Genesis Plague: An Archaeological Thriller (A Darwin Lacroix Adventure Book 6), page 1
GENESIS PLAGUE
AN ARCHAEOLOGICAL THRILLER
DARWIN LACROIX ADVENTURE SERIES
BOOK 6
DAVE BARTELL
Copyright © 2023 by Dave Bartell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
Preface
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
Epilogue
Author's Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
This work is dedicated to all journalists, especially those in the
Global Investigative Journalism Network
https://gijn.org/
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PREFACE
“At one point in time, there were 3,000 named apocalyptic groups around the world.”
Lawrence Kerr, Former Director, Office of Pandemics and Emerging Threats
“…Biorisk management has significant gaps and weaknesses globally.”
Combating Terrorism Center Sentinel
April 2022
PROLOGUE
Chüy Valley, Kyrgyz Khanate
1338 CE
“What have I done to offend you?” Cyril’s voice shook as he stared at the snow-capped Tian Shan range. His faith had been tested over the last two months. The breeze sweeping across the Chüy Valley brought autumn’s chill, and he breathed deeply. The air carried a dry-caramelized scent from the golden grasses scorched by the summer sun. He emptied his lungs and coughed. When the spasm passed, his shoulders sagged as the tension receded.
He jerked as someone wretched behind him. Another of his young priests lay dying in the temporary shelter beside the chapel. Nearby, three new bodies awaited burial. Were they being punished? He didn’t know. He kneeled, crossed himself, and began a long silent prayer.
Cyril had arrived nearly a quarter of a century ago after attending the Council of Vienne. At just 17, and eager to please his bishop in Byzantium, Cyril had been sent to open dialogue and mend the rift between the Eastern church and Rome. While the doctrinal differences seemed insurmountable, he made progress.
Three years later, the bishop recalled him to Constantinople, where he was given new orders. Pope Clement V wanted the French king, Philip IV, to crusade against the expanding Muslim influence. Cyril, with his extensive knowledge of the East, was assigned to scout for Philip’s knights.
But after a year of trekking, Cyril suspected he was merely a translator. In addition, the warriors with him seemed singularly obsessed with finding Templar knights who had fled France following their purge. One morning, a messenger arrived in their camp to tell them Philip IV had died. When Cyril learned his bishop had also died, he asked the messenger what he should do. The man just shrugged and turned away. Before noon, the warriors had packed up and left.
Cyril wandered for a month until he came upon a village with a small chapel where he repaired its partially collapsed wall and ministered to a tiny community. The work restored his sense of purpose, and over the years, he revived the community’s faith, preaching to all who would listen. Some of the traders passing on the Silk Road from Lake Issyk-Kul, a day’s journey east, were lured into settling beneath the Kyrgyz Ala-Too mountain range. The valley’s temperate climate and fertile soil allowed the village to thrive.
Life was prosperous and peaceful. But this past spring, a silent killer had arrived from farther east. Death was an everyday occurrence from diseases, injury, and occasional marauders, but this was different. Year after year, he had recorded the deaths, usually under twenty, but now that annual number occurred each month. And it was growing.
When violence erupted as differing clans blamed each other for the unprecedented deaths, Cyril preached tolerance and worked tirelessly to convince the village council that this was not the Christian God’s wrath nor any deities.
The following spring, Cyril ventured half a day’s journey south, where the trade route had moved to bypass the village, and learned the affliction in his village had not affected any of the other stopovers. Cyril returned and preached to his congregation that God was not punishing them. “This is something from the natural world. We need to exculpate ourselves physically as well as spiritually. Bring air and light into your homes. Cleanse yourselves and your belongings. Make yourselves pure in the eyes of God.”
Cyril was never sure what led him to this idea, but when the number of deaths declined, the other religious communities encouraged the same routines. Within a month, the illness had nearly vanished. But as his congregation prepared for the Easter feast, Cyril developed a sudden headache and severe abdominal pain, and before sunset, he burned with a fever and began coughing up blood.
In the late afternoon, the Friday before Easter, he was dead.
The villagers, grateful for his sacrifices to renew the village’s vitality, buried him in honor and built a shrine in the expanded chapel.
Kara-Djigach Cemetery, Chüy Valley, Russian Empire
1885
“Over here!” A man, on hands and knees, waved his trowel overhead.
Russian archaeologist Nikolai Pantusov looked up from his table and toward the junior member of his expedition. Had they finally found something noteworthy? He pocketed his field notebook and ran toward the grave.
Pantusov, eager to establish his reputation in St. Petersburg, had been searching for a relic of the Christian saint Matthew. They were on their return journey after circumnavigating the villages dotting Lake Issyk-Kul, where local legends claimed the relic lay in a cloister submerged in the lake’s edge. One spot had looked promising as they surveyed the lake bottom from their boat. The pristine water made for excellent visibility, but they had no gear that allowed underwater stays longer than they could hold a breath. After multiple dives in the frigid water, they’d found stones that appeared to be worked by human hands, but nothing else. With half a continent to cross before winter laid its harsh mantel over the land, they began the trek home.
But while reviewing his notes three nights ago, Nikolai noticed a spike in deaths recorded half a millennium ago in a village they’d visited along the way to Lake Issyk-Kul. His crew had postulated a war or, perhaps, another Mongol horde had swept through the Silk Road. The deaths were much less interesting than finding a saintly relic, but he thought it might be a piece of history worth publishing.
Nikolai reached the grave, where the young man used a brush to remove dirt from a stone. He knelt and moved the man’s hand aside. At first glance, the pale soil-stained stone resembled a human clavicle. Carved letters ran across the top and down the stone’s side, but they had less significance than the cross chiseled in its center. He inhaled sharply.
“Templars?” asked the junior archaeologist.
