Beckham glanced over at Kate. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
She managed a nod, and reached out to grab Ringgold’s other hand. It was limp. There was so much blood, but she couldn’t tell if it was from Brett’s exploded rib cage or the hole he’d blown in Ringgold.
“Stay with me, President Ringgold,” Beckham said. “Fight.”
Red light churned around the small room, panicked voices and crackling radios filling the tiny space. Ringgold’s eyelids fluttered. She caught Kate’s gaze for a single heartbeat before they closed.
Clouds the color of aging bruises drifted across the horizon. It was mid-morning, but Plum Island was already humid. The temperatures would easily rise into the upper nineties today. Fitz didn’t mind the heat; he just hated the high humidity. He was sitting on the tarmac gluing rubber pads on the bottom of his blades when Lieutenant Rowe strode toward the four strike teams heading to New York City.
Everyone, including Fitz, stood to attention. Most of the men looked well rested despite the fact they had trained into the late evening hours the night before. Riley sat in his chair a few feet away, maps draped over his knees, still going over the plan with several other soldiers. The kid was meticulous, never overlooking a single detail.
“Alright, listen up!” Lieutenant Rowe shouted. “Check and double check your gear. Everyone should have three smoke grenades and two suppressed weapons. Try on your gas mask to make sure it works. Check your buddy’s gas mask to make sure theirs does too. I don’t want any surprises when we get out there.”
The three men in Fitz’s strike team circled around. They were all Marines, but none of them had any combat experience with Variants. Lance Corporal Cooper, a thirty-year-old with thin lips and a crooked nose, had served in Afghanistan, but PFCs Knapp and Craig hadn’t fired their weapons outside of training. He didn’t trust them for shit. Hell, he hardly knew anything about them. But this was what it had come to—heading into battle against an overwhelming force with inexperienced men.
Fitz finished applying the rubber pads. He jogged in place for a few seconds, and to his surprise, there was little to no impact.
“Looking good,” Cooper said. His lips stretched into a long grin that reminded Fitz of a gator.
Knapp and Craig continued prepping their gear without saying a word. When they pulled on their gas masks, Fitz checked to make sure they worked. Then he screwed the suppressor on his MK11. It only added five and a half inches of length to the barrel, but he had a feeling it could become unwieldy maneuvering through the tunnels.
“Staff Sergeant Riley is going to explain the final details of the mission,” Rowe said when all of the soldiers had finished their gear checks.
Riley looked up from his map. “The Air Force has identified Grand Central Station in Manhattan as the primary target to lure the Variants above ground. We know there’s a huge hive there. How many of them survived the firebombing of Operation Liberty is anyone’s guess.”
“I heard there were over a hundred thousand,” Knapp said.
Riley shrugged limply. “That’s why we have two bombing runs, to burn any of the fucks that crawl out of their nests. You know the rest. Once you’re inside the lair, you will turn on your UV lights, deploy your smoke grenades, kill any adult Variants, and use your tranq guns on the juveniles. Remember to watch your zone of fire. The last thing we need is a casualty from friendly fire.” He paused to straighten the kinks out of the map. “This entire area is a war zone. Prepare for bodies and debris. Any questions?”
“Lieutenant, a word please,” came a voice. Major Smith came hurrying across the asphalt. He stopped and whispered something to Rowe. The lieutenant cursed.
Fitz slung his rifle over his back and strode over to the officers while the other soldiers asked Riley questions.
“Something wrong, sir?” Fitz asked.
Rowe continued chewing on a piece of something, his square jaw moving, but he didn’t reply.
“President Ringgold has been shot,” Major Smith said.
Riley folded the map and exchanged a worried glance with Fitz, both of them likely wondering the same thing. Had Vice President Johnson betrayed her? Were Beckham and Team Ghost okay?
“Apparently, Lieutenant Brett was being held prisoner aboard one of the ships,” Smith said. “He was supposed to be executed, but escaped and killed a scientist and several sailors last night, shooting the President in the process.”
Riley wheeled over. “Who the fuck is...wait.” He blinked, realization setting in. “The lieutenant from Vietnam?”
