Horn fired without restraint, rounds shattering windshields and punching through metal. The muzzle flash from his M249 cast a glow over his armor. He’d removed his face guard and torn away his gas mask, leaving just his skull bandana. Each muzzle flash lit up his crazed features, as if he were the Angel of Death himself.
Fitz blinked the sweat from his bulging eyes.
A brass casing ejected from his gun in slow motion. He heard it clank off the monument behind him. Two more steps backward and his blades nudged a body that had to be Beckham. After chambering another round, he grabbed Beckham by his left wrist and dragged him to the base of the monument. Apollo darted after them.
“Big Horn, over here!” Fitz shouted.
“Raven 1, where the fuck are you?” Horn yelled into his mini-mic.
Team Ghost came together on the south side of the Grant Memorial as they waited for a miracle. Fitz, Horn, Rico, and Apollo formed a perimeter around Beckham’s limp body. Gunshots lanced out in every direction as the juveniles closed in.
Fitz imagined it would have looked a lot like the battle of Thermopylae. But unlike the three hundred Spartan warriors protecting King Leonidas, Ghost Team wasn’t all here to protect Master Sergeant Beckham.
A half mile away, in the nightmarish chamber below, Sergeant Garcia must have been fighting valiantly. Fitz could only imagine the fear the Marine felt as he too was surrounded.
Or maybe he didn’t feel any at all. The sergeant had developed a death wish. Everyone had seen it. And Fitz didn’t blame him. He’d lost everyone he cared about. His family. His team. Maybe even part of his soul.
All at once, a mechanical noise roared over the National Mall. An Osprey flew over Capitol Hill, its dual rotors making a mechanical thunder that masked the high-pitched screeches of the monsters. The creatures paused to look up; heads tilting and almond-shaped eyes following the aircraft.
“Let’s move!” Horn shouted.
Fitz flung his rifle back over his back and bent down for Rico. She reached up and grabbed him around the neck. Horn already had Beckham over his shoulders.
A scream that sounded like a freight train commanded Fitz’s attention to the east. At first he thought that Garcia had detonated the dirty bomb.
Then he recognized the source of the noise. It was about to make a much bigger explosion than their RDD.
Thousands of times more powerful.
In the sky to the north, a streak of red split through the drifting storm clouds. The ballistic missile heading for D.C. was re-entering the atmosphere. Pieces of the rocket tumbled away as the heat vehicle carrying the nuclear warhead raced across the skyline.
“Move your ass, Marine!” Horn shouted.
A cold spray of water snapped Fitz back to reality, and he forced himself to look away from the missile. Tito and his co-pilot slowly lowered the Osprey over the pool, churning the water into mist. Juveniles charged from all directions, racing across 1st Street, barreling across the dead grass of the National Mall, and leaping into the pool.
Fitz tightened his grip on Rico’s legs and bolted for the steps at the bottom of the memorial. The whine of a mini-gun sounded over the discord of the hissing monsters. Fire flashed from the remote-controlled gun attached to the underbelly of the Osprey. Firing three thousand rounds per minute, the weapon tore the beasts to shreds. The sight filled Fitz with hope, but even if Ghost could make it into the troop hold in time to escape the dirty bomb, there was no way they could make it out of the city before the nuke leveled it.
And yet Fitz continued running, knowing each second could be his last. He was fueled by a single objective: save his friends. Every breath came out in a labored puff and his blades creaked, straining under Rico’s weight.
Apollo ran ahead, his tail up now, oblivious to the nuclear holocaust barreling down on them. Fitz closed his eyes in prayer, running blindly through the water.
His eyes snapped open as the Osprey’s lift gate hit the pool. The splash soaked Fitz as he waded into the water. Horn powered his way to the troop hold, set Beckham softly on the floor, then climbed inside. Apollo hopped in after him with an impressive leap. Horn scrambled back to the edge of the gate and reached for Rico. As soon as she was inside, he reached for Fitz and shouted for Tito to take off.
Fitz jumped and grabbed Horn’s hand as the craft lifted into the air. Both men scooted away from the open door to watch the National Mall filling with monsters. Hundreds of the beasts came streaming out of the surrounding buildings.
