He willed himself to take a cautious step forward toward the hole in the center of the room. The ray of his flashlight couldn’t penetrate the darkness, which meant the space below was very deep and very dark.
If he’d had a grenade, he would have already tossed it into the oversized toilet bowl.
As he took another step forward, the beam captured a yellow flicker. He raked the light back and forth, illuminating what looked like yellow diamonds.
The croaking sound came again, and this time it was so loud it could have come from a bullfrog next to his ear. He took two steps back, then a third, but more of the yellow orbs glimmered in the massive hole in front of him.
They were eyes, he realized.
Hundreds of them.
10
Ringgold was guided through the USS Abraham Lincoln by an armed entourage that included Master Sergeant Horn, Secret Service agent Tom King, Captain Konkoly, and a team of marines from the USS Florida. There was a lot of firepower and muscle around her, but she was still on edge.
After taking a Zodiac from the submarine to the aircraft carrier, she had enjoyed a few minutes of sunlight and the view of the ocean before entering yet another dimly lit quarters. There, she would meet the leaders of the makeshift fleet.
More marines met them outside the flag bridge, where Captain Konkoly coordinated the introductions. She first shook the hand of Captain Bill Ingves, a short Latino man with salt-and-pepper hair and an iron grip. Next came Rear Admiral Dan Lemke.
“Pleased to have you aboard the USS Abraham Lincoln, President Ringgold,” he said. Dimples dotted his cheeks, and she found herself smiling back at him. “My duty as the ranking officer is to destroy ROT and to take back our country, and I am proud to fulfill it.”
“Thank you. I feel lucky to be here,” she said. Turning to her staff, or what was left of it, she introduced Soprano, Nelson, Kate, and Horn.
Lemke gestured to the conference table. The flag room, normally reserved for an admiral’s confidants, was furnished with only a table, a few chairs, and a wall-mounted monitor at the head of the room. Lemke had given it a personal touch by hanging pictures of the places the aircraft carrier had visited over the years since its commissioning.
She paused to look at a photo of three men in uniform standing on the deck of the ship, arms around one another. Lemke stepped up next to her.
“Those are my brothers, Lenny and Nate. They both serve—” He corrected himself. “They both served in the navy. I miss those days.”
The Lemkes had been much younger men when the photo was taken, at a time when wars were fought in far-off lands.
“I miss the old world too,” Ringgold said quietly. “Come on, let’s go get everyone up to speed.”
“Absolutely, Madam President,” Lemke said.
They all took seats around the conference table, and Ringgold addressed everyone for the first time.
“These past months have been full of trials and tribulations for everyone. Time is not on our side, but we still have much to celebrate. We have a chance to make things right—we have a chance to take back our country and rebuild …”
Ringgold didn’t mean to let her words trail off, but she had given this speech before. She realized, even as she spoke, that now wasn’t the time for inspiring words. Now was the time for action.
“I want a plan to find the Zumwalt and destroy ROT before they can poison our country further,” she said firmly, more as an order than a request.
“We’ve put something together,” Lemke said. He nodded at Captain Ingves, who handed out a stack of folders around the table.
“Inside the folder you will find data about which SZTs are loyal to ROT and which we think we can still swing our way. The resistance to your administration is growing, and we fear that Wood will launch another attack soon,” Lemke said.
Ringgold took a moment to read the briefings. There wasn’t as much information as she was hoping for. For the next hour, Lemke and Konkoly discussed potential plans for finding the USS Zumwalt, but with limited aircraft and supplies it seemed as though the task would be nearly impossible.
“Do we have any spies out there? Anyone who can infiltrate ROT?” Nelson asked.
“We’ve tried, but all of our agents have been killed,” Lemke said. “We know ROT has a base in Alaska, but we don’t know the location.”
“We’ve also tried to lure Wood out, to no avail,” Ingves added. “Much of the ROT leadership is former military, and some are even Special Forces. They know how to move without detection and when to strike. He also has a very loyal inner circle.”