“Yeah,” Smith said. He narrowed his eyes at Rowe.
“Shit, don’t blame me for what the lab jockeys do in their chop shops,” Rowe said.
“Is President Ringgold going to be okay?” Fitz asked. He didn’t give a shit about how it happened or why they’d had Brett on the ship. But he did care about the President. She had been kind to him, and she was an intelligent, honorable woman. The country needed her. The human race needed her.
“I’m not sure. She’s still in surgery,” Smith said.
“I hope she pulls through,” Rowe replied. There was sincerity in his voice that Fitz appreciated. He was about to go back out there with this man and was glad to know he was one of the good guys.
The other soldiers had slowly circled around, and Rowe waved them off. “Get back to your goddamn gear checks. We leave in three hours.”
“Fitz, one other thing,” Smith said.
“Yeah?”
“Beckham wants you to take Apollo with you to NYC. The dog should be here in a few hours.”
Fitz nodded. “Better find a gas mask that fits a dog then.”
“I’m told Apollo will have a satchel pack with everything he needs.”
Fitz cracked his neck. He loved Apollo, but the thought of taking him out there and trying to protect him... Maybe Beckham was hoping Apollo would help protect Fitz.
No, Fitz realized. He wants us to protect each other.
Fitz felt the familiar rise of pre-combat anxiety. He turned and looked out over the island. Tree limbs shifted in the breeze, chirping birds filling the morning with their soft melodies. The peace he’d finally started to enjoy here was about to end. In a few short hours, he would be returning to hell, and somewhere beneath his guts and gristle, he felt like he deserved it.
Beckham wanted to scream, but instead he wrapped his arm around Kate. She nestled her head against his shoulder. The stitches in his arm still stung, but the stab of pain was nothing compared to what he was feeling inside. The small waiting room outside the sick bay was dark, and it wasn’t hard to let the despair creep in.
He was supposed to keep President Ringgold safe, but he had failed, like he’d failed so many others. Tenor, Edwards, Panda, Timbo, Jinx. Now Fitz and Apollo were going back out there without him.
Thinking about the chain of events that had led him here was maddening. A soldier could go insane obsessing over the details and decisions. If Beckham had turned a moment earlier on that rooftop, maybe Riley would still be walking. If he hadn’t let Jinx go topside in New York, maybe he would still be alive.
That was war.
But this was different.
None of it should have happened. Lieutenant Brett should never have been kept alive, and the Hemorrhage Virus should never have been developed. The incompetence of those above him continued to enrage him.
“It’s not your fault,” Kate whispered as if she could read his mind. “You can’t be everywhere. Vice President Johnson wanted you to train the strike teams here.”
“But I promised President Ringgold I would keep her safe. If she dies...”
“She isn’t going to die.”
“Brett fired his gun on reflex, didn’t he?” Beckham asked.
Kate raised her head off his shoulder. “Don’t go there. You saved our lives. If you hadn’t shot him...”
“He would have shot you both?”
Her slight hesitation told him he was right; it
was his two shots that had caused Brett to fire on Ringgold. It was another detail that would drive him mad. He had heard Kate trying to talk Brett down at the last minute, and he hadn’t fired until Beckham did.
“I have to go back to Plum Island,” Kate whispered.
Beckham straightened his back. “What? When?”
“As soon as I can,” she said. “Ellis needs help finishing the batch of Kryptonite.”
“When were you going to tell me?”
Kate massaged his hand with a thumb. “I’m sorry, I just found out a few hours ago.”
“I thought Ellis said he could handle it.”
“He needs help encapsulating the chemotherapeutics with the antibodies,” Kate said. “President Ringgold authorized it right before...”
Beckham’s guts hardened into a knot. He reached down for the reassuring touch of the .45 that had killed Lieutenant Brett.
“Guess now’s just as good a time to tell you as any,” Beckham said.
“Tell me what?”
“Fitz is leading one of the strike teams into New York, and I sent Apollo to go with him.”
