The Covenant of Genesis

 
 
 

 
The Covenant of Genesis

 

 
ANDY MCDERMOTT

 
 
headline

 
Copyright © 2009 Andy McDermott

 

 
The right of Andy McDermott to be identified as the Author of
the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

 

 
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication
may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means,
with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of
reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued
by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

 

 
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2009

 

 
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

 

eISBN : 978 0 7553 7215 7

 

 
This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

 

 
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
An Hachette UK Company
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH

 

 
www.headline.co.uk

 
www.hachette.co.uk

Table of Contents

 

 

 

For my family and friends

F
or all that the Arabian desert was traditionally supposed to be devoid of life, there was far too much of it for Mark Hyung’s liking. A cloud of flies had been hovering in wait as he left his tent just after dawn, and now, three hours later, they had seemingly called in every other bug within a ten-mile radius.

He muttered an obscenity and stopped, removing his Oakleys and swatting at his face. The flies briefly retreated, but they would resume their dive-bombing soon enough. Not for the first time, he cursed himself for volunteering to come to this awful place.

‘Got a problem there, Mr Hyung?’ said Muldoon with barely concealed contempt, pausing in his ascent of the steepening slope. The bear-like Nevadan was a thirty-year veteran of the oil exploration business, tanned and leathery and swaggering. Mark knew Muldoon saw him as just some skinny fresh-from-college Korean kid from California, and rated him little higher than the desert flies.

‘No problem at all, Mr Muldoon,’ Mark replied, replacing his sunglasses and taking out a water bottle. He took several deep swigs, then splashed some on his hand and tilted his head forward to wipe the back of his neck.

Something on the ground caught his attention, and he crouched for a better look. The object was familiar, yet so out of place it took him a moment to identify: a seashell, a fractal spiral chipped and scuffed by weather and time. ‘Have you seen this?’

‘Yeah,’ said Muldoon dismissively. ‘Find ’em all over. This used to be a beach, once. Sea was higher than it is now.’

‘Really?’ Mark was familiar with the concept of sea level changes due to climatic shift, but until now it had only been on an abstract level. ‘How long ago?’

‘I dunno; hundred thousand years ago, hundred and fifty.’ Muldoon gestured at the low bluff ahead, their destination. ‘This woulda been a nice resort spot. Cavegirls in the raw.’ He chuckled lecherously.

Mark held in a sigh. No point making his relations with the old-guard oilman any worse. Instead, he returned the bottle to his backpack. ‘Shall we go?’

Sweating in the hundred-degree heat, they trudged across the sands for another half-mile, finally stopping near the base of the bluff. Muldoon used a GPS handset to check their position, then spent a further minute confirming it with a map and compass as Mark watched impatiently. ‘The satellites are accurate to within a hundred feet, you know,’ he finally said.

‘I’ll trust my eyes and a map over any computer,’ Muldoon growled.

‘Well, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To prove that computers can do a better job than anybody’s eyes.’

‘Cheaper-ass job, you mean,’ Muldoon muttered, just loud enough for Mark to hear. He folded up the map. ‘This is it. We’re two thousand metres from the spike camp, just like you wanted.’

Mark looked back. Barely visible through the rippling heat haze were the tents and transmitter mast of their encampment. Two other teams had set out at the same time, also heading for points two kilometres away, to form an equilateral triangle with the camp at the centre. ‘In that case,’ he said, taking a quiet relish in his moment of authority, ‘you’d better get started, hadn’t you?’

 

It took Muldoon an hour to prepare the explosive charge.

‘No way this’ll be powerful enough,’ he said as he lowered the metal cylinder containing fifteen pounds of dynamite into the hole he’d dug. ‘You need a couple hundred pounds, at least. Shit, you’ll be lucky if any of the other stations even hear it.’

‘Which is the whole point of the experiment,’ Mark reminded him. He had set up his own equipment a safe distance away: a battery-powered radio transmitter/receiver, connected to a metal tube containing a microphone. ‘Proving that you
don’t
need a ton of explosives or a drilling rig or hundreds of geophones. All the simulations say this will be more than enough to make a detailed reflection map.’

‘Simulations?’ Muldoon almost hissed the word. ‘Ain’t no match for experience. And I’m telling you, the only results you’ll get will be fuzz.’

Mark tapped his laptop. ‘You would - without my software. But with it, four geophones’ll be enough to map the whole area. Scale it up, Braxoil’ll be able to cover the entire Arabian peninsula with just a couple of dozen men in under a year.’

