The Genesis Plague (2010)

Jam added.
    Jason got to his feet. ‘Whatever’s inside that mountain must be mighty important to have been covered up like this.’
    ‘Hey wait. You missed something there, Sarge,’ Jam said, pointing to the corner where some camouflage netting had melted into the metal. ‘Here …’ He moved closer and tapped it with his knife. Then he stood and began cutting away the good half of his beard in large tufts.
    Jason crouched and leaned in for a better look. Sure enough, there was a rectangular object caught up in the netting, slightly bigger than a credit card, thicker too. ‘Good eye.’
    Whatever it was, it had taken a beating, just like the door. Curling his fingers under its edges, Jason tried to pry it free. But it had a plastic casing that had glued to the hot metal. He felt a tap on his shoulder.
    ‘Here,’ Jam said, handing over his Rambo-sized beard trimmer.
    ‘Thanks.’ Working the blade under the object, Jason managed to cut it away. Strings of melted plastic stretched behind it - like a shoe stepping off a wad of gum on a hot day. He let the strings cool before shaving them off.
    ‘You should put that stuff on your face, Jam,’ Camel said. ‘Be a good look for you.’
    Handing the knife back to Jam, Jason turned the object over a couple of times. It was taupe, lightweight, with a now indiscernible picture on its topside - what might have been a passport photo. There was a long keyhole slit centred on its short edge where a clip or strap could be affixed. ‘Looks like a library card, or something.’
    ‘ID badge,’ Meat said.
    Jason nodded. ‘Um.’
    ‘There’s probably a chip inside that casing,’ Meat added. ‘You know, like a swipe card.’
    Jason proffered the card to Meat, who moonlighted as the group’s all-round techie. ‘Think you can open it up … see if there’s any useful data that might tell us who this belonged to?’
    Meat took the card, flipped it over a couple of times. ‘Looks fried. I’ll see what I can do,’ he replied non-committally.
    ‘Make it happen,’ Jason said. ‘Now, we need to get into that cave. Fast. Unfortunately, as I see it, we’re going to need some help to make that happen.’
    Everyone knew what he meant. None was thrilled about the proposition, yet no man could find adequate reason to oppose it. Autonomy went only so far.
    Reluctantly, Jason pulled out his sat-com and radioed the command operator with instructions to immediately dispatch a marine platoon to his position.

3
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
    Wrapping up a business call, Pastor Randall Stokes discreetly passed his eyes over the attractive female reporter from the Vegas Tribune who was seated on the guest side of his mammoth mahogany desk. Ms Ashley Peters was too busy taking inventory of the inner workings of Our Savior in Christ Cathedral to take notice. Late twenties, he guessed. A bit conservative with highlighted reddish brown locks pulled back in a tight bun, designer eye glasses whose lenses seemed strictly cosmetic.
    ‘Look, a cathedral without a carillon is like an angel without wings …’ he told the caller ‘… or a four-cylinder engine in a Corvette.’ Pause. ‘I know, I know. We’ve been through all that …’
    He noticed that Ms Peters was jotting copious notes with a mother-of-pearl pen as her shrewd gaze swept the bookshelves on one wall that brimmed with treatises on world peace and Evangelicalism, biographies of military generals including Alexander the Great and Genghis Khan, Napoleon, Patton. When she spotted Guns, Germs, and Steel among the collection, her meticulously groomed eyebrows tilted up. Then her attention shifted to the opposite wall where Stokes’s diplomas, certificates, citations and war medals hung in neat frames together with a display of photos. When he saw her squinting, he snapped his fingers to get her attention, then motioned for her to get up and have a closer look.
    Smiling, she stood up and went to take a look at the impressive photo montage. It took only a moment before the pen began moving rhythmically across the notepad.
    ‘You tell the architect that’s how it’s going to be. Remind him that we’re the client.’ There was plenty of biographical material on that wall to please any reporter, Stokes thought: Randall Stokes front and centre with international dignitaries; Randall Stokes rubbing elbows with Hollywood power brokers; Randall Stokes shaking hands with secretaries of state, presidents and generals spanning three