paradoxical bitter cold of a sunless desert set ablaze. He could still feel the sixty-five-pound field pack weighing on his back, the ice-cold fifteen-pound M40A1 sniper rifle biting into his hands; the sand creeping down into his combat boots (despite three wraps of duct tape around the boot top). Even the choking stench of smouldering crude seemed fresh in his nostrils.

And there beside him, equally vivid, he could still see Roselli — forty pounds lighter, all muscle — the runt of the litter who had the piss and vinegar of a man twice his size. He’d witnessed Roselli beat a six-foot-two recruit unconscious with a boot for calling him Napoleon. Roselli was one tough mother who never gave up the fight. He’d even saved Stokes’s life by bayoneting an Iraqi soldier who tried to attack Stokes with a knife.

Now Stokes had repaid the deed by locking Roselli in an airless room, using the only viable weapon he could — one that stabbed much deeper than the bayonet: deception. Nothing noble about that, Stokes lamented.

He drained the Scotch.

Pushing down a welling sense of self-loathing, Stokes reminded himself that nothing could deter the mission’s success. So much was at stake. There was a new battlefront now — a new killing field. The last generation of fanatics was mostly desperate, idealistic kids blinded by radical religious teachings with no regard for any human life — infidels and innocents alike. But the leaders now operating behind the scenes to manipulate these malleable foot soldiers were by far the most dangerous enemy he’d ever encountered — a societal cancer that strove to destroy civilization. An enemy that wasn’t a country, didn’t wear uniform, had no generals or central power structure, and was fuelled by an ingrained hatred that no army could ever remedy. The industrialized world lacked the resources and mettle to effect any meaningful change in the Middle East. Left to conventional tactics, this modern war could last decades, perhaps generations. When Stokes had worked as a counter-terrorist operative, he’d seen little proof that anyone knew a viable long-term solution. One thing, however, was certain: in the end, only one side would remain standing.

‘It’s for the best,’ a soothing voice said from behind.

Startled, Stokes spun around in his chair.

There was no one in the room.

When would He present Himself?

‘Yes, it is for the best,’ Stokes agreed. ‘Frank’s work was vital … but he didn’t understand the grand design to which we aspire.’

‘Few do, my son.’

Stokes’s eyes darted back and forth, searching for an apparition. ‘They found the cave. You know that, of course. Will this jeopardize our work?’

‘Have faith. All is in accordance.’

The voice came at him from every angle.

‘And when will I know that it has begun?’

‘It has already begun. Do you not see the signs?’

There are no accidents, thought Stokes. ‘Yes, I see the signs. And the Rapture? When will it come.’

No answer.

Stokes scanned the room. He felt the presence dissipate. Gone.