Konkoly snorted derisively. “Loyal only from fear, I’m sure.”
“Not necessarily,” Soprano replied. “From what we’ve seen, even Wood’s ground soldiers seem to be unwavering in their support.”
Lemke folded his hands together. “Wood is really good at manipulation. We need more than weapons and aircraft to fight ROT—we need to change the narrative. We need to bring SZTs back on board by explaining what really happened to New Orleans, Chicago, and the White House at the Greenbrier. We need to prove it wasn’t you who attacked those SZTs, ma’am.”
“We need Vice President Johnson,” Nelson said. “He’s the key to selling that story.”
“Not selling it,” Ringgold said. “Proving it.”
Soprano started nodding. “If we could prove what happened at the White House, then the mayors of the SZTs would have no choice but to believe us.”
“But would they fight for us?” Ringgold cut in. “Why would they rally to our cause when they know they could be punished with the hemorrhage virus?”
The room went silent for several moments. Horn raised one of his massive hands.
“Go ahead, Master Sergeant,” she said, curious to hear his thoughts. Sometimes it was the enlisted soldiers who had the best perspective.
Horn cleared his throat and stood. “Uh, Master Sergeant Parker Horn. I’ve got an idea—a risky idea, but in my mind it’s the only way to fix things.”
“Go ahead,” she urged.
“We have men and women we can trust out there right now. SEAL Team Four has gone to rescue Captain Davis, Captain Beckham, and Lieutenant Flathman. What if we divert them to the Greenbrier to see if the vice president or anyone else is still alive?”
“That’s … not a bad idea. If Johnson is still there, we can ask him to send out a radio message over the channels and broadcast the message that Wood sent before the SZT went dark,” Nelson said.
Kate looked up at Horn, who glanced back down at her and whispered something. He redirected his gaze to the president.
“I’d like to volunteer to lead a team to rendezvous with the others at the Greenbrier,” he said.
Nelson gave Horn a reluctant look. “It’s going to be dangerous. The area was hit with the hemorrhage-virus missiles. There will be infected there.”
“Have the French scientists on the Thalassa found the cure for the hemorrhage virus yet?” Soprano asked. “If they have, perhaps Horn and his team could bring it with them.”
Kate nearly shot out of her seat. “Cure? What cure?” She looked to Ringgold for an answer. “Is this true, Jan? Are they working on a cure?”
“Yes, it’s true. The French have been working on a cure for the hemorrhage virus since the outbreak started, apparently. I was recently informed of their work and I’m told they’re very close.”
Kate shook her head incredulously. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
“I thought they were just studying the Variants in Europe. By the time I learned of the nature of their work, you had already made up your mind. I respected your decision.”
An officer walked into the room and whispered in Lemke’s ear. He nodded back and said, “General Nixon is sending the USS Forrest Sherman and the USS Ashland our way. The Thalassa will also be departing in the morning.”
Horn, still standing, looked to President Ringgold. “Madam President, may I lead a team to the
Greenbrier?”
Ringgold took a moment to study Kate before answering Horn. The doctor’s blue eyes had regained their sparkle after learning Beckham was still alive, but they seemed dimmer again now. Kate looked as if she’d been betrayed, and this time Ringgold felt responsible. It seemed that no matter what she decided, someone ended up getting hurt. And now she was faced with yet another life-or-death decision.
“Yes, Master Sergeant,” she said at last, knowing that she might be sending Horn to his death. “Pick your team and get ready to head out.”
“I haven’t seen this shit city for years,” Andrew Wood said into his headset. “God, I hate LA. Most of these self-righteous pricks deserved to die.”
“I still think coming here is a bad idea,” Michael Kufman replied. “The mayor may be allied with us, but there are thousands of people here, and I haven’t been able to oversee security details.”
“And I’m going to show ’em exactly what happens if you fuck with ROT,” Wood said. “If there are people down there who aren’t loyal yet, they will be soon.”
