‘Mystery solved,’ Crawford grunted for show. None of this news surprised Crawford. It wasn’t just the lingering smell of motor oil that clued him in on the source of the blast. Stokes had been quick to inform him about the clumsy gunman who’d let loose some rounds into the man who’d been strapped with plastic explosive. With the cameras knocked off line, however, even Stokes had seriously underestimated the extent of the collapse. More troubling was the quiet calm on the other side of the blockage. Crawford anticipated activity. Lots of activity. And not from the holed-up Arabs. ‘Now I need you to take a couple men in there with you. See how deep that tunnel runs. Make sure it’s empty.’
‘We could use the PackBot,’ Shuster suggested.
Crawford wasn’t hearing it. ‘No time for robots, Corporal. Don’t think. Just do.’
Shuster was amazed by Crawford’s stubborn fixation with this tunnel, particularly in light of the devastating ambush that the platoon had marginally endured (thanks to Crawford’s refusal to radio for backup). With the medic having been killed by Al-Zahrani’s abductors, the wounded were left to tend to one another. Every remaining able-bodied marine had been ordered back to the tunnel to finish the debris removal. No one could yet confirm if Crawford had radioed for reinforcements. That had the platoon grumbling about the colonel’s motive. With Staff Sergeant Richards unaccounted for, discontent was fast brewing throughout the ranks.
Crawford turned to the six men tightly congregated in the passage behind him. ‘Ramirez … Holt. You two get in there with Corporal Shuster and see what we’ve got.’ The marines looked at one another in a way that clearly suggested latent dissension. More reason for swift action. ‘This isn’t a democracy, gentlemen. Get your lights and your weapons and get in there! And your radios won’t be any good under this mountain, so leave them behind.’
The reluctant designatees took up their M-16s and light gear packs, filed past Crawford and clambered up the rocks.
‘And where’s that damn Kurd?’ Crawford blasted.
‘Here, sir,’ a quiet voice called from the rear.
The four marines made room for Hazo to shuffle through.
Crawford squared up with the interpreter. He had to make a conscious effort not to react to the Kurd’s appearance. The man looked haggard and feverish, his eyes bloodshot. The striking similarity to Al-Zahrani’s early symptoms was alarming. Since the onset of Operation Genesis, Stokes had been forthright about the wide reach of a custom virus that would target Arab males. ‘It won’t be only the terrorists who fall. Know that the innocent fathers of our future enemies, too, will be sacrificed along the way,’ Stokes had told him. ‘If we have any survivors in there,’ Crawford briefed the Kurd, ‘I’ll need you to talk some sense into them. Tell them to be smart and surrender. Can I count on you to do this?’
‘Jesus, Colonel,’ Shuster said defiantly. ‘Clearly he’s in no condition to—’
Crawford’s chest puffed out like a rooster. He stepped up to Shuster and put his face so close, the two men touched noses. ‘Corporal, you are way out of line.’
‘Please,’ Hazo said, putting an appeasing hand on Shuster’s arm. ‘I will help you.’
‘I hope you’re right about all this, Colonel,’ Shuster warned.
Thick veins webbed out over Crawford’s red face.
Shuster unstrapped the M9 pistol from his side holster and proffered it to Hazo. ‘If you’re going in there, take this.’
Hazo nodded and accepted the gun, though no matter what might happen, he vowed not to go against his beliefs.
Shuster gave Hazo a quick tutorial on how to flip off the safety and fire the weapon. ‘And stay behind us,’ he added.
‘I will,’ Hazo said, clumsily holding the gun away from his body.
Shuster climbed up and disappeared through the hole.
‘Good luck,’ Crawford said to Hazo.
Hazo offered no reply and began his climb towards the hole.
63
The instant Stokes attempted to close the vault’s door, Flaherty snatched the clay map from Brooke and bolted after him. He was only four steps away when the door stopped short from seating against the doorframe. On the other side of the door, Stokes tried pulling harder on the handle, yet the door didn’t budge. It took mere seconds for Stokes to detect the problem: the dead-bolt was slightly engaged so that the thick slide bolt protruded just enough to keep the door from seating. While no one had been watching, Flaherty had tampered with the deadbolt just before he’d come into the vault.
Immediately, the door swung inward.
But Flaherty was already in a wide pitcher’s stance with the clay tablet cocked back above his right shoulder.
On the other side of the door, Stokes was raising his gun to prepare for a cautious re-entry. His eyes, however, went to the room’s centre — not directly in front of him.
Flaherty’s faster reaction time won out. He launched the five-pound tablet at Stokes’s head.
The tablet whirred through the air on a direct line for the pastor’s face. Stokes nimbly bobbed sideways so that the tablet instead skimmed his right ear. In the process, he managed to fire one misaligned shot that sailed past Flaherty and thwacked into the thick security glass on the front side of the display case containing Lilith’s head.
Before Stokes regained his footing, Flaherty charged forward like a linebacker and buried his right shoulder in the preacher’s abdomen. The tackle lifted Stokes, brought him crashing down on to the floor with his chest catching the brunt of the impact.
There was a loud pop and Flaherty felt something under him give way. He was shocked to see a glossy wingtip sticking up over his shoulder. Flaherty realized it was the business end of the pastor’s prosthetic limb — tangled under his arm.
Stokes was quick to respond and the gun came arcing towards Flaherty’s face.
With both hands, Flaherty grabbed at Stokes’s wrist and forced the Glock sideways. A second shot rang out and punched through the wall.
Getting into a wrestling match with Stokes was a losing proposition, Flaherty was certain. But Stokes had two things working against him: a missing leg and Anthrax-tainted lungs. With the struggle escalating, Flaherty could hear bubbling sounds coming from Stokes’s chest.
Stokes responded with a head butt that caught Flaherty on the bridge of the nose and made him see stars.
‘Aaaghh!’ Flaherty screamed out. He managed to hold on to the gun. At the same time, he buried his shoulder in Stokes’s face.
Choking, Stokes struggled to push Flaherty away.
Then Stokes let out a muffled scream and Flaherty felt the gun pinned hard against the floor. He glimpsed a chunky black clog grinding down on the gun.
‘Let it go, Stokes!’ Brooke yelled. She pulled her foot up again and stomped down a second time. Finally the gun fell free from his mashed fingers. A swift kick sent it skittering across the carpet.
Desperate for oxygen, Stokes flailed and bucked, trying to use his liberated stump for leverage.
Like riding a bronco, Flaherty couldn’t control the crazed pastor. To regain his balance, he had to relinquish his grip on Stokes’s wrist. That meant he had no choice but to pull his shoulder off Stokes’s mouth.