“What?” Kate bit her lip. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
Her tone made the knot in Beckham’s stomach tighten. “I said goodbye to Apollo for both of us. But Kate, it’s not goodbye anyway. We will see them again. Command has put together a strong plan to capture a juvenile Variant. Apollo will protect Fitz.”
“And he’ll protect Apollo.”
Beckham nodded. “They’ll be okay, Kate.”
Kate looked down. Her face was flushed and her lips pale. The grief and guilt was overwhelming her. Beckham reached over and kissed her on the cheek.
“It’s okay,” he repeated. But he wasn’t sure he believed his own words. The mission wasn’t going to be easy, and he hadn’t even had a chance to talk to Fitz. He was lucky to have slipped a note for the Marine into Apollo’s satchel.
Kate and Beckham looked up as the hatch to the room opened. Captain Humphrey followed Vice President Johnson inside. The Captain removed his hat and tucked it under his arm.
“How is she?” Johnson asked.
“Still waiting,” Kate replied.
The men sat in the chairs behind them.
“Thank God you got there when you did, Beckham,” Humphrey said.
Beckham wanted to tear into Humphrey and Johnson for keeping Brett alive. At the very least, they should have had him heavily guarded. The men had underestimated Lieutenant Brett. The military simply didn’t learn the lessons of the past.
Instead of replying, Beckham shifted in his chair for a better view of the glass doors to the sick bay. There was movement on the other side, but he couldn’t see what was happening.
The hum of white noised filled the room as they waited in silence. Fifteen minutes later, the door opened and a middle-aged man with kind green eyes stepped into the waiting room. Everyone stood, anxious for news.
“Captain Klinger,” Johnson said. “How is she?”
Klinger pulled off a surgical mask and said, “She’s going to be okay, sir. The bullet only nicked her collarbone and missed all major arteries. We managed to stop the bleeding early.”
Kate squeezed Beckham’s hand, and he squeezed back, relief flooding over him.
“Good news,” Johnson said. “When can I see her?”
“She’s still under right now, but maybe in a couple of hours, sir.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Johnson said.
There was genuine sincerity in his voice, but it didn’t take away from the fact that he’d allowed Brett to live. There was a small sliver of Beckham that thought maybe Johnson had allowed this to happen. He suppressed the paranoia. If he wanted the presidency, he could have taken it.
“I need to get back to the CIC, sir,” Humphrey said. “We’re prepping for Operation Condor in Atlanta.”
“I’ll be up there shortly,” Johnson replied.
Humphrey nodded and left at the same time as the surgeon. The glass doors to the sick bay and the hatch leading back into the ship clicked shut simultaneously.
Johnson regarded Kate and Beckham in turn. “I hope you’re ready, because in a few hours we’re embarking on the next stage of Operation Extinction.”
Beckham squeezed Kate’s hand even tighter. They were ready, both of them, even if they weren’t going to be together for what came next.
Fitz hung his blades out the open door of the Blackhawk as it ascended into the sky.
Riley sat in his chair on the tarmac below, Meg by his side. Tasha and Jenny, just tiny dots now, waved at the chopper. Fitz raised his right hand. He couldn’t deny the fear swirling through him, but seeing what he was fighting for helped keep things in perspective.
The other three Blackhawks were already in the air. They raced across the cloudy sky toward New York City. Fitz turned from the view and pulled his blades into the troop hold. He patted Apollo’s coat as he scrutinized his team. Lance Corporal Cooper nodded back, a sign he was ready to go. PFCs Knapp and Craig, however, had their heads bowed as if they were praying. Craig, it turned out, actually was praying. He pulled a rosary from his pocket, made the sign of the cross, and lowered his head again.
A few minutes into the flight, Knapp gripped his stomach and gagged.
“Puke out the fucking door, man,” Cooper chuckled into the comm.
Fitz shot him a glare, then checked on Knapp. He was hunched over in his seat, face as white as a ghost, but he didn’t throw up.
“Keep your head above your heart,” Fitz said over the comm channel. “Take some deep breaths. You’ll be fine.”