Despite his hard talk, Wood was feeling anxious, and that always made him angry. Normally, he didn’t venture far from Xerxes or the Zumwalt. This time he had no choice. ROT had captured Coyote, a high-level target who needed to stay here in order for the ROT’s plan to work. Moving Coyote would jeopardize everything, and so Wood had been forced to leave his stronghold.
“Rest assured, every soldier in those Black Hawks is ready to die to protect you, sir—but I still wish we’d had more lead time.”
Wood glanced over his shoulder and checked the other birds before turning back to the City of Angels. He was piloting an MH-6 Little Bird himself toward the silver skyscrapers. It had been a while since he’d flown one of the small helicopters, but he was sick of sitting in troop holds and the plush leather seats aboard the Boeing VC-25. Sitting with nothing to do gave him too much time to think, and thinking made him mad.
Flying helped him focus. He checked the skyline again for any sign of a threat, but the only other aircraft in the area were the two Black Hawks packed full of ROT soldiers behind them. They flanked his chopper, as they flew low over ruined suburbs. Some of the mansions below were nothing but charred rafters and concrete foundations. But there was one that seemed to have survived on top of a hill.
Wood looked down as they passed over a modern three-story house with large glass windows overlooking a swimming pool and sprawling gardens. A corpse sat in a lawn chair along the water’s edge. The Little Bird was low enough for Wood to see the bag of bones was still wearing a pair of sunglasses.
He burst out laughing and pointed. Kufman followed his finger, but his features remained a mask of stone. Wood’s right-hand man and bodyguard didn’t share his sense of humor. He kept telling Kufman to lighten up, but he was starting to think it was a lost cause.
Wood regained his composure and gripped the controls. They were heading into the city now where, unlike in the suburbs, no building had been spared from the damage of Operations Liberty and Extinction.
“LA was hit harder than I thought,” Kufman said, finally speaking. “Looks like hell on earth down there.”
“I’m going to take a quick detour for a better look.”
Wood flew toward the heart of the city. The Black Hawks hovered, unable to follow through the gauntlet of slanting buildings.
“Meet you at SZT 19,” Wood said over the comms.
He pushed the cyclic to the right and swooped around one of the few skyscrapers still standing. The glass of the first thirty floors had been blown to pieces, and debris had drifted up against the foundation, piling there like snowbanks. Vehicles, now rusting black hulls, littered the streets.
“Lots of people trapped down there during the evacuations,” Kufman said, pointing at the skeletons.
“They were the lucky ones,” Wood said. “I’d take that over turning into one of the monsters. I don’t know what my brother and Colonel Gibson were thinking. They should have used nukes like Lieutenant Colonel Kramer wanted.”
Kufman didn’t respond beyond a nod. His ruthless eyes roved behind his aviator sunglasses like an assassin’s searching a crowd for a target. His attention to detail was one of the things Wood appreciated about Kufman. Even at fifty-five, the former Delta operator was still deadly.
“I should have let you kill Beckham,” Wood said almost wistfully. “I know you hate him as much as I do. Maybe even more …”
Kufman turned slightly, his silver brows forming a solid line over his glasses. “It would have been an honor, sir. He betrayed his country.”
Wood smiled. He had never doubted Kufman’s loyalty, even when it came to executing a fellow Delta operator. Although it was easy for Kufman to say that he wouldn’t have hesitated. Perhaps a little test was in order, just to make sure.
Wood glanced out the window and down at someone who hadn’t understood the meaning of loyalty. Sergeant Dave Price, a former ROT soldier, had been found guilty of treason after calling Wood a psychopath and a bastard. Price was now dangling from a rope wrapped around his ankles and attached to the skids of the MH-6. The man’s weight was starting to pull on the left skid.
“This fucker is heavier than I thought,” Wood said. He carefully moved the cyclic to keep them steady as he prepared to head to the SZT. He was a bit rusty at flying, but he evened the bird out in a few quick motions, and they soon left the charred buildings behind.
