Extinction End (Extinction Cycle Book 5)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  Beckham felt goose bumps prickle across his flesh, but not because she had recognized him. He’d struggled with the same sentiments. The Variants hadn’t had a choice when they’d turned into monsters. But men like Colonel Wood, Colonel Gibson, and every other bastard who had created them, had. He knew not all humans were inherently bad by nature, but this war had made Beckham seriously question if his species was a virus of its own. Kate had reminded him that the human race was worth protecting. Fitz had also played a major role. The Marine embodied the very best of what it meant to be human. He was resilient, kind, loyal, and selfless. The President standing in front of him was another example of why Beckham had never given up fighting for a military that had all but betrayed him and his men. She was the leader they needed in this, the most terrible chapter of their history.

  “Tonight we are given a second chance,” she said. “Tonight we are reminded what it means to be human, and tonight, we will take the first step in building a better America, and a better place for future generations.”

  Beckham nodded. Maybe his child and all the other children would have a better world to grow up in after all. That was worth fighting for. Worth dying for.

  Ringgold scanned the faces on the deck, stopping on Beckham’s. A smile touched the corners of her mouth.

  “Good luck, and Godspeed!” she shouted after the brief pause.

  There was no applause as Beckham led his men to the choppers. As he passed the row of coffins, he opened his hand and examined the dog tags.

  “This mission’s for all of you,” he said under his breath.

  “Beckham,” came a voice. He halted as Chow limped over to him.

  “Wish I was going out there with you, brother.”

  “Me, too. But there will be more cities to clear. When you’re better—”

  Chow leaned in and gave Beckham a hug. “Save it man. Just be safe. Come back in one piece. As soon as I can piss on my own again, I’m gonna be right back out there fighting next to you.”

  Beckham gave his comrade a half a smile. “I’ll see you soon, brother.”

  They parted, and Beckham whistled for Apollo to follow. Most of the soldiers continued past the line of civilians, but Beckham and Horn stopped when they reached Ellis, Kate and Tasha and Jenny.

  Jenny pulled away from Kate and hugged Horn’s right leg. Tasha latched onto the other.

  “Please don’t go,” Jenny said.

  “You promised you wouldn’t go,” Tasha whimpered.

  Horn patted their backs and looked at Beckham. There wasn’t anything that Beckham could say to relieve his pain. He now understood the burden of a father leaving behind a child. He felt the same burn as he looked at Kate, his eyes flitting to her stomach.

  “Don’t worry, girls, Uncle Reed is going to take good care of me. I’ll be back in no time,” Horn said, his voice reassuring and calm.

  His daughters looked up with glistening eyes. “Promise?” they said at the same time.

  “Promise,” Horn said. He hunkered down, kissed them both on their foreheads, and then hugged them tight.

  “I promise, too,” Beckham said. He leaned over so he was at eye level with the girls. “I'll take care of your daddy, and your daddy is going to take care of me.”

  Apollo licked the tears off Tasha’s face and then moved onto Jenny. They giggled and stroked his coat.

  Fitz smiled at them. “Be good, girls.”

  Tasha and Jenny smiled shyly, and Kate put her hands on their shoulders.

  “I like your robot legs,” Tasha said.

  Fitz raised his helmet slightly as if he was tipping his hat at the girl. He grinned and hurried to the choppers. Apollo followed him, and Beckham turned back to Kate. Her blue eyes were strong and clear. He knew she was being brave for him, and he loved her even more for it. He kissed her on the lips and slipped her a bit of tongue to show her he was serious about coming back in one piece. When they pulled away, he held her gaze and said, “I love you so very much, Kate.”

  “I love you more.”

  Beckham smiled. “Impossible.”

  They hugged one last time, then Beckham backpedaled away, his eyes still on Kate and Horn’s girls. Both he and Horn paused to say their final goodbyes. Then they turned and jogged toward the open troop hold of a chopper, just like they had so many times before. There had never been more at risk, but they were still together, and they would be until the end.

  -24-

  “Team Ghost, this is your pilot speaking. Tonight our beautiful flight crew is serving hand grenades and LAW rockets. Hope y'all like hot sauce.”

