Jensen regarded each of them in turn.
“I wanted to personally inform you of Operation Liberty before anyone else hears about it. In approximately ninety hours the military is sending boots into every major city. The first objective is to defeat the Variant threat. The second is to rescue any survivors.”
“Do you have numbers?” Kate asked.
“Of survivors?”
“No. Variants.”
“Hundreds of millions,” Jensen replied grimly.
Her eyes darted toward the ceiling as if she was mentally double-checking the math, but Beckham knew she was testing the soldier.
“That’s why we invited you here, Doctor,” Smith said. “Command has asked us to research the Variants. We want you to head the team.”
“Absolutely,” Kate said. “Whatever you need.”
“Excellent,” Jensen said.
“So why are we here?” Horn asked.
“Because we have also been asked to provide military support,” Jensen replied. He crossed his arms and exhaled. “Command wants us to send teams to New York to join a Marine company of five platoons piecemealed together from surviving units. Each platoon has been assigned a borough. We have been asked to support 1st Platoon in Manhattan. I’ve been told 1st Platoon is a mechanized unit with at least two Bradleys and multiple Humvees. The Air Force will provide support, too.”
Beckham could feel Horn studying him. He held Jensen’s gaze, anticipating what came next.
“We want you to lead a team,” the lieutenant colonel said. “It breaks every rule in the book, but I don’t give a shit. You’ve been out there. You two know better than anyone.”
“Half of the men and women stationed at this island haven’t even seen combat,” Smith added. “We need you two.”
Beckham considered his next words carefully. He still didn’t trust Jensen. He wasn’t Colonel Gibson, but he had worked with the disgraced man for years. He talked a good game, but he had yet to prove himself. Beckham knew from experience evil was most dangerous when it was hard to see. Gibson was the perfect example of that. Unfortunately, the new commander controlled the aircraft on Plum Island. Beckham needed him, just like he’d needed Gibson.
“I can give you some time to consider,” Jensen said.
Beckham exchanged a glance with Horn. He could see the pain in the man’s hardened eyes. Horn needed resolution. He deserved to know. One way or another, Beckham and Horn were going back to Fort Bragg.
“I’ll lead a team back into New York,” Beckham finally said, “but there’s something I need to do first. Something we need to do.”
Jensen formed a triangle with his hands, concentrating. “You want a ride to Fort Bragg?”
Beckham nodded; the man was smarter than he gave him credit for. “And a ride back. With any survivors we find.”
Smith shook his head. “No fucking way. We can’t risk a chopper.” He looked up for support from Jensen. The lieutenant colonel held up a hand.
Jensen scanned Beckham and then Horn. “I know what you all must think of me. But I am not Colonel Gibson. I’m not going to make the asshole excuse and say I was just following orders, but I did not know the complete truth behind the development of the Hemorrhage Virus.”
He bowed his head, shaking it side to side. “If I had known, I would have stopped the project. I swear to you.”
Beckham remained still, listening and sizing the commander up as he spoke.
“You have thirty-six hours,” Jensen said. “That enough time?”
“Plenty of time,” Beckham said. He reached across the table and secured the second deal since arriving on the island with a firm handshake. This time he was finally going back home to Fort Bragg.
The sunset glowed on the horizon like a fire raging on the water. The beauty lost its appeal as Beckham’s watch ticked. He could feel every second passing. Each one represented another potential life lost.
“Where is she?” Horn grumbled.
Beckham stared at the cluster of dome-shaped buildings. “She’ll be here,” Beckham said. He dropped his rucksack on the edge of the tarmac and adjusted the strap of his MP5.
“You look like you’re about to rob a bank,” Horn said.
Beckham glanced down at the extra magazines tucked into his tactical vest’s pouches. “Can’t afford another situation like New York, man. Riley’s legs wouldn’t be broken if I hadn’t run out of ammo.”
Horn nodded and glared at the skyline. “You think my family is still out there?”