Had Garcia failed?
Fitz hadn’t heard a word or gunshot from the Marine for over a minute. Reaching up, he pulled away his gas mask and repositioned his headset.
“Garcia, do you copy?”
Static burped over the channel.
Several seconds of silence passed. Fitz moved closer to Rico. She was gripping her injured leg and staring out the open door.
“Tito, get us the hell out of here!” Horn yelled.
The Osprey rolled to the right, passing over waves of frantic monsters. They clawed at the sky, hate-filled eyes following the bird as it pulled away.
“My God,” Rico breathed. She was fixated on the skyline, where the nuke cut through the storm clouds like a bullet in slow motion.
“Hurry, Tito!” Fitz yelled. As he crawled over to Beckham, everything seemed to slow down, and the absurdity of what they'd been through hit him in his gut. He had seen a lot in the past seven weeks, but this was too much. A nuclear explosion was the last way he’d imagined things would end.
“Garcia…” Fitz repeated.
Fitz finally realized that it didn’t matter if Garcia was successful or not. In a few minutes, D.C. would be a smoldering crater, with or without the dirty bomb.
“Boss,” Horn said. He removed Beckham’s helmet and carefully pulled it away from his friend’s matted hair. With deliberate care, Horn maneuvered Beckham’s head into his lap.
“It’s okay, Reed, we’re going home,” Horn said.
Beckham’s eyelids fluttered for a moment, then slowly opened. Grimacing, he strained to look up at Horn’s face.
“Why you crying, Big Horn?” Beckham whispered.
Fitz put a hand on Beckham’s left shoulder, trying not to look at the bandages covering his stumps.
“I’m not,” Horn said. He wiped a tear away from his freckled face.
“You’re almost as bad a liar as Chow,” Beckham said, coughing.
Horn chuckled and sniffled at the same time. “Just hang in there, brother. Don’t try and talk. Kate’s waiting for you. So are my girls.”
Beckham’s gaze flitted to Fitz.
“Did we complete the mission?”
Fitz rubbed the plate of armor covering Beckham’s left shoulder. He couldn’t disrespect Beckham by lying. Before he could reply with the truth, the Capitol Building vanished in a massive explosion that filled the dark sky with fire. Fitz shielded his face from the heat of the blast. It rushed outward, incinerating every monster on the grounds within seconds.
“Hold on!” Tito shouted. The Osprey jerked to the left, then pulled up.
“He did it,” Fitz whispered. “Garcia fucking did it.”
Flames licked at the sky as Raven 1 rushed away from the National Mall. When the light from the explosion faded, the nuke once again came into focus. It sailed across the skyline at a ninety-degree angle. From a distance, the intercept route looked like the Washington Monument.
Fitz squeezed Beckham’s shoulder and reached with his other hand for Rico. Horn kept a hand on Beckham's head as it rested on his chest. Apollo curled up between the survivors of Team Ghost. Together, they watched the rocket scream toward the nation’s capital.
The Osprey carried them away at max speed, but to Fitz, it felt like they were crawling through the clouds. In a few seconds, everything they’d just fought and bled for would vanish in a nuclear fire.
It wasn’t fair. They’d come all this way, completed their mission…only to be killed by their own damn mil
itary. Considering the origin of the war, the irony no longer surprised Fitz, but he did wonder who had given the order this time, and why. He guessed it didn’t matter any longer.
Fitz gripped his friends tighter, taking comfort in their presence during the final moments of his life. Rico plucked the wad of chewed gum stuck on her helmet and jammed it into her mouth. Beckham struggled to sit up, asking again if Ghost had completed their mission. Horn whispered prayers to see his girls again. Fitz felt the urge to pray, too, but something held him back. Did he deserve to make it, after everything he'd done and everyone he'd lost? All those lives he couldn't save…maybe it was time to finally pay the price for his failures.
Don’t let it win, Fitz. You’re a good man. The best, just like Riley. You didn’t fail us. You saved us with your friendship and kindness.