Fitz reached down and stroked Apollo’s coat again. It helped keep the anxiety at bay. Plus, the dog had more experience fighting than Cooper, Craig, and Knapp combined. Looking back at the three amigos he’d been saddled with, Fitz was glad to have Apollo along.
Reaching into his vest pocket, Fitz pulled out the note he’d found tucked into the satchel on Apollo’s back. He’d discovered it when going through the dog’s gear.
Fitz,
Stay frosty out there, and bring my dog home in one piece.
Godspeed, brother,
Beckham
Fitz grinned and slipped the message back in his pocket. Any fear he’d felt was gone now, replaced with confidence. He had a mission to complete, and the last thing he was going to do was fail Beckham. He still struggled with what he’d done in Iraq. Killing the female sniper, shooting a teenager, and not being able to save innocent civilians—that was on him. He owned those deaths. Same with Wood’s men. But even if he did deserve to be punished, he couldn’t die just yet. Not before he made up for some of his sins.
“Listen up,” Fitz said. “I’m Shepherd 1 on the comms. Cooper you’re 2, Knapp is 3, and Craig is 4. When we land, I’m on point. Cooper, you’ve got rear guard. The subway entrance is only a few minutes from our insertion point. We hold tight until the flyboys swoop in for the first drop.”
By the time Fitz had finished going over their plan, the skyscrapers of Manhattan were in view.
“Holy shit,” Craig said. “Ser’ant Riley was right. City’s a fucking war zone.”
“ETA, two minutes,” one of the pilots said over the comm.
Knapp looked up, his face still as pale as a Variant’s. When he saw the city, he threw up on the floor.
“Jesus,” Cooper said.
Fitz crouch-walked over to Knapp. “Get a grip, man.”
The PFC wiped his mouth with a sleeve and nodded.
The potent scent of stomach acid filled the troop hold, but it was easy to ignore. Fitz had smelled plenty of bad shit over the past month, and it was only going to get worse from here.
Cooper chuckled, but didn’t say anything. Fitz just shook his head. There wasn’t anything he could do for Knapp but keep an eye on him. If they were compromised, they’d need all the firepower they could get. As long as it wasn’t Knapp’s actions that got them compromised in the first place.
The chopper turned, providing a rolling view of Manhattan. The new Twin Towers were still standing, but the lower third of the buildings were missing every window, and the streets were covered in ash. Scorched vehicles pock-marked the concrete arteries connecting the boroughs. Smoke rose from darkened buildings across the city. Heavy rainfall had put out most of the fires, but several structures continued to smolder.
Fitz saw no sign of the Variants from the air. He knew better. Like any enemy, they were probably watching him right now. The other Blackhawks vanished behind the skyscrapers, each one disgorging their teams into the grinder.
Fitz scanned his team in turn one final time. Knapp’s face had regained some color, but Cooper had an odd grin on his face. Craig slipped his rosary back in his pocket. Apollo was sitting up, ears perked and wet snout ready to go to work.
Fitz ran a gloved finger over the Team Ghost patch on his arm, then reached for a magazine.
He was ready to rock n’ roll.
-18-
“Phase 1 of Operation Condor is complete. All teams are on the ground at assigned targets,” Lieutenant Davis said from the front of the CIC. Team Ghost and the Variant Hunters were crowded behind the radar equipment, with the commissioned men and women positioned at the front of the room behind Vice President Johnson and Captain Humphrey. Outside the porthole windows, the clouds were starting to disperse, the sunlight bleeding through.
Thirty-two strike teams had been assembled and deployed across the country. It sounded like a lot, but with just four men on each team, they were each facing an enemy that vastly outnumbered them. Stealth was key if any hoped to complete their objective.
Beckham wiped sweat from his forehead and tried to get a look at the four monitors set up on the wall in front of Davis. The live video feeds were only from the strike teams that had taken off from the GW to Atlanta. On the left, two Navy officers sat at a wall of radio equipment, listening for information from the other strike teams.
The room was crowded, and the scent of perspiration drifted in the air. Every hatch was closed, and the ventilation units didn’t seem to be working. The only respite was the view of the ocean outside the porthole windows.
Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4) Page 22
