Extinction Red Line (The Extinction Cycle Book 0)

by Tom Abrahams

  “The Nostromo. The spaceship from Alien. Except instead of seven people on board, we just have the five.”

  “There are two pilots,” said Ferg. “That makes seven.”

  Wolf laughed. “Yep. We’re all gonna die. Except for Ripley. Who’s Ripley?”

  “Does Ripley survive?” asked Wilco.

  Wolf nodded.

  “Then I’m Ripley,” said Wilco.

  “Figures,” said Wolf. “Ripley’s a woman.”

  The nose of the plane dipped, and the pilots leveled the World War Two-era plane above the storm brewing below. The rumbling subsided to a barely noticeable vibration. Womack let out a sigh of relief.

  “Nobody’s dying,” said Womack. “We’re doing what the general asked, we’re getting home, and we’re getting paid. Now get some sleep. There won’t be any once we hit Laos.”

  — 23 —

  Hanoi, Vietnam

  April 23, 1980

  Jimmy Linh pressed the phone closer to his ear. He wasn’t certain he’d heard Gertrude’s instructions. “You want me to what?”

  “I want you to make another trip to the jungle,” she repeated.

  He’d heard her correctly.

  “This story is cracking,” Gertrude purred. “Our sales are smashing. I want more.”

  “But—”

  “Jimmy,” she said, “I won’t have it. You promised me gold. You delivered. Now I want more gold.”

  “I—”

  “This morning, I managed to cobble together a follow-up with some of the lesser photographs you snapped. There were only a few. I had one of our city reporters chat with an anthropologist. It’s not enough. The people crave more.”

  “What exactly is the new angle?”

  Gertrude sighed. “You’re the reporter, Jimmy Linh. You figure something out. But I want you in the jungle. I want photographs. Go back to the scene of the crime, as it were. Interview more villagers. I want it for Thursday’s paper.”

  “My flight is tonight.”

  “I’ll talk to Harriett in travel,” said Gertrude. “She’ll wire you more money. Plenty for a fixer or a driver. We’ll push you back a couple of days. Maybe you’ll fly home Friday. If the story has legs, you may be setting up a bureau.”

  Linh was slack jawed. “I—”

  “That was a joke, Jimmy Linh,” said Gertrude. “I thought you’d be more peppy about this. You’re on your way, Jimmy Linh. Really, the story was cracking. Sales are smashing. Smashing. Keep it up.”

  Gertrude Wombley hung up before Linh could say anything else. She was right. He should have been ecstatic. Instead, he was worried.

  First, he didn’t want to go back to the jungle. He’d survived one attack. If they stumbled upon the ghost or if it caught their scent or whatever, he didn’t think he’d live to tell about it a second time. His unease crept up his chest from his gut. He tasted the acid in his throat.

  Gertrude is asking me to commit suicide.

  That wasn’t the worst of it. He’d miss his flight that night and his date with Molly the next. That was a fate worse than death. She probably already thought him a flake for cutting their conversation short on the train and then calling her at odd hours. This would do it. Linh glanced at the phone and started to pick up the receiver. He stopped short.

  “I’ll call her when I get back,” he mumbled. Instead he flipped the pages in his notebook to make another phone call he’d just as soon have put off. He dialed. It rang.

  Uncle Due answered the phone in Vietnamese. “Hello?” His voice sounded weak, lacking the same force it had had when Linh had called him from London earlier in the week. He almost didn’t recognize it.

  “Uncle?”

  Due sighed. “What do you want, Linh?”

  “My story got published, and—”

  “I know,” said Due. “Your father called. He saw it in the paper yesterday. He’s not happy.”

  Linh slunk against the back of the desk chair. “Why?”

  “You embarrassed the family.”

  “I—”

  “You wrote a science-fiction story,” said Due. “That’s what your father said. He is ashamed.”

  Linh pushed himself forward and stood at the desk. “It’s not fiction,” he said. “There were pictures. You were there. You saw the Ma Trang with your own eyes.”