Meg’s final words brought him back from the edge of despair and, looking around, he saw he hadn’t failed after all. Fitz had helped save Beckham and Rico. Apollo too. And they’d saved him. That was the way things were with family. Feeling a sense of peace that had eluded him ever since Iraq, he bowed his head, held his brothers and sister close, and prayed.
-Epilogue-
Two Weeks Later
A brilliant sunrise crested the North Atlantic. The rays sparkled over the water and banished the darkness. As the crimson sun slowly climbed higher into the sky, the light carpeted a lone island. Waves slapped against the shore. On a hill overlooking the surf were the graves of men and women who had lost their lives defending their country during the war against the Variants. The sun continued to rise, the light illuminating fresh dirt and dozens of new white crosses.
Tears fell from Master Sergeant Reed Beckham’s eyes. He tried wiping them away, but had to switch hands in the middle of the motion. His new right hand hung heavy by his hip, feeling unnatural and awkward. He knew he'd get used to it someday, but he didn't know when.
Beckham dried his tears, pushed away his own discomfort, and put his thoughts back where they belonged. Plum Island was a beautiful yet poignant sight—one that he’d never thought he would see again.
He could see for miles from the top of the command center of the GW. Cool spring air rustled his uniform as he stood there, looking out over the waves. Seven other vessels trailed the flagship of the strike group as the aircraft carrier split the water.
Drawing in a breath, Beckham took a cautious step with his left blade. Metal clanked on metal as he carefully made his way down the ladder leading to the flight deck. Every step was tedious and painful. He was learning to walk again with the prosthetic. It was an extremely slow and nerve-wracking process, but he wasn’t alone.
A hand touched his back, remaining there for just a second. Kate had given Beckham the support he’d needed over the past two weeks, but she never made him feel helpless.
“Do you know what you’re going to say?” Kate asked.
Beckham grabbed the railing with his left hand and turned to face her. Her blue eyes searched his as they stood in the breeze, hair blowing in a halo behind her head. Without Kate, he would never have made it home after Horn, Fitz, Rico, and Garcia had brought him out of that hellhole in D.C., but she had given him something worth living for when his body was shutting down from the venom and blood loss. He only vaguely remembered the last moments inside the chamber, but one image was seared in his memory: the look on Garcia’s face when Ghost left him there to detonate the bomb.
I hope he found his peace.
Kate massaged Beckham’s left hand with her thumb. “Reed?”
“Sorry,” he replied, turning back to the view of the flight deck. “Yes, I know what I’m going to say. It’s funny, though. I’ve fought against the Taliban with nothing but a bayonet, and I’ve killed Variants with my bare hands, but public speaking scares the hell out of me.”
Kate smiled and stood on her tiptoes to reach his lips. “You’ll do just fine.”
A raucous mechanical noise suddenly sounded from the western sky. Beckham and Kate turned to watch a squadron of F-16s explode from the clouds. The jets screamed over the strike group, leaving a white streak of exhaust as they raced away.
Beckham’s mind slipped again, returning to that night in D.C.
“Hurry, Tito!” Fitz screamed.
Beckham struggled to focus on the nuke whizzing through the clouds. It was moving at an astounding speed, and in a few seconds it would level the city. Their nation’s capital would disappear in a massive mushroom cloud.
The pain from his injuries was overwhelming, but he was aware of what he was witnessing, even though it was difficult to understand.
“Hold on, everyone!” Tito ordered.
Rattling, the Osprey jerked, rolled, and pulled higher into the sky.
Tito was still trying to save them, but Beckham knew they weren’t far enough away. In a few moments, the nuclear explosion would engulf the helicopter.
Beckham blinked, and in that fraction of a second the nuke shot through the final clouds that lay between it and the city. Two more heartbeats passed before it plowed into the lawn next to the Washington Monument. Even from a distance, Beckham could see the plume of black dirt that was hurled into the sky from the impact. The warhead skipped once, sailed into the air, and came crashing back to ground, where it dug a shallow grave and came at last to rest.
The ocean breeze and Kate’s soft touch brought him back to the GW. He used his left hand to brush the hair from his forehead, his mind still partially focused on the memory.