“If they are, we’re going to find them. Jensen had his comm team run through the last radio transmissions from Bragg. There were survivors holed up in the Warfare Center and School building, so that’s where we’re headed.” Beckham pulled out a map and pointed at the facility he’d circled in red.
“I remember that place,” Horn said. He reached inside his vest and retrieved a single cigarette. Wedging it between his lips, he cupped a hand over his Zippo. He closed his eyes and took one long drag.
“Thank you, Reed,” Horn said, smoke trailing out of his nostrils. “Thank you for doing this. I can’t tell you—”
Beckham held up a gloved hand. “Don’t, man. You don’t need to say anything. If Sheila, Tasha, and Jenny are out there, I stand by the promise I made to you on the rooftop in New York.”
Jamming the cigarette back between his lips, Horn placed both hands on Beckham’s shoulders. They locked eyes, neither of them flinching.
“We’ll find them,” Beckham said. “One way or another.”
Horn gave a solemn nod and then turned toward the sound of approaching voices. Two figures rounded Building 1. They strode toward the concrete barricade and stepped into the sunlight.
“Here she comes,” Horn said. “Finally.”
“Sorry we’re late,” Kate said. She dropped two duffel bags on the ground and bent down to unzip them. A crew chief and pilot hurried past them, both men eyeing Horn’s cigarette without uttering a word.
“What’s in the bags, Doc?” Horn asked, taking another drag.
Kate pulled out a CBR suit and handed it to Beckham.
“I thought you said there’s no risk of infection anymore.” He hesitated and then grabbed the white suit.
“That’s mostly true,” Kate said. “But there might be infected that were outside the first and secondary drop zones.”
“People with the Hemorrhage Virus?” Beckham asked.
Kate nodded. “The bioweapon is still being deployed in remote areas outside the cities. The virus has mostly been eradicated, according to reports from Central Command. Fort Bragg was part of the initial drop. But I don’t want to take any chances.”
“I’ll let you two hash this out,” Horn said. He swung his M27 around his back and walked over to the pilot and crew chief, discussing something that Beckham couldn’t hear.
“Kate, I don’t think we need them. We didn’t use them in Atlanta. Besides, I’m already bogged down with all of this extra ammunition.” He patted his vest and ran a finger over the pocket containing a picture of his mom.
“But—”
“I’m more concerned about the Variants than the remote chance of contacting what’s left of the Hemorrhage Virus.”
Her eyes darted to the ground for a brief moment. She nodded slowly and found his eyes.
“We’ll be fine, Kate. These things are only going to slow us down,” he said, handing the suit back to her.
Kate dropped it onto the bag and wrapped her arms around Beckham’s frame. He let out a short gasp of surprise. She hugged him tighter before finally letting go. “Fine. You can make up your own mind.”
Horn whistled. “Gotta go, Boss!”
Beckham returned Kate’s embrace for a moment and then bent down to scoop up his gear. “I’ll be back in thirty-six hours.”
“Be safe,” she said.
“Always am.”
The blades from the chopper whooshed on the first pass. Beckham jogged across the tarmac, ducking
as he approached. Grabbing a handhold, he climbed inside and waved one final time as the bird ascended into the air.
Beckham and Horn sat with their legs dangling over the side of the troop hold. They flew in complete darkness; not a single light flickered as the chopper raced over the landscape.
Flipping his night vision goggles up, Beckham stared over the side. A veil of black consumed him, and all sense of motion vanished. For a moment he felt like he was suspended in space. Then his eyes adjusted. He could vaguely make out the outline of a city in the distance. Never in his life had he seen a landscape so dark. The entire grid was down. No one was left to run critical facilities. The chopper passed over a miasma of stink from an abandoned water treatment plant. It was the smell of the new world.
For two hours they flew over crumbling buildings and scorched urban areas, the scars from Operation Depletion present even in the darkness. No city had been spared. Outside the cities, the acres of lush crops would never see harvest. The destruction was numbing.