“No,” said Nicolai. “The Hospitallers and Celts also used this shape.” But his heart raced at the implications. What’s it doing here? He traced a finger along each arm. They flared from a narrow center and looked like four arrowheads arranged tip-to-tip. He could make out the text nearest the cross, but dirt obscured the outer letters.
“Clean this,” he said, and flipped through his notebook. The script was not Kyrgyz or Uyghur. He found a rubbing he’d made of a gravestone duri
“What is it?” asked the assistant.
“Syriac.”
The pair worked over the next half hour to transcribe and translate the text to Russian. After double-checking his work, the assistant said, “It’s correct. It reads. ‘This is the tomb of the believer Cyril. He died of’ … er … I can’t make out that word. ‘But in the year 1649, and it was the year of the Tiger in Turkic Bars.’”
“Hmm.” Nikolai lifted the stone, turning it to catch the sun. “This appears much older than two hundred years.” He turned and asked their Uzbek colleague about the inscription.
The burly man studied it, turning the stone in his meaty hands before saying, “The language is Syriac, as you surmised, but the dates use the duodecimal calendar, the same as the Mongols and ancient Turks. It’s a twelve-year zodiac, literally meaning a circle of animals. Let me see,” he paused, his left hand moving in a counting motion. “If I’m correct, this man died in 1338.”
“That better fits this stone’s appearance,” said Nikolai. “But what about this word, the cause of death?”
The man traced the letters with a forefinger and shuddered, reflexively pulling his hand away. “Mawtānā. A pestilence.”
Late that night, Nikolai poured over books he’d brought on the expedition. Something about the gravestone tickled a memory. But when his head drooped, he stood and walked outside his tent to shake off sleep. He rubbed his arms to stimulate circulation while gazing at the Milky Way’s glittering silver fleece. A tinge of freshly lit tobacco wafted past, triggering a memory. That’s it!
He spun, returning to his research, and rapidly sorted through the dozens of books until he found a slender volume. He skimmed the pages. It’s here. I know it. The name Cyril and the cross on the tombstone had tugged at him all day. There! His finger stopped.
Following the decisions at the Council of Vienne, Cyril traveled eastward on the trail of the Knights Templar. The rumors suggested the order was rebuilding its forces in the east and, over the years, recovered much of its treasure from France.
Cyril never found the Templars but discovered a vast Christian community needing organization. The early apostles’ diaspora took the budding faith as far as China by 600 AD. But Islam’s rise and Rome’s crusades had isolated the far eastern enclaves.
Cyril found decaying churches and spiritually hungry believers. He took their revival as his calling, rebuilding churches and educating local priests. He traveled only once back to Constantinople to secure funding for more churches.
The community believed him to be a living saint sent from God. Little is known about Cyril’s death. But he was made a saint in the eighteenth century.
Nikolai crossed himself. My God. I’ve found Saint Cyril. The late-night fatigue sloughed off as he rose and walked back outside, gathering his collar against the chill. Winter is coming. He breathed in the scent of sweet, dry grasses riding the breeze through the valley, and the camp slept beneath a waxing moon.
He’d dreaded returning to Saint Petersburg empty-handed, but he’d always believed finding Saint Matthew a long shot. Now he envisioned his sponsor’s elation and looked to the heavens, reciting a prayer of thanks.
Tomorrow, he would supervise excavating Cyril’s grave and take the saint’s skull to Saint Petersburg. Nikolai returned to his tent and fell into a peaceful slumber.
1
Massif Central, Southern France
Eyrún Stephansdottír jerked at a loud bang to her left. The plane shuddered, suddenly dipping left as an alarm sounded. A red light flashed on the instrument panel as a computerized voice filled the cabin:
Warning. Engine one failure.
Warning. Take corrective action.
Seconds later, it repeated:
Warning …
Eyrún’s core tightened to keep herself upright while steadying her hand on the joystick. The horizon angled at forty-five degrees as mountains filled her side of the windscreen.
“Engine fire. Shutting it down,” said her copilot. “We’re losing altitude.”
The Airbus’s automated voice cycled again:
Warning. Take corrective action.
She ignored the voice stating the obvious and focused on leveling the plane as the dispassionate mechanized voice announced the new problem:
Warning. Loss of left aileron.
“Shit,” she shouted, feeling the loss of flight control.
“Fire out,” said the copilot, coolly working through the emergency procedures. “Altitude still dropping. Now 7,000 meters.”
The ground swept from left to right, still far below, as the plane turned in a wide circle.
“6,500 meters.” The copilot read off the altimeter.
Eyrún’s mind raced, trying to recall the steps in an engine loss. Moving the joystick to the right did not correct the plunge to the left. She guessed the engine’s explosion severed wires to the flap’s actuators.
“6,000 meters.”
At this rate, they’d impact in under a minute. Eyrún breathed deeply, pushing down the panic, but a wave of nausea rose as the cabin seemed to close in. Work the problem, she told herself, having been in life-threatening situations before. She glanced at the copilot. “What’s our closest landing option?”
“There’s a private airfield thirteen nautical miles southeast of our current location.”
“Make radio contact. Tell them to clear a path.”
“Roger that. 5,500 meters.”
Eyrún heard the copilot issue the mayday call as she pulled back on the joystick to get the craft’s nose up. She hoped this would stop the anti-clockwise spiral.
“5,000 meters,” said the copilot. “Airfield standing by. All other aircraft waved off.”
Warning. Stall imminent. Warning.
Eyrún reacted instinctually and shoved the thruster forward. The right engine went to full power. The stall warning stopped, but the plane’s nose dipped like a rollercoaster into a tight left corner. The ground streaked sideways as the G force mashed her sideways.
“4,000, 3,500, 3,000. Do something!” The copilot yelled.
Warning. Warning, Warning …
