The Genesis Plague (2010)

on both points. ‘Fine. But now that we’ve confirmed his identity’ - he tilted his head to the prisoner - ‘I need your assurance that backup is on the way. We can’t risk losing him now.’
    ‘Don’t cry … You’ll get your money—’
    ‘I’m not worried about the money , Crawford!’ Jason snapped. ‘For Christ’s sake! We’ve just captured Fahim Al-Zahrani! And up in those mountains, I saw someone who might well have already called for help to try to set him free. As far as I see it, the entire fucking battalion should be here!’ He snatched the sat-com off the colonel’s belt and held it up. ‘Make the fucking call to General Ashford … or I will ,’ he threatened.
    The two guards exchanged nervous glances. Even Al-Zahrani took interest.
    Crawford’s baleful eyes went wide. ‘I don’t take kindly to insubordination, soldier,’ he hissed through clamped teeth.
    Jason stepped closer, so that his nose practically touched the colonel’s. ‘I don’t take kindly to incompetence,’ he rebuffed confidently. ‘Fuck this up and you’ll be facing a shit storm in front of a military tribunal. Plenty of men here are witness to how you’re handling this. I’m hugely interested in the success of this mission. Lots of innocent lives depend on it. Need I remind you, sir, that is why we’re all here.’
    Without breaking eye contact, Crawford plucked his phone from Jason’s hand. He cocked his head sideways. ‘That’ll be all, Sergeant.’
    ‘Make the call,’ Jason repeated. He took two steps back and paused. Before he turned to leave, he added, ‘And just so we’re clear, Crawford: I’m not your soldier.’

44
    Though Jason wasn’t fond of Crawford’s leadership style, he had to admit that the colonel’s platoon was a well-oiled machine. In less than fifteen minutes after relaying Crawford’s command to Staff Sergeant Nolan Richards, a human chain of twenty marines outfitted with respirators stretched through the cave’s passages and began ferrying out the blast debris. Camel, Jam and Meat joined them. The remainder of Crawford’s platoon went about securing the camp.
    With Crawford focused on interrogating Al-Zahrani and the platoon set to work, Jason was intent on having a closer look at the cave’s burial chamber. He grabbed a flashlight and filed past the marines lined up in the entry tunnel. At the T, he split right from the marines and moved swiftly through the winding passage.
    Drawing lessons from the PackBot’s earlier exploration, he tried to avoid the tunnel branches that led to dead ends. But the further he progressed into the mountain, nothing differentiated one passage from the next. Twice he forked off down passages terminating in solid rock and had to backtrack. Each time, he pulled out his knife and scraped an ‘X’ into the wall on either side of the passage.
    Along the way, he managed to locate one of the surveillance cameras the bot had detected in the ceiling. Surprisingly, there was no visible wiring. Surrounded on all sides by rock, wireless signals would be near impossible. So where did the wiring run to? He didn’t have time to investigate the matter. He had to keep moving before Richards came looking for him.
    The subterranean atmosphere was completely disorienting; the air cool and loamy, thin on oxygen. It felt as if the earth had swallowed him whole. Imagining Al-Zahrani groping through the pitch black with no hope of escape gave Jason bitter satisfaction. It was hard to believe that after so many months chasing ghosts, the A-list madman was now their prisoner - bound like an animal.
    Over the past months, the intelligence Jason’s unit had pieced together through monitoring chatter and milking informants had pointed to a band of heavily armed operatives moving furtively from south to north, bouncing from one safe house to the next. Certainly cause for concern. But none of the intel even remotely suggested that Fahim Al-Zahrani might be among the group.
    That was how the dirty business of counter-terrorism functioned: for every truth there were provocative rumours. Like the claim made by an informant in Baghdad which suggested that these phantom operatives had acquired two Soviet suitcase-sized nuclear weapons (over sixty of which were still unaccounted for after the fall of the Motherland) and were planning to erase Jerusalem and Washington DC from the map.
    Accepting ‘intelligence’ at face value was anything but smart. ‘Nothin’ but a