The promise Beckham had made to his team years ago flashed across his mind. He could picture the day in Iraq vividly. Insurgents had his six-man team pinned down behind a wall in the filthy streets of Fallujah. Spinoza, Edwards, Riley, Horn, and Tenor had been crouched behind the stone, waiting for air support as one hundred hostiles had crept closer. Brass had fed him some bullshit intel claiming they could help take back the city. Instead, Beckham had led Team Ghost into a trap.
“Six against a hundred,” he muttered.
Horn spat over the edge of the chopper. “Fallujah?”
Beckham nodded. “Never thought we’d make it out of there.”
“If it weren’t for Panda, we never would have.”
Beckham chuckled at the memory of the gigantic man breaking through the ten-foot stone wall. Spinoza had rammed it three times with a shoulder before the stones toppled, allowing the team a chance to escape into an alleyway. He had also taken four shots to his flak jacket that had put him out of commission for a month. And now he was dead, along with Edwards and Tenor.
“Goddamn,” Beckham said, shaking his head. He would have traded places with any of them. The pain of a fallen brother was worse than the idea of death itself. He was barely managing the losses, motivated only by the mission ahead of them.
Horn reached over and nudged Beckham in the side. “We all should have died a long time ago, bro.”
He didn’t want to admit it, but Horn was right. Maybe fate had finally caught up to them. Thousands of hours of training and experience meant nothing when it was your time. Somehow Beckham had always come out unscathed. The other men had joked someone was looking out for him. And maybe there was. He liked to think that his mom was keeping an eye on him. He brightened at the thought.
“Holy shit,” Horn said. “Take a look at that.”
“What?” Beckham flipped his NVGs back on and saw a highway cluttered with vehicles. Not just any vehicles. Tanks.
Beckham examined the abandoned M1 Abrams as the chopper flew closer. The expensive symbols of American military muscle were now just a graveyard of metal.
“Wonder what happened,” Horn said.
“Probably got trapped.”
A flash of movement pulled his gaze to the ditch. Something lurked in the darkness. Several somethings. Human sized.
Beckham gripped the handle of his MP5 tighter out of reflex when he caught a glimpse of four Variants. They galloped into the forest, escaping as the chopper whipped overhead.
“You see that?” Horn asked.
“Yeah,” Beckham said. He twisted toward the cockpit. “You picking up any sign of survivors down there?”
The pilot craned his helmet. “Negative.”
Closing his eyes, Beckham scooted away from the door and rested his back against the wall of the chopper.
“Wake me up when we get to Bragg,” Beckham said. “I’m going to snag a few minutes of sleep.”
“No problem,” Horn said.
Beckham tried to rest, but the ghosts of his past kept him awake. He had tried to leave them behind, but the flashbacks ambushed him whenever he closed his eyes. There was Spinoza lying on the floor in Building 8, a human bone jammed deep into his skull. There was the infected child they’d found in Niantic and there was Riley, his legs smashed, screaming on a New York rooftop. No matter what he did, his mind continued to flay open to those moments. Each time the dread caught him in his gut. He tried to do what operators were taught to do: compartmentalize and suppress emotions. Pain, both mental and physical, was a distraction that could result in death.
Crackling static in his earpiece yanked him back to the present. “LZ in five,” came the pilot’s voice. Beckham scanned the skyline. A dense cloud hovered over Fort Bragg to the east.
“Jesus,” Horn said. “I thought it wasn’t supposed to storm.”
“That’s no storm,” Beckham said. “That’s smoke.”
Horn shook his head. “Nah, man, can’t be…”
“Where’s it coming from?” Beckham asked.
The comm channel crackled. “Uh,” the pilot said, “I think that’s the Womack Army Medical Center.”
Horn and Beckham sat in silence, watching the vortex of smoke swirling above the north quadrant.
“Never thought I’d see the day where we bombed our own fucking posts,” Horn said.
The words lingered in the air like the black haze above Fort Bragg. The country Beckham had fought for, bled for, sacrificed everything for, had dropped bombs on their own men and women. The same soldiers who had sworn to defend her against enemies, foreign and domestic. He understood that they were trying to stop the Hemorrhage Virus, but this?