  “He says the pictures are fakes. Like Bigfoot. He says a lot of people are telling him that.”

  “You were there, Uncle Due. Didn’t you tell him you saw it too?”

  “I don’t know what I saw.”

  Linh clenched his jaw. His grip on the phone tightened. “You were there.”

  Due was silent. Linh could hear his breathing and the ambient noise of a television or radio in the background. A car horn blared.

  “Uncle Due,” said Linh, “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but this is not make-believe. This is not a fairy tale or science fiction. You saw the Ma Trang almost kill me. Your car has scratches and a broken window. Those things are real. Didn’t you tell my father that?”

  “He didn’t ask me.”

  “He didn’t ask you what?”

  “Your father didn’t ask me any questions,” said Due. “He just talked.”

  Linh bit the inside of his lip and slowly inhaled through his nose. “So you didn’t defend me.”

  “I didn’t say anything. I listened mostly.”

  “Okay then,” said Linh. “Fine. You’ll have another chance to figure out what you saw.”

  Due didn’t respond.

  “You need to go back with me.”

  The response was quick and definitive. “No.”

  “My boss,” Linh said, “she wants another story. I need to go back to the jungle, back to the same place where we saw Ma Trang.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll pay you.”

  “I don’t need money. I’m tired.”

  “It would be enough to get a new car.”

  Due paused. It was almost as if Linh could hear the gears turning in his uncle’s head. “A new car?”

  “A used car,” Linh clarified. “New to you. I have enough cash. More is coming.”

  “Your father says you are manipulative,” said Due. “He says you are tricky. He’s right. You didn’t tell me how dangerous the last trip would be. You didn’t say we would see the Ma…”

  “We would what?”

  “Nothing,” said Due.

  “I’m not going to argue with you about my father, Uncle Due. You know what you saw. You know what I’m offering. Take it or leave it. If you don’t want to come, fine.”

  “Three thousand.”

  “Three thousand what?”

  “Pounds,” said Due. “I want three thousand pounds. That will get me a nice car.”

  “I’ve already paid you three thousand pounds.”

  Due chuckled. “You said take it or leave it. I’ll leave it if you don’t pay me three thousand pounds.”

  “Fine,” said Linh. “Three thousand.”

  “Good,” said Due. “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

  “Thank you.” Linh started to hang up when his uncle called his name. He drew the receiver back to his ear. “You said something?”

  “Yes,” said Due. “I told your father about the white woman.”

  Linh dropped the receiver on the cradle without responding. His uncle was an ass like his father. Unfortunately, Linh needed him.

  — 24 —

  Near Hanoi, Vietnam

  April 23, 1980

  Womack kept his head low as he moved from the helicopter toward the collection of steel warehouses fifteen kilometers southwest of Hanoi. They’d landed in a field adjacent to the collection of rusting, crooked buildings.

  He weaved his way through the tall grass and found the cracked concrete that led him to Warehouse 20-7. On the north side of the narrow flat-roofed structure was a single door. To the door’s right was a keypad. Womack punched a six-digit alphanumeric combination with his finger
, and a metallic click hummed until he yanked open the door. He backed against the frame and held it open for the rest of his men. They filed in and found themselves in a small dimly lit room.

  Womack closed the door behind him. “Move, gentlemen,” he said and wove his way to the wall opposite the entry door. On that door was what looked like a broken air-conditioning thermostat. Womack stepped to the thermostat, slid the temperature gauge, and popped the cover up on a hinge. Behind the thermostat was another keypad. He fingered the code. It triggered a pneumatic hiss, and part of the wall opened like a pocket door, revealing a bath of green light and the squawk and hum of a communications bunker.

  “Spies rock,” said Wolf. He passed Womack, held up his hand in the familiar rock and roll gesture, and strutted into the abyss of the bunker.

  Wilco motioned at Wolf as he slid by Womack. “He’s a moron.”

  “Yep,” said Womack. “But he’s our moron.”

  Shine lumbered through the opening. Ferg and Womack entered last.

  “SOG gave you the codes to this installation?” asked Ferg. “That’s pretty trusting of a group that trusts nobody.”