That was hyperbole, and both men knew it, but Muldoon’s disgusted expression still said it all. Traditional oil surveys were massive affairs involving hundreds, even thousands, of men, laboriously traversing vast areas to set up huge grids of microphones that would pick up the faint sonar echoes of explosive soundwaves bouncing off geological features deep underground. Mark’s software, on the other hand, let the computer do the work: from just four geophones, three at the points of the triangle and the fourth in the centre, it could analyse the results to produce a 3-D subterranean map within minutes. Hence Muldoon’s displeasure: long, labour-intensive - and very well-paid - surveys would be replaced by much smaller, faster and cheaper operations. Not so good for the men who would have to find a new line of work, but great for Braxoil’s bottom line.

If
it worked. As Muldoon had said, everything was based on simulations - this would be the first proper field test. There were hundreds of variables that could screw things up . . .

Muldoon carefully inserted the detonator into the cylinder, then moved back. ‘Okay, set.’

‘How far back should we stand?’ Mark asked. ‘Behind the radio?’

Muldoon let out a mocking laugh. ‘You stand there if you want, Mr Hyung - I won’t stop you. Me, I’m gonna go all the way up there!’ He indicated the top of the bluff.

Mark’s own laugh was more nervous. ‘I’ll, ah . . . defer to your experience.’

The two men climbed the hillside. The bluff wasn’t tall, but on the plain at the southern edge of the vast desert wasteland called the Rub’ al Khali - in English, the Empty Quarter - it stood out like a beacon. As they climbed, Muldoon’s walkie-talkie squawked with two messages. The other teams had also reached their destinations and planted their explosives.

Everything was ready.

After reaching the top, Mark gulped down more water, then opened his laptop. His computer was linked wirelessly to the unit at the foot of the bluff, which in turn was communicating with the main base station at the camp, and through it the other two teams. The experiment depended on all three explosive charges detonating at precisely the same moment: any lack of synchronisation would throw off the timing of the arrival of the reflected sonar waves at the four geophones, distorting the geological data or, worse, rendering it too vague for the computer to analyse. ‘Okay, then,’ he said, mouth dryer than ever. ‘We’re ready. Countdown from ten seconds begins . . .
now
.’

He pressed a key. A timer on the screen began to tick down.

Muldoon relayed this through his radio, then dropped to a crouch. ‘Mr Hyung,’ he said, ‘you might want to put down the computer.’

‘Why?’

‘’Cause you can’t cover both ears with only one hand!’ He clapped both palms to his head. Mark got his point and hurriedly fell to his knees, putting down the laptop and jamming his fingers into his ears.

The charge exploded, the noise overpowering even with his eardrums protected, a single bass drumbeat deep in his chest cavity. The ground beneath him jolted. He had involuntarily closed his eyes; when he opened them again, he saw a plume of smoke rising from the base of the bluff. In the distance, two more eruptions rose above the shimmering haze in seeming slow motion. After a few seconds, the thunderclaps of the other blasts reached him.

A fine rain of dust and tiny pebbles hissed down round the two men. Mark picked up the laptop again, blowing dirt off the screen. The first results were coming through, the geophones confirming that they were receiving sonar reflections. It would take a few minutes to gather all the data, then longer for the computer to process it, but things looked promising so far.

Muldoon peered down the slope. ‘Too close to the surface,’ he grumbled as he wiped sand from his face.

Mark stood beside him, examining the incoming data intently. ‘It’s working just fine.’ He flinched as another tremor passed beneath his feet. ‘What was that?’

‘Can’t be the other charges, they weren’t powerful enough . . .’ Muldoon tailed off, sounding worried. Mark looked up, concerned. The shuddering was getting worse—

The ground under his feet collapsed.

Mark didn’t even have time to cry out before the breath was knocked from him as he dropped down the slope amidst a cascade of stones and dust. All he could do was try to protect his face as he bounced off the newly exposed rocks, pummelled from all sides—

Something hard hit his head.

 

The first of his senses to recover, oddly, was taste. A dry, salty taste filled his mouth, something caking his tongue.

Mark coughed, then spat out a mouthful of sand. The back of his head throbbed where the stone had hit him. He tried to sit up, then decided it was probably a better idea to remain still.

A muffled sound gradually resolved itself into words, a voice calling his name. ‘Mr Hyung! Where are you? Can you hear me?’

Muldoon. He actually sounded genuinely concerned, though Mark’s faculties had already recovered enough to realise the sentiment was professional rather than personal. Muldoon’s job was to look after the specialist; an injury on his watch would reflect badly upon his record.

‘Here,’ he tried to say, but all that came out was a faint croak. He spat out more revolting dust, then tried again. ‘I’m here.’

‘Oh, thank Jesus.’ Muldoon clambered over loose stones towards him. ‘Are you hurt?’

Mark managed to wipe his eyes. He grimaced at the movement; he was going to have some real bruises tomorrow. ‘I don’t think so.’ He turned his head to see the slope down which he’d tumbled. ‘Wow. That’s new.’