Satisfied, he pulled his bandana down and approached the church. She mimicked his action, removing her gas mask to reveal the wrinkled face of a woman around sixty. Dark green eyes that were both kind and curious studied Fitz.
“I’m Master Sergeant Joe Fitzpatrick with the United States military, ma’am.”
In perfect English, the old French woman said, “What brings you to Lisieux?”
“We’re told you would know of enemy movements in the area and western France. Anything you can tell us about the Variants, especially the ones with wings, would help the military take back your country. Where do they nest? How long have they…”
His voice trailed off as every gun in the church suddenly pointed at the MATV. Including the monster of a rocket launcher.
“You came for info? That’s why Jacques died?”
Fitz remembered the figure that had been plucked from the rooftop. “I’m sorry about him,” he said. “But we need your help.”
A screech filled the afternoon, and every weapon was re-directed toward the sky.
“Can we come inside?” Fitz asked politely. “Let’s talk where it’s safe.”
The woman narrowed her eyes at him in contempt. “Safe is not a word we use in France anymore.”
-14-
Commander Davis shifted in her wet uniform. The worst part about wearing the salvaged CBRN suit from the dead soldier wasn’t the blood. No, it was the stench of the man’s cologne. The musky scent was worse than the rotten smell of Variants.
Who fucking wears cologne in the apocalypse anyway?
Their Zodiac coasted over the waves, drenching Davis in salt spray. The small craft carried the surviving members of the GW. Sergeant Marks and his two Marines sat in the back with SCARs shouldered, scanning the waves for swimming juveniles. Diaz and Black rested with their backs on the bow.
Their first objective was to find her ship. Keeping up with an aircraft carrier in a Zodiac was nearly impossible, but they had plenty of extra gas and the GW wasn’t moving at full speed. The real trick was staying out of sight.
The distant rumble of fighter jets sounded over the sea. She searched the sky for them but could see nothing in the muddy clouds. An oil tanker coasted through the ocean several miles to the west. They had passed a cruise ship earlier. There were hundreds of derelict ships out here, making it all too easy for the terrorists to hide from Command on radar and satellite. “There she is,” Black said. He pointed at a long blot of metal on the horizon.
Davis breathed a sigh of relief, then said, “Stay back, but don’t lose her again.” She considered using their satellite phone, but she didn’t want to risk it. Her specific orders from Vice President Johnson were to remain out of sight and look for an opening. If and when she had an opportunity, she would request a green light to board the ship and take it back. Davis knew how risky it was. The ship was armed with enough munitions to blow up half the SZTs in the country, and ROT had already threatened to do just that.
Davis drew in a breath of cologne-scented air and cursed under her breath. She still couldn’t believe she had lost her damn ship to a bunch of terrorist assholes.
“Where are they headed?” she asked.
Diaz unfolded a laminated map from her vest. Pointing to the beach to their right, she said, “That’s Pensacola Beach. We’re coming up on Fort Pickens. Fort McRee is on the point ahead.”
“So where do you think they’re heading?”
Diaz studied the map. “If I had to guess…New Orleans.”
Black hefted up his SAW to make way for Sergeant Marks. He sat down next to Davis and pulled off his gas mask. The sergeant’s bruised face twisted into a scowl as if he was trying to say I fucking told you so.
Instead, he said, “What’s your plan, Commander?”
Davis removed her own mask to speak freely. “Follow the ship and sneak aboard at nightfall, assuming Command gives us the all clear. If we get caught, at least we’re wearing uniforms that might give us a chance to shoot first.”
Marks chuckled. “Shoot first, ask questions later. I like it.” He pulled a cigar from his vest and unwrapped the plastic. “I was saving this for later, but since we’re going to die, I might just as well smoke it now.”
Diaz shot Marks a glare. “All due respect, Sarge, but do you remember who you’re talking to? Commander Davis seized the GW from the enemy back when it was armed with nuclear weapons. She will—we will—take it back again.”
Davis held up a gloved hand to silence her bodyguard. She knew Diaz meant well, but now was not the time to start an argument with Marks.