  “The code was set for our entry,” said Womack. “Onetime use. If I tried it again, we couldn’t get in.” The opening hissed and the wall closed behind the men as they moved toward the hive of activity. There were at least a dozen men sitting at terminals, listening to radio traffic, pounding away at keyboards. One of the men, wearing a pale blue Hawaiian shirt and desert sand, military-style cargo pants, looked up from his work and marched over to Womack with his hand extended like a salesman on a call.

  “Nick Womack?” he asked as he approached.

  Womack took his hand and shook it firmly. “That’s me.”

  “I’m Smith. I’ll provide you with what you need.”

  Womack’s eyes narrowed as he let go of the spook’s hand. “Smith? Couldn’t SOG come up with a better name?”

  The man smiled, revealing the deep creases at the corners of his eyes and in his cheeks. He was weather worn. It was hard to see in the green glow of the machines.

  “Johnson was taken,” said Smith. “So was Jones.”

  “I know they shipped most of your gear stateside since you came straight here from…?”

  Womack smirked. “Another job.”

  Smith smiled. His white teeth glowed. “Gotcha. Okay, well, follow me to the back of the space here. I’ll get your men kitted up and we’ll get you on your way. Sound good?”

  Womack nodded. He and his men followed Smith past the communication terminals to the far end of the long building.

  “How long have you been here?” asked Wolf.

  Smith glanced over at the young operator. “Me personally or the operation?”

  “Either. Both.”

  “I’ve been here about nine months,” said Smith. “I did three tours here. Just felt natural to come back.”

  Wolf nodded. “And this operation?”

  Smith winked. “Officially it’s not here. Unofficially we never left. This was originally set up by the French with the help of some friendlies in the north. It was a behind-enemy-lines setup that helped with intercepts, code breaking, that kind of thing.”

  Wilco grunted. “In the north during the war?”

  “Yep,” said Smith. “Crazy, right? Spitting distance from Hanoi. Nobody knew we were here. We’ve got tunnels to send and receive whatever we need. It’s a fantastic asset.”

  “That doesn’t exist,” said Wolf.

  Smith winked again. “What doesn’t exist?”

  Ferg leaned into Womack and whispered as they walked. “That wink is a little creepy. I think this dude has done some bad stuff.”

  “Agreed,” said Womack. “Most of these SOG ops are creepy badasses. It’s a given.”

  Smith spun and walked backwards as the group reached the corner of the building. “We’ve taken into consideration your personal preferences when putting together your care packages on very short notice. Each of these things is labeled.”

  Smith turned around and stopped at a pair of large collapsible laminate-covered tables. Atop the tables were five sets of gear. Each of the sets was boxed and marked by a strip of duct tape labeled with the corresponding operator’s name.

  Womack went to his box and started pulling out the goodies inside. He, and all of the men, were issued M1911A1 Colt .45s. They were slim but powerful single-action pistols. Each man also had three seven-round magazines.

  “Love this weapon,” said Wolf. “You know this is what Martin Sheen’s character carried in Apocalypse Now?”

  “Same as Robert Duvall,” added Ferg. “But his had a pearl grip.”

  “Nothing like the smell of your useless trivia,” said Wilco.

  Aside from sidearms, extra ammunition, canteens, first aid kits, extra pairs of socks, K rations, and a rucksack in which to carry the haul, each operator had his own uniquely tailored weapon.

  Womack was issued a .50 tranquilizer rifle. His job, when it came to it, was to hit the target multiple times. He picked up the lightweight weapon and turned it over in his hands.

  “Ever fired one of those?” asked Smith.

  Womack looked over at Smith and shook his head. “What’s the drug?”

  “M99,” Smith said. “It’s a semisynthetic opioid. Three thousand times more powerful than morphine.”

  “Huh,” said Womack. “How many hits?”

  “That’s the tricky part,” said Smith. “We’ve tried to calibrate the dosage based on what we believe the target’s weight to be. We could be wrong.”

  “That’s encouraging,” said Womack.

