The Genesis Plague (2010)

that he didn’t agree.
    ‘I understand,’ Hazo said. ‘The terrorists—’
    ‘Not just the terrorists, I’m afraid,’ Jason corrected. ‘I’m more concerned about this guy Crawford. He hasn’t said one word about the military having been in that cave.’
    ‘But would he know about it?’ Hazo said.
    ‘I’m thinking yes, he does. And I’ll tell you why.’ He detailed the call he’d received from Thomas Flaherty - the thwarted assassination attempt on Brooke Thompson.
    Hazo was deeply disturbed by this new information. ‘Crawford sent an assassin to find her?’
    ‘The timing is too convenient for me to think otherwise.’ He glanced back to the command tent. Now Crawford had his back to them, talking furtively into his satellite phone again. ‘And he’s been on that phone an awful lot. I’d love to know who’s bending his ear.’ Jason shook his head. ‘We’ve got to tread very lightly … watch our backs on this one. Whatever’s going on here, I don’t want our men being dragged into it.’ He saw Hazo’s preoccupied gaze slink back up to the cave.
    Suddenly something caught Jason’s eye too - a dark form sweeping in and out of the moonlight high up near the mountain’s crest. Keeping his head still, he honed his gaze on the spot. He detected more subversive shifting along the ridge. A watcher was skulking in the darkness. ‘We’ve got company.’
    Hazo’s eyes shifted up to the mountaintop and panned slowly back and forth. He squinted when he thought he’d found the nearly indiscernible anomaly. ‘Yes. I see him.’
    ‘I don’t like this one bit,’ Jason said. ‘Let’s walk over here.’ With Hazo keeping pace beside him, Jason headed for the terrorists’ four abandoned pickup trucks, which the marines had parked in a neat row beside the road. When they’d reached the vehicles, Jason looked back to make sure no one was watching. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a long, tubular object.
    ‘I am sorry. I do not smoke,’ Hazo meekly replied.
    Jason chuckled. ‘It’s not a cigar, Hazo. It’s a paint pen … a marker. Compliments of Israeli Intelligence.’ He uncapped it and began drawing a circle on the hood of the first Toyota.
    Not seeing any ink coming out from the marker’s tip, Hazo was confused. ‘I don’t understand. It doesn’t do anything. I don’t see anything.’
    ‘Exactly. That’s the point. The ink is invisible to the naked eye,’ Jason explained. ‘But not to military satellites.’
    ‘Ah,’ Hazo said. ‘Very clever.’
    ‘Makes it very easy to track vehicle movements from the sky.’ He casually moved to the next pickup and scrawled an invisible star on its hood. ‘I’ve already got the serial numbers for all the military vehicles in Crawford’s platoon. Those can be tracked in-house by our agency using GPS, no problem. If, however, one of these trucks goes missing, they fall off the grid. Unless they’re marked.’ Another glance to the camp, and Jason stepped up to the third pickup. This time, he traced out a square. On the hood of the fourth pickup, he drew an invisible triangle. Capping the marker, he slipped it back inside his pocket. Then he pointed to each pickup in turn, saying, ‘Circle … star … square … triangle.’ He committed each pickup to memory - paint, model, distinguishing marks (like the blown-out windshield and blood-smeared cab of the pickup that had been the convoy’s lead vehicle).
    ‘Very good,’ Hazo said, impressed.
    ‘And since we’re on the topic of satellites …’ Jason pulled out his binoculars, activated the infrared, and discreetly spied Crawford’s position in the tent. The colonel was still on his call, pacing in small circles. ‘Who are you talking to, Crawford?’ Jason muttered to himself. He used the laser to calculate Crawford’s GPS grid. Then he flipped open his sat-com and put out a call of his own - one which Crawford certainly would not approve.

31
    ‘Mack, it’s Yaeger. I need a big favour,’ Jason said. Thanks to the cloudless Iraqi sky, the sat-com’s reception was flawless. On the other end of the call, he could easily hear GSC’s star Communications and Remote Weapons Specialist crunching away on some potato chips.
    ‘Another favour?’ Mack ribbed him. ‘You’re very needy lately. Dare I say clingy?’
    More crunching.
    ‘You sound like an angry girlfriend.’
    ‘You wish you were so lucky.’
    Now some slurping.
    ‘You’re not my type, big