It wasn’t a miracle that had caused the nuke not to detonate—it was a few brave soldiers in the CIC who had fought to retake the GW and disarm the weapon and others like it. Soldiers he was here to honor.
“Let’s go,” Beckham said to Kate. He clutched her hand and they walked side by side down the ladder. He stumbled slightly when he saw the crowd gathered at the far starboard side of the flight deck. They were just silhouettes, faces hidden by the shadows cast by the line of Super Hornets, Ospreys, and Blackhawks.
“Slower, Reed. This isn’t a race,” Kate said soothingly.
Nodding, Beckham paused to catch his breath. Walking down the ladder felt like a ten-mile run. The simple act took his breath away. His body still hadn’t healed from the toxins, but he was getting better every day.
Two weeks from now, he would be running with Fitz. The wounded warrior had already put together a training schedule for them, eager to help Beckham adjust to his prosthetic leg.
Beckham put his left arm around Kate when they reached the bottom of the ladder, and pulled her close as they crossed the deck. To the east, a Blackhawk pulled away from the USS Chancellorsville. He eyed the troop hold filled with civilians. The aircraft was ferrying the survivors to their new home at Plum Island.
In the past two weeks, they’d found several groups of holdouts living in New York high rises; the same had been true for other cities around the country. There had been more survivors than anyone had dared hope.
By the time Beckham and Kate reached the crowd gathered on the flight deck of the GW, the sun had fully enveloped the ship. Apollo came running toward them, his tail whipping back and forth.
Beckham grimaced as he took a knee. The German Shepherd licked his face joyfully, unburdened by the weight of terrible memories that would never fully fade for his human friends. Beckham would be living with those nightmares—but at least he was alive.
A youthful voice snapped him from his trance.
“Uncle Reed!”
The vision in his right eye was permanently damaged from the toxins that had destroyed the nerves, but Beckham didn’t have to see to know the small shapes running away from the crowd were Tasha and Jenny. Their freckled faces beamed up at him as they threw their arms around him.
Behind them stood Horn, his tattooed arms folded across his chest. He looked out of place in a t-shirt that read, Just Another Day in Paradise. Rico and Fitzpatrick were in neatly pressed uniforms, and Ellis wore a button down shirt and slacks. President
Ringgold and Vice President Johnson stood with an entourage of Marines to the right.
There were dozens of civilians too. Donna held Bo in her arms, and NYPD officer Jake stood holding Timothy’s hand. The boy wasn’t much younger than Beckham had been when he’d lost his mother to cancer.
Several wounded warriors in wheelchairs and leaning on crutches were mixed throughout the crowd. Lieutenant Davis, uniform full of shiny new medals, sat in one of the wheelchairs, scowling and fidgeting with the wheels as if she wanted to leap to her feet. But that was it. The group was much smaller than the one that had gathered before the mission to D.C.
So many faces were missing.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the picture of his mom and the handful of dog tags he collected. He needed their strength to get through what came next.
A gust of wind suddenly plucked the picture of his mom from his fingers. It sailed away, whirling and flapping over the deck. Beckham tried to lope after it, but in the sudden movement, he lost his balance and crashed to the deck. The dog tags spilled across the ground. The sight made him cry out. They were all he had left of his men, and the picture all he had left of his mom, besides memories.
Beckham reached for the picture, but his hand came up empty, his depth perception off from his damaged vision. He scrambled after it, moving into a large shadow. Horn crouched down in front of him, holding the picture out in his huge hand.
“Here you go, boss.”
“Thanks,” Beckham said, exhaling. He kissed the picture, then carefully tucked it back in his pocket.
Fitz was scooping up the dog tags a few feet away. After he collected them, he walked over to Beckham’s left side. Horn moved to his right. The two men reached down and grabbed Beckham under his armpits without a word. Apollo wagged his tail as they hoisted their leader to his feet.
Ringgold and Johnson were standing next to Kate. They didn’t ask if he was okay, or stare at him like he was disabled. Their gazes were empathetic, not pitying, and full of respect. Everyone knew what he had been through and the sacrifices he had made.
Extinction End (Extinction Cycle Book 5) Page 38