  Fitz laughed and craned his neck toward the cockpit. Tank’s cousin Tito was one of the pilots flying the Osprey. His sarcastic sense of humor helped relieve some of the tension in the troop hold, but he couldn’t do anything about the weather. A violent storm hammered the sides of the aircraft.

  No one besides Fitz seemed to be paying attention to the storm or Tito's jokes. They were too busy checking and double-checking their chutes.

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Tank grumbled. He looked the worst. His dark skin was a shade lighter than usual, and he was wobbling back and forth. “I hate heights. I fucking hate ‘em!”

  “Don’t worry, big guy. You won’t see a thing until you’re about to splatter on the concrete,” Horn joked.

  Tank crinkled his massive nostrils. “Not funny, asshole. I only got one eye now, man, not sure if you noticed. It fucks with my depth perception.”

  “Knock it off,” Beckham said, working his way between the two hulking men. He braced himself as turbulence rocked the Osprey.

  “If there was a seatbelt sign, it would be flashing,” Tito said over the comms. His voice was more serious this time, despite the sarcasm.

  After the shaking passed, Beckham said, “I need both of you frosty.”

  “Frosty as fuck, boss,” said Horn.

  “Well, I’m a goddamn deep freeze,” Tank replied. He glared at Horn with his remaining eye and half stood as if he wanted to challenge the other soldier.

  Tito’s voice came back online. “Sit your ass down, Cuz.”

  That got Tank’s attention. He snorted and went back to fidgeting with his pack.

  Beckham drew in a breath. “Listen up, Ghost.”

  Rico, Garcia, Fitz, and the big lugs stopped their gear checks to listen.

  “I’m Ghost 1 on the comms. Garcia is 2, Horn is 3, Fitz is 4, Rico is 5, and Tank is 6. When we land, we stay in close combat intervals. Fitz has point, Tank you’re on rear guard. Keep low to the ground. You spot anything, you signal it. And keep your distance. The juveniles can shoot their venom up to thirty feet. You are not to engage unless it’s a last resort. If you see them, we use our R49 grenades first. Complete radio discipline as soon as our boots hit dirt unless you’re about to get your arms ripped off. Understood?”

  Beckham spoke in a calm yet authoritative voice. It was a tone everyone respected. The members of Team Ghost all dipped their helmets. Apollo even wagged his tail.

  “If you get separated below ground, you’re to meet at the target,” Beckham continued. He pulled his sleeved map and pointed at the location everyone had already memorized. “We’ll enter the tunnels through a concealed access point located at the Ulysses S. Grant Memorial at the east end of the National Mall. Tank and Big Horn are responsible for finding the entrance.”

  Horn slapped Tank on the shoulder, and Tank nodded back, their macho posturing already forgotten.

  Beckham looked toward Horn. “You’re responsible for the RDD, codenamed Gibson.”

  Fitz grinned. Naming the bomb that would end this nightmare after the man who started it—hell, maybe Beckham had a sense of humor after all. This time Tank slapped Horn on the shoulder.

  “Once we get inside the lair, we plant the bomb, set the timer, and get the hell out of Dodge.” Beckham drew in a discreet breath. “Oh, and one last thing. The juveniles are going to be bigger than when you saw them last. Probably a
hell of a lot smarter, too. So watch your back, and watch your buddy’s back.”

  “Great,” Garcia muttered. He tapped the side of his M4. Fitz used the stolen moment to scan the firepower in the troop hold. Everyone was equipped with a shotgun as a secondary weapon except for Fitz, who carried his M4 and MK11. Horn and Tank had both selected their usual M249 SAWS. Garcia, Rico, and Beckham carried M4s.

  They didn’t have mechanized units, rocket launchers, or air support, but they had something even more valuable—trust in the men and women fighting beside them. That was more important than any weapon.

  Beckham scanned his team in turn. “Any questions?”

  Rico shook her head, then changed her mind. “What happens if we breathe in some of this gas or whatever the hell it is?”

  “You hope that someone’s there to drag your ass to safety,” Beckham replied. “Because you’ll be out for hours.”

