The Genesis Plague (2010)

sleeping mats, used on rotation by the platoon detail. But Crawford had ordered the marines to clear out the sleeping area so that the space could be used for Fahim Al-Zahrani’s temporary detainment.
    The prisoner sat on an empty munitions crate, his hands bound tight with a nylon double-loop security strap. A second strap looped snugly around his ankles. Two marines with M-16s stood to either side of him.
    The company medic, Lance Corporal Jeremy Levin - a scrawny 31-year-old bachelor, family practitioner, and reservist from Detroit who was five months into his third tour in Iraq - sat on a crate facing Al-Zahrani. He’d already flushed the wound on Al-Zahrani’s hand with Betadine and cleaned the prisoner’s face with sanitizing wipes. But he was concerned by Al-Zahrani’s condition: clammy complexion, despondency and wheezing. So he immediately began a medical exam.
    He inserted an otoscope in Al-Zahrani’s left ear, which was perforated, then the right ear, which was leaking blood and clear fluid.
    Crawford was watching over his shoulder. Jason and Hazo stood behind him.
    ‘Hey asshole,’ Crawford said loudly to Al-Zahrani. ‘I know you speak English. Just want to let you know that I think the Geneva Convention is a load of camel shit. So don’t expect me to respect your civil liberties.’
    ‘The right ear shows severe tympanic perforation too,’ the medic reported, peering through the otoscope.
    ‘So both his eardrums are blown out?’ Jason said.
    ‘I’m afraid so. He must have been very close to the explosion.’
    ‘Not close enough,’ Crawford grunted.
    ‘Unless he reads lips, Colonel, he won’t understand a word you’re saying,’ Levin said. He cleaned the otoscope with a sanitizing wipe and put it back in the carrying case. Next he retrieved the opthalmoscope, flicked on its tiny light, and moved close to examine Al-Zahrani’s unblinking, blank eyes. ‘Pupils are responding just fine … no apparent neurological damage. Doesn’t appear that he’s in shock.’
    ‘So he’s just pretending to be mute?’ Crawford asked.
    ‘I’m sure he’s a bit overwhelmed, Colonel,’ the medic replied curtly as he went back to the case for an aural digital thermometer. He took the temperature in both ears and made a sour face. ‘Hmm. He seems to be running a high fever. That could explain the apathy.’
    ‘You telling me he caught a cold?’ Crawford said.
    ‘More than a cold,’ Levin replied coolly.
    Apathy was an understatement, thought Jason. The world’s premier terrorist seemed lifeless. His dark, emotionless gaze remained fixed on the ground. What could he be thinking? Was he humiliated or afraid? Jason wanted him to fight … wanted him to react. He wanted to choke the life out of him.
    Levin swabbed some mucus out from Al-Zahrani’s dripping nostril. ‘Not sure if this is due to the dust he inhaled, or if it’s something else. I’ll test him for the flu, just in case.’
    Crawford backed up a step. ‘If this son of a bitch gets me sick …’
    ‘I’m sure you’ll be just fine,’ the medic said, cracking open a plastic vial and sealing the swab stick in it.
    ‘If Mexican pigs caused a problem, imagine what this one could be carrying,’ Crawford said.
    ‘Muslims aren’t permitted to handle swine,’ Levin reminded him. Next he wrapped a pressure cuff around Al-Zahrani’s left arm, put the earbuds of a stethoscope in his own ears, and used the rubber bulb to inflate the cuff. Everyone remained silent as he assessed the patient’s vitals. ‘Given all the excitement, his blood pressure is awfully low.’ He placed the stethoscope’s chest-piece over Al-Zahrani’s heart and listened intently. He moved it to the ribs and monitored the pulmonary functions. ‘He’s got a lot of obstruction in there. Lots of fluid. Probably inhaled a lot of dust.’
    Not as much dust as the innocent civilians who’d been at Ground Zero, thought Jason, trying to reconcile how men like this were capable of evil on such a grand scale.
    The medic removed the stethoscope, picked up Al-Zahrani’s limp hand and studied the deep, ragged puncture wounds. Already, it seemed to appear worse than only minutes ago.
    ‘What do you think happened to his hand?’ Jason asked.
    ‘Probably caught some shrapnel, or a ricochet. Could be a wound he already had. Not sure. But I don’t like how the tissue looks - this discoloration and swelling.’ He rolled up the sleeve of Al-Zahrani’s tunic, turned