“Western wind at fifteen mph, would advise insertion south of the post,” the pilot said.
They circled for several minutes until Beckham found a suitable insertion point.
“Put us down in that field,” Beckham said into the comm. He grabbed a handhold and scanned the area. The knee-high grass whipped back and forth as the chopper descended.
“You ready to find your family, Big Horn?” Beckham asked.
There was a flicker of fear in Horn’s eyes that disappeared as he flipped his NVGs into position. “Ready, Boss.”
Beckham slapped him on the back. Horn jumped first, bolting away from the chopper as soon as his boots hit the dirt. With a breath, Beckham followed his best friend into the darkness, like he had so many times before.
Kate yawned and focused on her monitor. Data rolled across the screen. She studied every single line, searching for abnormalities in the blood samples from patient 12, the Variant that had attacked her several days earlier. The hours passed, leaving Kate more frustrated than she wanted to admit.
Colonel Gibson had been right about one thing. In order for her to learn more about the Variants, she needed a living, breathing patient. The mere thought of the colonel reminded Kate they were in this situation because of him. He’d ordered the development of the Hemorrhage Virus.
Kate massaged her temples and then reached for her empty coffee mug. A clock in the corner of the office read 9:45 p.m. If she was going to squeeze any more work out of her brain, she needed a refill.
She cracked her neck from side to side and got up to leave. The door to the office squeaked open, and Dr. Ellis peeked in.
“You’re still working?” he asked.
Kate sighed. “I keep thinking that I missed something in today’s tests.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all,” Kate said with a smile. She was happy to have the company.
Ellis plopped down at his station. “I’ve been working on identifying the genes that VX-99 turned on. Maybe if we can figure out exactly which ones mutated, we can find a way to bring them back.”
With a few keystrokes, he logged into his terminal and brought up a myriad of data streams. Slipping on his glasses, he pointed to the screen.
“Take a look.”
“Ellis…” Kate said. “We�
�ve been through this.”
He didn’t reply. His fingers danced across the keyboard, and then he punched the enter key. A new image filled half of the screen. “Maybe this will interest you then.”
Curious, Kate stepped closer to his display.
“This is Marine Lieutenant Trevor Brett. His platoon was given doses of VX-99 in 1968. Every last one of those Marines died. Except for this lucky lieutenant.” He glanced up, his brows arched. “Or unlucky.”
Ellis moused to another image, enlarging it so it filled the other half of the screen. A picture of a pale, gaunt man popped onto the display. “He was found ten years later and over one hundred miles from his platoon’s insertion point.”
Kate picked at a hangnail nervously and said, “Is that…?”
“Yup. Same guy.”
Kate nodded. “You have my attention. Where did you find these images?”
“Beckham told me about the guy. It was part of the briefing they watched on their way to Building 8. Colonel Gibson had known about Brett for years. But what Beckham didn’t know is this.” Ellis hit the enter key again. A black-and-white video popped onto the screen.
The camera angle provided a view of the inside of a prison cell. A frail, naked man was stretched into an X supported by chains attached to the ceiling and floor. His chin slumped against his chest, his eyes downcast. The cameraman took a step back and swept the lens over the three military officers studying the man from the other side of the bars. One of them glanced at the camera, and Kate instantly recognized the young man.
“Colonel Gibson,” she said with a shiver.
“Yup,” Ellis said, turning up the audio.
“Lieutenant Trevor Brett,” Gibson said. “Can you hear us?”
The camera moved again and fell directly on the prisoner. He slowly raised his head as he became aware of his observers. He blinked repeatedly, his eyes roving, scanning. In an instant they centered on the soldiers.
Rattling chains filled the audio. Brett thrashed against his restraints. Joints cracked and popped. The man’s body twisted in a way that would have broken the spine of a normal person.
Extinction Edge (The Extinction Cycle Book 2) Page 3
