Even the gas was a mystery. It had none of the markers of a modern, weaponized agent. In breaking down the gas’s essential components, his team had found bizarre anomalies. Like cinnamon. Who the hell puts a spice into a nerve agent? His team was still trying to track down several other equally odd and elusive ingredients.
It unsettled him not to know the gas’s true origin. That was his job, and he was usually damn good at it. He hated to think he’d found a previously unidentified nerve gas with this kind of killing power, especially in the Middle East. Neither his superiors nor the Israelis would be happy to hear that.
He had to step over a body bag. He reached for Dr. Granger’s hand, both to steady her and as a gesture of reassurance. Her grip was more muscular than he expected. She must be lifting more than pencils.
“Was this a terrorist attack?” Her voice remained firm, but he felt the fine tremor in her arm. Best to keep her talking.
“That’s what the Israelis initially thought.” He released her hand. “But the toxic exposure coincided exactly with the earthquake. We suspect old toxic canisters might be buried underground here, and the tremor cracked them open.”
Her brow furrowed. “Masada is a sacred archaeological site. I can’t see the Israelis dumping anything like that here.”
He shrugged. “That’s what my team and I are here to find out.”
He had his orders: find the source and safely remove or detonate any remaining canisters.
He and the doctor walked a few steps in silence. He heard a thump as someone dropped a body bag into a helicopter. They’d better work faster. Night would fall soon, and he didn’t want to waste a man on jackal patrol.
He noted that the doctor’s eyes had grown glassy and wide, her breathing harder. He needed to keep her talking. “Almost to camp.”
“Were there any survivors?”
“One. A boy.” He gestured toward the mobile P3 containment lab, the billowing plastic tent where the teenager was being held.
“Was he here alone?” she asked.
“With his parents.”
The boy allegedly inhaled several large gulps of the chemical agent and survived. He had described the gas as a burnt reddish orange with a sweet, spicy smell to it. No modern nerve gas fit that description.
Jordan glanced back to her. “His parents didn’t make it.”
“I see,” Erin said quietly.
He stared across the rubble to the containment tent. Through the clear plastic walls, Jordan watched the priest kneel next to the boy. He was glad to see someone with the kid. But what priestly words could the man come up with to comfort him?
Suddenly his own job didn’t seem so hard.
“Is that your camp?” She pointed in front of him to a makeshift canvas lean-to pitched at the edge of the fissure.
Camp was a generous description. “Be it ever so humble.”
He spared the fissure another glance. It cut through the ground like a giant scar, five yards wide, perhaps a hundred long. Even though a simple earthquake created it, it felt unnatural.
“Is that a mass spectrometer?” the archaeologist asked as they reached the site.
He couldn’t help but grin at the surprise on her face. “Didn’t think they’d let us grunts work with such ivory-tower toys?”
“No … it’s just … well …”
He liked watching her stutter. Everybody assumed that if you wore a uniform you had checked your brain at the recruiter’s office. “We just bang on it with rocks, Doc, but it seems to work.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean it like that. And please call me Erin. ‘Doc’ makes me feel like a pediatrician.”
“Good enough.” He aimed for the tent. “Almost there, Erin.”
Two of his men huddled under the meager shelter.
One stood near the computer, sucking hard on a canteen. The other sat in front of the monitor, fiddling with joysticks that guided the team’s remote-operated vehicle. The little robot had been lowered by its tether into the crevasse an hour ago.
As he led her into camp, both men turned. Each gave him a brief nod but took a far longer look at the attractive blond doctor.
Jordan introduced her, emphasizing her title.
The freckled young man returned his attention to his joysticks.
Jordan gestured at him. “Dr. Granger, that’s our computer jockey, Corporal Sanderson, and the man over there drinking all our water is Specialist Cooper.”
The husky black man snapped on a pair of latex gloves. A dozen bloodstained pairs filled the nearby garbage can.
“I’d stay and chat, but I gotta get back to cleanup duty.” Cooper looked to Jordan. “Where you hiding the extra batteries? McKay’s camera is almost dead, and we have to get everyone photographed before we bag ’em.”
Erin winced. She went pale again. Being in-country for so long, Jordan realized how easy it was to forget the sheer horror of what surrounded him every day.
Not much he could do for her right now. Or the bodies outside. “Blue pack, right pocket.”
Cooper dug a lithium ion battery from the zipper compartment.
“Damn it!” Sanderson swore, drawing their attention.
“What’s wrong?” Jordan asked.
“The rover is stuck again.”
Cooper rolled his eyes and left the tent.
The corporal frowned at the image on the color monitor like it was a video game he was about to lose.
Erin leaned over his shoulder and stared at the four monitors, each displaying footage from one of the ROV’s cameras. “Is that from inside the crevasse?”
“Yeah, but the robot’s jammed up tight.”
The screen displayed the reason for Sanderson’s frustration. The rover had wedged into a crack. Fallen grit and pebbles obscured two cameras. Sanderson pressed the sticks and the tank treads spun ineffectively, kicking up more debris. “Army piece of crap!”
The equipment wasn’t the problem. The ROV was state-of-the-art, packed with enough sensing and radar instruments to detect a mouse farting in a warehouse. The problem was that Sanderson hadn’t yet mastered the art of manipulating the dual joysticks. Jordan couldn’t run them either.
Erin glanced at him, eyes curious. “Is that an ST-20? I’ve logged hundreds of hours on one. Could I give it a shot?”
Might as well give her something to do. Sanderson didn’t look like he’d get the robot out. Plus Jordan respected anyone who was willing to jump in and help. “Sure.”