  No one said anything for several seconds. Fitz suspected they were all thinking the same thing he was about the sleep grenades—they were a waste of time.

  Tank broke the silence in a shaky voice. “How long till drop?”

  Beckham looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes.”

  “I should have taken a shit when I had the chance,” Tank muttered. “Now I think I’m going to puke, too.”

  Horn let out a bellowing laugh. “Better keep your cheeks clenched and your jaw shut on the drop!”

  Beckham shook his head, but Fitz saw the ghost of a grin on their leader’s face. Fitz let himself chuckle with the rest of them. A bit of humor before the big mission wasn’t a bad thing, as long as everyone did their duty when their boots hit solid ground.

  After a moment, Beckham grew serious again. “This is a HALO drop, and we’re doing it at minimum altitude. There’s no indication human collaborators have anti-aircraft weapons, but even so, we can't risk being spotted if those assholes are down there. We’re jumping at fifteen thousand feet. You’ve all had the training. You know what to do. I’ll take Apollo, and we’ll deploy Gibson with an automated chute.”

  Beckham paused one more time for questions. There weren’t any.

  “Alright, let’s get it done, people,” he said, clapping his hands together.

  “Oorah,” Tank said.

  The troop hold filled with the noises of men and women preparing for the most important mission of their lives. Fitz expected to see urgent movements, but aside from Tank pulling nervously on his pack, everyone else was relaxed.

  Weapons and magazines were checked a third time. Armor plates were re-clicked into place. Night visions goggles were tested, and boots were laced and re-laced. Silencers were screwed onto primary weapons with clicks that reverberated throughout the narrow space. The final step was an old Team Ghost ritual—fastening bandanas. Fitz had seen Horn’s skull mask before, but he had never seen Beckham wear one. Both men removed their helmets and tied their bandanas around their necks. They pulled the cotton up just below their lips. Then they flicked their mini-mics back into position and slipped their helmets back on.

  Fitz didn’t mean to stare, but he couldn’t look away. From the side, in the dim lighting, all he could see were two black-matte helmets and mirrored visors. Beckham and his second in command looked just like their namesakes.

  Ghosts.

  “Five minutes to drop,” Tito said. There was no joking around this time.

  Beckham clicked his NVGs back into place and reached into his vest pocket. He strode over to Fitz with something in his hand. Fitz took the crumpled bandana and opened it to reveal the face of a laughing joker. He looked up, shocked.

  “This was….”

  “Riley’s,” Beckham replied. “I thought you might like to wear it.”

  “I’d be honored to.” Fitz tied the bandana around the back of his neck and pulled it up to his bottom lip, then turned to face the other team members.

  Horn dragged his gloved hand over his face, but Fitz saw the glint of tears in the man’s eyes. Tank put a hand on Fitz’s armored shoulder. “Looks good on ya, little man.”

  “Two minutes,” Tito said.

  “Put on your gas masks,” Beckham ordered. “And don’t forget, you breathe in any R49 and you’re toast. So make sure your mask is tight. Check your shit and check your buddy's shit,” Beckham said. He bent down to put a mask over Apollo’s muzzle. The dog had been trained to use one, and didn’t resist.

  Fitz slid his mask into position and pulled his bandana up to cover it. He breathed in, and picked up a distinct sour smell of sweat. It took his mind a moment to grasp that it was from the bandana's previous owner. A piece of Riley was going back out there after all.

  And so was a piece of Meg.

  Glancing down, Fitz admired the axe hanging from his belt. He’d sawed the handle down so it would fit over his armor, but that didn’t change the fact it had been Meg’s. She’d held onto it all the way from New York to the GW. When Garcia had given it to him, Fitz had thought he might display it as a memento of her. Then he decided that a better way to honor her memory would be to split some Variant heads with it.

  He wasn’t much of a religious man, but he did believe the deceased lived on in the hearts and minds of those they left behind. Today, Riley and Meg would join them in battle.

  Fitz tightened the bandana and took a step closer to the back of the troop hold.

  “Line up,” Beckham ordered. Horn scooped Apollo up and helped Beckham strap the dog to his chest.

  Fitz worked his way to the front of the team and grabbed the cable on the starboard side of the aircraft. The rest of Team Ghost fell into line behind him.

