The Genesis Plague (2010)

glory.’
    Then three figures emerged from the opening: two marines wearing respirators flanking a tall, bedraggled prisoner. One of the marines had a pistol pressed into the Arab’s back.
    At first, Jason couldn’t make out the Arab’s identity since the man had his bound, bloody hands raised up to shield his face.
    Crawford quickly stepped in, pulled the man’s hands down, and pointed a flashlight into his face.
    Though the captive’s face was smeared with blood and grime, Jason immediately recognized him. Confirmation brought both rage and relief.
    ‘Holy fuck,’ Camel said in astonishment. ‘Is that …?’
    ‘That’s him,’ Jason replied.
    ‘Look who we have here. Fahim Al-Zahrani. Mr Jihad himself,’ Crawford said, full of glee. He snapped off the light, put his hands on his hips, and stepped up to the Arab. ‘ As salaam alaikum , asshole.’
    The dour prisoner didn’t reply, glaring defiantly at the colonel.
    Confirmation of the prisoner’s identity rippled through the ranks. The excited marines began gathering at the bottom of the slope, whooping.
    ‘Another pussy ass terrorist pulled out from another hole,’ Crawford said. ‘Like a bunch of fucking gophers. Have the medic clean him up,’ he told the marines. ‘Make him look presentable. We’ve got to take some pictures to send back to Washington.’
    From a neighbouring mountaintop to the south, the vigilant watcher - one of the dozen scouts sent to locate the besieged convoy - peered through a night-vision monocular and anxiously waited for the two marines who’d gone into the cave to reappear.
    It had been almost seven hours since his lieutenant received the distress call from blessed brother Fahim Al-Zahrani’s aide. With all the gunfire in the background, the message had been difficult to understand. However, the critical points had been successfully conveyed by the aide: an ambush was under way, many had already been killed and urgent assistance was needed. As to the convoy’s precise location, however, the aide had been far from clear. Perhaps Al-Zahrani’s men had been disoriented with the redundant landmarks of this foreign country. Or maybe the local Al-Qaeda contact designated to navigate the convoy through the terrain had been killed at the onset of the firefight. Nonetheless, the aide had only been able to estimate that the attack had taken place four or five kilometres northwest of the intended rendezvous point.
    The true locale was eleven kilometres to the northwest.
    By the time the watcher had spotted the stranded trucks on the roadway, an American marine platoon had already arrived. The Americans were highly focused on clearing debris from a cave at the foot of the mountain that overlooked the roadway. Creeping in close to the encampment, the watcher had overheard them saying that five men remained trapped inside the cave. And he was hopeful that the intensity of the effort meant that Allah, in His bountiful grace, might have spared brother Al-Zahrani.
    As the marines came out from the cave, the watcher’s heart raced when he saw that they’d dragged a prisoner out with them. He tightened the monocular’s zoom. Though the moon shone brightly from above, he strained to make out the prisoner’s face. Then the platoon leader briefly shined a flashlight on the prisoner. The moment the captive’s face came into view, the watcher’s instant elation quickly gave way to terror. Our leader has been captured!
    The watcher scrambled up over the ridge, his legs shaking coltishly beneath him, tears streaming down his cheeks.
    Since the marines routinely monitored radio communication, he was forced to use a more discreet signal to alert the rescue team. In the pale moonlight, he could see the trucks parked in the valley below. He stood high up on the outcropping designated as the signal relay spot. Then he pulled a plastic glow stick out from under his tunic, cracked it, and continuously waved the luminescent green tube side to side in wide arcs.

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    Central to Crawford’s encampment were two Compact All-weather Mobile Shelter Systems, or CAMSSs - barn-shaped, military-grade tents ten-and-a-half feet high at the eaves, twenty feet wide, thirty-two feet long, which four men could assemble in less than thirty minutes.
    The first tent served the dual role of central command and billeting Crawford (not that he did much sleeping) and his staff sergeant.
    Normally, the second tent stored boxed rations, and accommodated ten