The Genesis Plague (2010)

However, Stokes could tell by her reddening cheeks that she was well aware that the thin line of etiquette had just been crossed. Smiling tightly, he replied, ‘I suppose you’re right. Every soldier leaves a piece of himself on the battlefield. Some of us, more literally so.’
    She nibbled the pen with more zeal and back-pedalled with, ‘It’s just so amazing how after all of that … with all that you saw … you found God. I’ve read that it was after your …’ a pause to hunt for the right word ‘… accident … that He began speaking to you. Is that true?’
    ‘That’s right. And I have no doubt you’ve also read that my critics attribute my revelation to post-traumatic stress disorder.’ Stokes’s pundits didn’t merely cite the mental and physical trauma he’d suffered from his violent disfigurement. They even went as far as to blame the drug pyridostigmine bromide, or PB, which had been given to US troops during the 1st Gulf War to counteract the effects of chemical agents, such as nerve gas. By the way she smiled, he could tell he’d stolen some of her thunder. ‘Utter nonsense,’ he said loudly for the micro-recorder.
    ‘So you were chosen by God? You’re a prophet?’
    ‘Something like that, I suppose.’ His posture became more guarded.
    The manner in which she now set down her pen implied that her next question would be off the record. ‘But you hear Him? When He talks to you, I mean.’
    ‘Loud and clear,’ Stokes soberly confirmed, casting his eyes heavenward.
    She stared at him in wonderment for a long moment. ‘Wow.’
    Now he could see her feline eyes subtly assessing him in impure ways. Charisma was like catnip for ambitious women like Ms Peters. Despite forty-six years and his mild ‘handicap’, he’d vigilantly maintained a physique that was nothing but lean muscle stretched over a wide six-foot frame. Strong jaw, a full head of hair that was still cropped into a high-and-tight, and a smooth bronze tan that made his green eyes flash. No doubt Ms Peters’s article would make note of his commanding presence. After all, there was no denying that the right image had buttressed his star power.
    She snatched up the pen again, turned on the micro-recorder, her starry gaze turning clinical once more. ‘How about all this recent economic and political turbulence? Do you think it benefits the Christian Evangelical movement?’
    Stokes shrugged. ‘Certainly humbles even the non-believers … forces introspection.’
    ‘Are the End Times here? Are scripture and prophecy being revealed?’
    He swivelled his chair, peered out the window to the distant city centre where construction cranes hung motionless over the skeletons of unfinished casino resorts. Though not in a literal sense, sulphur and fire were raining on Sodom and Gomorrah. ‘Best to assume that judgement can come at any day, any hour.’
    ‘Do you think God’s judgement will fall on terrorists, like Fahim Al-Zahrani, for past atrocities and the recent attacks orchestrated against religious monuments around the world?’
    The preacher’s expression turned severe.
    Two months ago, Fahim Al-Zahrani - Al-Qaeda’s newest top lieutenant and the man rumoured to be Osama Bin Laden’s heir-apparent - had claimed responsibility for the most fearsome terror attacks since 9/11. With the industrialized nations still in the throes of global economic crisis and waning political support for an increased military presence in the Middle East powder keg, his timing had been perfect. He’d masterminded wide-scale attacks on soft targets with the express intent of unravelling the fabric of Western society. Al-Zahrani was like a patient torero weakening the bull for a final thrust of the sword.
    Stokes’s voice went down an octave as he replied, ‘Any man who sends suicide bombers into holy places like St Peter’s Basilica and Westminster Cathedral should expect eternal punishment beyond human comprehension. To murder innocents on such a grand scale is unconscionable, even by the standards of fundamentalist Islam. Regardless of what happens here, on this earth … whether perceived as justice or injustice … no manhunt, no supreme court, will ever compare to the wrath of God.’
    The reporter had to catch her breath before continuing. She held up her pen, cleared her throat, and said, ‘On that note …’ She skimmed her list of questions. ‘With the tide reversing on the recent troop withdrawals in the Middle East, some