  “It’s not an exact science, regardless. Tranquilizers don’t affect everyone the same. We can’t accurately predict whether one, two, or even three doses will have the same effect on you as it will on me. I can tell you, based on experience, that if you overdose the target, you’ll kill him.”

  “So there’s a sweet spot,” said Womack. “We just don’t know where it is.”

  “Sounds like you’re talking about Wolf with women,” sniped Wilco.

  Womack frowned. “Mind your business, Wilco,” he said. “You’ve got work to do over there.”

  Wilco nodded. “Sorry, boss.”

  Smith winked. “As I was saying,” he said, “you just can’t be sure how many hits it’s gonna take. You also can’t know exactly how long it will take for the drug to enter the bloodstream and sedate the target.”

  “Great.”

  “It’s not ideal,” admitted Smith. “If the target is attacking you, it’s not like it’s going to instantly stop. You need to hit it from a distance and have an escape route. Wolf, you get one too.”

  “Understood.”

  Womack looked at his men as they packed up their gear. Three of them had different primary weapons. They looked like a motley bunch.

  Wilco had an M3 Grease Gun, a .45-caliber submachine gun. Similar in appearance to a mechanic’s grease gun, the M3 had a hundred-yard range with a detachable thirty-round magazine. Wilco kissed the weapon as he held it in his hands. He looked like a child on Christmas morning, as did Shiner, who was checking his Stoner 63. The Stoner was an assault rifle capable of firing more than seven hundred rounds a minute. Shiner’s model had a lightweight bipod that folded beneath the handle.

  Ferg’s weapon was maybe the most unique of all. His was a China Lake Launcher. It looked similar to a short-barreled shotgun, but was actually a pump-action grenade launcher. It had a three-round tubular magazine that unleashed explosive 40×46mm grenades. Each grenade, despite its relatively low velocity, could inflict serious damage with its percussive force and the twenty metal pellets inside it.

  Once the men had packed their gear and strapped on their weapons, Smith led them to an elevator. He keyed in a code and hit the down button. The elevator door opened and the spook led the men inside the cabin with a wink.

  Womack felt the men looking at him as they crowded into the elevator. He looked straight
ahead at the door as it slid closed with a metallic thunk.

  They descended for a few seconds to the sound of the lift’s cabling whining, its gears grinding, until the box shuddered to a stop. Smith entered another code to open the door, and it pulled back to reveal a dank space no more than eight feet high.

  It was lit by bulbs strung along wire and tacked to wood beams that framed a tunnel that reached endlessly in two directions. In front of the men was a Russian UAZ-469 truck. It was olive green, but without any military markings. The canopy that covered the cargo bed was torn along one side near the top.

  “Is that ours?” asked Wolf.

  “Yep,” said Smith. “It’s the best we could do on short notice. We’re working with in-country assets here. It was an NVA general’s ride at some point. I know it’s not state of the art, but it’ll accommodate the five of you plus one return passenger. And you shouldn’t have any trouble with it in the jungle.”

  Wilco chimed in. “Don’t you think it’s too conspicuous?”

  Smith shrugged. “What’s not conspicuous, men? You’re five hardened, pale-faced warriors traveling together in the north. Everything you do is conspicuous.”

  “Our job is being inconspicuous,” said Wilco. “We’re good at it.”

  “The truck won’t be a problem,” said Smith. “There’s a ton of military surplus floating around Vietnam. Military left so much of it here when it bolted five years ago, this isn’t going to turn any heads.”

  Womack offered his free hand to Smith. “Thanks for the help. Which way do we head?”

  Smith pointed to the right. “That way. You’ll be in the tunnel for maybe five kilometers. It’ll put you straight onto a highway heading toward Hòa Bình. I’m told that’s the general area you’ll need to hit first. Turn left onto the highway and turn south. You’ve got a radio with a secure channel if you need me.”

  “Roger that,” said Womack. “All right, men.” He motioned to the truck. “Let’s hit it.”

  — 25 —

  Hòa Bình, Vietnam

  April 23, 1980