Wood chuckled again when he spotted the iconic Hollywood sign—or what was left of it. The crooked H and Y were the only letters still anchored to the dirt. The rest were scattered downhill among the green bushes and drab terrain. Beyond the hill, Wood got his first view of the safe-zone territory that Ringgold’s administration had constructed.
It wasn’t very big compared to the rest of the city, just five blocks surrounded by concrete walls topped with razor wire and machine-gun nests—an island, really, amid a sea of death, the same as most of the SZTs.
What was different was a cluster of three buildings centered in the middle of the territory that looked like silos. Wood had heard they were turning the silos into farms and growing different types of plants on each level. This hippie shit amused him. Everyone knew LA couldn’t grow its own food even before the apocalypse. The place was practically a desert and full of shallow people afraid to get their hands dirty. What made them think they could do it now?
The Little Bird descended toward the tarmac, where the other Black Hawks had already set down. ROT soldiers were pouring out of the troop holds.
A muffled shout sounded over the noise of the rotors just before Wood touched down.
Price was screaming and begging for his life, from the sound of it. The gag they had over his mouth had slipped. The sergeant knew what fate awaited him—a shot to the head, if he wasn’t crushed by the skids of the chopper—but Wood decided at the last second to change those plans. He couldn’t bear to hear a man begging like a dog. It was so undignified.
“Hold on,” Wood said.
Kufman stiffened as Wood banked hard to the left. The bird pulled away from the tarmac and headed toward the tallest silo structure. Price swung like a pendulum from the rope attached to the skids.
“Careful, sir,” Kufman said.
“Don’t trust me?”
“I do, sir, it’s just …” Kufman reached out to brace himself when Wood moved the cyclic again. “Pull up! What the hell are you doing?”
Price was hollering like a little schoolgirl now, his high-pitched voice louder than the rotors. Gritting his teeth, Wood pulled up on the cyclic one last time, and after a short delay, the bird’s nose and skids pulled upward. He circled with Price dangling below, waving at the workers who were tending their gardens. They all stopped and walked to the ledge of the silo to watch.
Wood flashed a peace symbol to a short, elderly woman, who dropped a tomato plant and stumbled back from the ledge when Price’s body smacked against the side of the building.
&nbs
p; “That should shut him up!” Wood yelled.
He jerked the cyclic so the bird rolled away from the structure. But to Wood’s shock, Price continued screaming.
“What the fuck,” Wood mumbled. He looked down and saw Price was somehow still alive. His legs were both shattered, but his upper half was squirming. Price screamed again as Wood flew the Little Bird back toward the silo.
He couldn’t hear Price’s body slap into the side of the building this time, but he felt it and was grimly satisfied. Taking life thrilled him in a way nothing else could. He eyed the bloody dent where Price’s body had impacted.
“That should do the trick,” Wood said.
The bird pulled away from the building with Price’s mangled body hanging from the rope like a dead fish on a line. Wood waved a final time at the farmworkers, who were still staring in horror.
Kufman looked shaken. It was the first time Wood had ever seen the retired operator show any sign of fear, and it was also the first time Kufman had ever told him to be careful.
Wood frowned and said, “The true test of trust between two men is the ability to look the Grim Reaper in the face together and not flinch.” After a brief pause, he firmly added, “You failed that test, Kufman.”
Kufman took off his aviator glasses and put them in his vest.
“Open your door,” Wood said.
“Sir?”
“Open your goddamn door,” Wood growled.
Kufman looked out his window at the ash-covered street hundreds of feet below. Then he grabbed the door handle, opened it, and met Wood’s gaze with fearless black eyes.
“There it is,” Wood said, a half smile forming on his face. “Your don’t-give-a-single-fuck attitude is one of the things my brother liked about you. That and your brutality with your enemies. I, however, value loyalty above all else. Understood?”
Kufman continued staring at Wood, silent and calculating. It was, Wood had to admit, a bit intimidating.
“Jump, or I’ll shove your ass out,” he said.
Unbuckling his belt, Kufman scooted over to jump out the door so fast that Wood hardly had enough time to grab his arm.
Extinction War Page 14