  “One minute to target,” Tito said. “Good luck, Ghost. Love you, Cuz.”

  “Love you too, Tito,” Tank said.

  There was no crew chief this time to herd them outside. Beckham gave Fitz a nod. Reaching out, Fitz punched the lift gate door.

  Wind rushed into the troop hold. A pitch-black sky stretched across the horizon like a cape. The rain had stopped, but the swollen clouds blocked out the stars and moon.

  “This is it, Ghost. Dive safe and see you on the ground!” Beckham shouted.

  “Fifteen seconds,” Tito said.

  Horn heaved the bag containing Gibson closer to the open door. He pushed it out a moment later. The rest of the team took another step forward and watched the dirty bomb plummet toward a city full of juveniles and dead adult Variants.

  Fitz massaged the Delta Force Team Ghost patch he’d fastened on his right shoulder plate and counted the seconds in his head. He glanced back at Beckham one last time and reached out to stroke Apollo’s head. Neither of them had a flicker of fear in their dark eyes.

  Oddly, Fitz didn’t feel any fear either. In its place was something else—something he didn’t recognize at first.

  Excitement.

  This was it. The endgame.

  Fitz turned, flipped his NVGs into position, and jumped into the darkness.

  “Team Ghost is away,” Davis reported.

  She shifted in her chair as the live feeds fired onto the operation monitors. The hardest part was always waiting, but at least she was sitting. If she was standing, she would have likely been pacing back and forth on her injured leg.

  All across the country, small strike teams were being deployed. Each one carried RDDs designed to minimize infrastructure damage but produce lethal radiation. No matter how you pitched it, the dirty bombs were going to blow some gaping holes in cities across America, but it was better than bleeding the streets red with what was left of her soldiers in a battle no one thought they could win. If the operation succeeded, the juveniles would be dealt a severe blow, and then Johnson could deploy troops to kill off the stragglers.

  President Ringgold had approved the mission almost immediately upon hearing that pitch, but there was no denying how precarious the situation really was. Command was relying on special operations forces trained to sneak in and out of places without being detected. Team Ghost was one of the best, b
ut Delta Operators, SEALs, Green Berets, Rangers, Force Recon, and every other ops group were in short supply. They couldn’t afford to fail, because there would be no one left for a second attempt.

  “SITREP?” Johnson asked. He stood behind the command staff next to Ringgold and Humphrey.

  “We’re all set, sir,” Petty Officer Nagle replied. “Everything’s looking good. Strike teams are away over Seattle, New York, Los Angeles, San Diego, Portland, Atlanta, and D.C. There are still teams en route to Des Moines, St. Louis, Kansas City, Nashville, Denver, Miami, and….” Nagle double-checked his report. “And San Antonio.”

  “All teams have reported in,” Corporal Anderson said from the radio equipment.

  “Excellent,” Johnson said. He turned to face his team. General Kohl, President Ringgold, and Captain Humphrey all wore the same optimistic looks. The Vice President shared that look, but his features were more strained. It was small, but Davis picked up on it. She felt the same anxiety. The future of the United States of America rested in the hands of the few. And they were up against overwhelming odds—not to mention a constantly evolving creature that had learned the art of the hunt, something even the American military was still adapting to after hundreds of years of warfare.

  A jolt of pain made Davis reach down to touch her thigh. The bullet had only grazed the flesh, but it had cut a deep furrow that had required stitches. Without the injury, she would have been right back out there with Fitz and the others.

  She started to turn away from the monitors when she saw someone was missing from Johnson’s staff. Lieutenant Colonel Kramer was absent from the CIC.

  Odd, Davis thought as she stood and strode over to the portholes on the other side of radar equipment. She grabbed a pair of binoculars from the ledge and aimed them at the horizon in search of her friends, wishing that she was out there with them.

  Good luck, Ghost.

  A green-tinted city that had all but been destroyed exploded into view as Beckham shot through the clouds. He fell with his arms and legs out. Gravity, as well as Apollo and the rest of the gear strapped to his chest, pulled on the center of his mass. It made maneuvering extremely difficult.