Read Online The Blood Gospel by James Rollins, Rebecca Cantrell - Free Book Online
Authors: James Rollins, Rebecca Cantrell
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biohazard suit. Comforting.
He headed straight for her. Even without the flag sewn on the shoulder patch of his khaki jacket, she would have known that he was American. Everything about him said apple pie: from his wheat-blond hair, shorn into an army standard crew cut, to his square-jawed face and broad shoulders. Clear blue eyes fixed on her, taking her measure in a single tired breath. She liked him. He seemed competent, and not inured to the tragedy he was dealing with. But what was the American military doing on an Israeli mountaintop?
“Dr. Erin Granger?”
So, he did expect her. Should she be relieved or even more worried? “Yes, I’m Dr. Granger.”
The soldier looked past her shoulder toward the priest, who headed away through the rubble. One eyebrow rose. “I wasn’t apprised of a priest coming here,” he said to Lieutenant Perlman.
The Israeli waved to two of his men and pointed to the priest before answering, “The Vatican requested Father Korza’s presence. A Catholic tourist party was here during the quake. It included a cardinal’s nephew.”
That explained the priest, Erin thought. One tragic mystery solved. The soldier seemed to agree with her assessment and faced her again.
“Thank you for coming, Dr. Granger. We need to hurry.” He headed away from the helicopter, aiming toward the worst of the destruction.
She jogged to keep up with his long legs, trying to focus on him and on her footing, not on the body bags. This morning these people had been as alive as she. She talked to keep from thinking. “I was pulled from a dig without a word of explanation. What’s going on here?”
“That sounds familiar.” His lips slipped into a tired grin. “I was in Afghanistan yesterday, Jerusalem a few hours ago.” He halted, wiped his palm on his sand-colored T-shirt, and stuck out his hand. “Let’s start over. Sergeant Jordan Stone, Ninth Ranger Battalion. We’ve been called in by the Israelis to help out here.”
His grip was warm and firm without being aggressive, and she immediately noticed a white line on his left hand, where a wedding band should go. Embarrassed that she had focused on that detail, she quickly dropped his hand. “Dr. Erin Granger,” she repeated.
He started walking. “Don’t mean to be rude, Doc, but if you want any archaeology left to study, we need to hurry. We’ve been having aftershocks.”
She kept pace. “Why the biohazard suits? Was this a chemical or biological attack?”
“Not exactly.”
Before she could ask what that meant, the sergeant stopped at the edge of a tumble of limestone that blocked the view forward. He turned fully to her.
“Doc, I need you to brace yourself.”
4:03 P.M .
Jordan doubted that Dr. Granger had ever seen anything like this. The path led through a maze of rubble and crushed bodies: some covered, others staring blindly at the unforgiving sun, adults and children. But, short of putting blinders on her like a horse, he saw no way to protect her. She’d have to walk through it to get to the temporary base camp set up at the edge of the chasm that the quake had opened.
He sidestepped a body covered with a blue tarp. He didn’t allow himself to be distracted by the dead; he had seen enough corpses in Afghanistan. Later tonight, privately, he might drink too much Jack Daniel’s to keep him from thinking too much. Until then, he had to remain in control of both his team and his feelings.
The archaeologist was a bit of a surprise. Not that she was a woman. He had no issues working with women. Some were competent, some weren’t; no different from any man. But why had an archaeologist been sent to the site to begin with?
He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist. Dusk closed in, but the temperature still crested ninety degrees. He took a deep breath, tasting hot desert air mixed with the copper tang of blood. Then he noticed Dr. Granger was no longer behind him.
He waited for her to struggle over, saw
He headed straight for her. Even without the flag sewn on the shoulder patch of his khaki jacket, she would have known that he was American. Everything about him said apple pie: from his wheat-blond hair, shorn into an army standard crew cut, to his square-jawed face and broad shoulders. Clear blue eyes fixed on her, taking her measure in a single tired breath. She liked him. He seemed competent, and not inured to the tragedy he was dealing with. But what was the American military doing on an Israeli mountaintop?
“Dr. Erin Granger?”
So, he did expect her. Should she be relieved or even more worried? “Yes, I’m Dr. Granger.”
The soldier looked past her shoulder toward the priest, who headed away through the rubble. One eyebrow rose. “I wasn’t apprised of a priest coming here,” he said to Lieutenant Perlman.
The Israeli waved to two of his men and pointed to the priest before answering, “The Vatican requested Father Korza’s presence. A Catholic tourist party was here during the quake. It included a cardinal’s nephew.”
That explained the priest, Erin thought. One tragic mystery solved. The soldier seemed to agree with her assessment and faced her again.
“Thank you for coming, Dr. Granger. We need to hurry.” He headed away from the helicopter, aiming toward the worst of the destruction.
She jogged to keep up with his long legs, trying to focus on him and on her footing, not on the body bags. This morning these people had been as alive as she. She talked to keep from thinking. “I was pulled from a dig without a word of explanation. What’s going on here?”
“That sounds familiar.” His lips slipped into a tired grin. “I was in Afghanistan yesterday, Jerusalem a few hours ago.” He halted, wiped his palm on his sand-colored T-shirt, and stuck out his hand. “Let’s start over. Sergeant Jordan Stone, Ninth Ranger Battalion. We’ve been called in by the Israelis to help out here.”
His grip was warm and firm without being aggressive, and she immediately noticed a white line on his left hand, where a wedding band should go. Embarrassed that she had focused on that detail, she quickly dropped his hand. “Dr. Erin Granger,” she repeated.
He started walking. “Don’t mean to be rude, Doc, but if you want any archaeology left to study, we need to hurry. We’ve been having aftershocks.”
She kept pace. “Why the biohazard suits? Was this a chemical or biological attack?”
“Not exactly.”
Before she could ask what that meant, the sergeant stopped at the edge of a tumble of limestone that blocked the view forward. He turned fully to her.
“Doc, I need you to brace yourself.”
4:03 P.M .
Jordan doubted that Dr. Granger had ever seen anything like this. The path led through a maze of rubble and crushed bodies: some covered, others staring blindly at the unforgiving sun, adults and children. But, short of putting blinders on her like a horse, he saw no way to protect her. She’d have to walk through it to get to the temporary base camp set up at the edge of the chasm that the quake had opened.
He sidestepped a body covered with a blue tarp. He didn’t allow himself to be distracted by the dead; he had seen enough corpses in Afghanistan. Later tonight, privately, he might drink too much Jack Daniel’s to keep him from thinking too much. Until then, he had to remain in control of both his team and his feelings.
The archaeologist was a bit of a surprise. Not that she was a woman. He had no issues working with women. Some were competent, some weren’t; no different from any man. But why had an archaeologist been sent to the site to begin with?
He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist. Dusk closed in, but the temperature still crested ninety degrees. He took a deep breath, tasting hot desert air mixed with the copper tang of blood. Then he noticed Dr. Granger was no longer behind him.
He waited for her to struggle over, saw
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