The Genesis Plague (2010)

life’s stressors seem mundane. However, when the caller had conveyed what had transpired in Iraq, a sour taste came to the back of the preacher’s throat.
    There’d always been the possibility that someone might accidentally stumble upon the cave installation. Precisely the reason so many security protocols had been built around the programme, including tripwires for unauthorized persons attempting to breach the main hatchway.
    But what had happened just an hour ago was something even Randall Stokes could not dream up. Such an incursion fell far outside the limits of possibility - the outlier of outliers. The caller had indicated that a US helicopter gunship had misfired a missile - a freak accident. But Arab militants storming into the tunnels? Stokes thought. Certainly this was God’s plan. It was the only plausible explanation. Has the time already come?
    Seated at his desk and directed towards his oversized LCD computer monitor, Stokes drafted a secure e-mail. The brief message stated in cryptic terms that countermeasures were to commence immediately. Step one: a comprehensive clean-up.
    There was an outside chance that some random clue left behind might trigger an investigation. Regrettably that meant that outside contractors who’d worked on the project - the most vulnerable links - would need to be eliminated, quickly and cleanly. Because if the media were to somehow get wind of what was happening at the site, one of the scientists might get cold feet and ignore the restrictive confidentiality agreement he’d signed.
    Stored on his computer’s encrypted hard drive were the vital statistics for each scientist - everything from birth certificates, passport information, credit history and social security numbers, to work history, credentials, family contacts and last known addresses. There were passport photos and biometric data too. Stokes attached all eight ‘A-list’ profiles to the e-mail.
    Just as he was about to click the SEND button, the phone’s intercom came to life with a small chime.
    ‘So sorry to disturb you, Randy.’
    ‘I’m busy. What is it, Vanessa?’ he replied agitatedly.
    ‘Mr Roselli is here,’ she reported in a subdued tone. ‘He’s insisting on seeing you. He doesn’t look so good … acting strange too. Should I call security?’
    ‘No. It’s fine.’ Perfect, actually. ‘Give me a minute, then send him in.’
    ‘As you wish.’
    Stokes focused again on the draft, removed profile number ‘4’ labelled ‘ROSELLI-FRANK’. Verifying the content one last time, he clicked a command that encrypted the message and pushed it out into the ether. He leaned back and stretched, considered how exactly to handle the surprise visitor. When he peered at the open door centred in the rear wall of the office, an idea came to him. A brilliant idea.
    Fifteen seconds later, the double door opened and Vanessa held it as Roselli lumbered into the room, hands stuffed in the pockets of his rumpled seersucker slacks.
    ‘I was going to run to the Post Office,’ Vanessa said. ‘Need me to stay?’
    ‘No, no. You go ahead,’ Stokes said. He stood and rounded the desk. She was right: the five-foot-eight portly project manager looked even more ruddy than usual. ‘Frank,’ he greeted him with presidential style. ‘What a surprise.’
    ‘What’s the emergency?’ Stokes asked, calmly reclining in his office chair.
    Roselli was huddled on the edge of the leather visitor’s seat, elbows propped on knees. Sweat peppered his brow below an island of sun-bleached dirty blond hair that looked like a badly replaced divot. His round cheeks and bulbous nose were pink with sunburn, three deep worry lines cut parallel tracks across his forehead, and his dull hazel eyes, set too close together, were too small for his head.
    ‘Haven’t you heard?’ he said. ‘The alarm in the cave? For God’s sake. They’ll find -‘
    Stokes raised a hand to stop him. ‘I’ve heard,’ he replied levelly.
    ‘And you’re still here ?’ He spread his hands. ‘Have you gone mad? What if they -‘
    ‘Calm down. Don’t you see? This is better than we could ever have hoped for.’
    ‘What? Are you insane?’
    ‘Now, now, Frank …’ he warned. But Roselli was inconsolable.
    ‘I told you this might happen!’ he overrode indignantly. Pointing a pudgy index finger at Stokes, he said, ‘We should’ve permanently sealed the opening.’ He shook his head with dismay. ‘Christ, we knew that hatch might