A mile ahead, the GW was beginning to turn. The bow of their craft caught the larger vessel’s wake, sending the Zodiac a foot into the air. They landed with a splash and then smoothed back out.
Marks eyed the Marine on the engine as he pulled a Zippo from his pocket. “Watch it back there,” Marks grumbled with the cigar jammed between his lips. He went to light it, but Davis nabbed the cigar from his hands.
“You want to draw attention to us?”
Marks glared at her like a kid who had been robbed of a piece of candy.
“You can smoke this later—after we take back our ship.” She stuffed it in her vest pocket.
Mark’s swollen jaw moved, but he didn’t say another word.
The GW was rounding a peninsula thick with lush trees and overflowing underbrush. The eastern shore featured a white sandy beach surrounded by a teal lagoon. Seven months ago there would have been sunbathers, but now monsters lurked in the torpedo grass. The bow of the ship vanished, and Davis looked back at the Marine on the engine.
“Can’t this thing go any faster?”
“We’re maxed out, Commander.”
Diaz raised her M4 to her visor. She quickly pulled it away and pointed to the sky.
“We got contacts!”
Everyone in the craft followed her fingers to a pair of black dots rising over the peninsula.
“Little Birds,” Davis said. “Get us to the shore, fast.”
The Zodiac curved hard to the right, the engine humming as the driver pushed it to the max. They shot over the waves, jolting up and down. Every free hand in the boat raised rifles toward the sky, but it only took a moment to see the small helicopters weren’t heading for the Zodiac.
“What’s that hanging from the bottom of the second one?” Black said.
Davis zoomed in with her M4. “My God,” she whispered. She slowly pulled the scope away from her eye, unable to look any longer at the man hanging from a noose tied to the bottom of the Little Bird.
“Those animals,” Black said. He looked to Davis. “When I get on board, I’m going to kill every single one of those bastards.”
“That a sailor? One of ours?” Diaz asked, her eyes wide behind her visor.
“It’s Admiral Humphrey,” Black said. “Check the bars on the sleeves. That’s his uniform.”
Davis looked toward the shoreline, unable to think much past the anger. She pointed to a cluster of downed trees in the water. “Stop us over there until those birds are out of sight.”
The driver directed the boat toward the beach, carving through the water at an angle. He eased off the gas and coasted to the trees. Davis immediately regretted the choice of cover—it stank of rotting fish, and there were a number of manatee carcasses, each one picked clean, on the nearby beach. There were juveniles hunting here. Maybe even adults that had survived when Kryptonite dropped by swimming out to sea.
The Little Birds continued inland, Humphrey’s corpse swinging from the rope like a pendulum. The thump of the rotors faded away, the sound replaced by the chirp of bugs and calls of exotic birds Davis couldn’t see. Waves slapped against the shore, and the Zodiac rocked back and forth as the surf crawled through the fallen trees.
It would have been peaceful, almost serene, were it not for the sense she had of being watched. Davis scanned her team. Weapons were shouldered, and muzzles raked back and forth, covering every direction.
>
She flashed hand signals, and the Marines raised their rifles into zones of fire. The afternoon sun baked the surviving members of the Scorpion and Rhino teams as they sat in the boat, waiting for Davis to give her next orders. The radio towers on top of the GW moved in the distance, just visible over the green canopy of trees. The aircraft carrier had rounded the peninsula.
Her ship was getting away again.
“Where are they headed now?” she asked.
Diaz looked at the map. “Maybe Pensacola. Hard to say. There’s a few bays they could be trying to anchor in. Escambia Bay, East Bay…”
Davis motioned for the driver to turn the engine back on. The Zodiac hummed back to life. She did a final check for the Little Birds before flashing an advance signal back to sea. The boat backed up, then jolted forward.
Waves slapped against the bow, salt water misting the occupants. Davis kept the butt of her M4 in the sweet spot of her arm, ready to center in on a target at a second’s notice. She was frosty, but she was also on edge. If they fell too far behind, they would never catch up to the GW.
Another peninsula and an island came into focus at nine o’clock. She couldn’t see nearby Fort McRee, but she spotted Fort Pickens at one o’clock. Brick walls, stained black from nearly two centuries of exposure to the maritime elements, surrounded the fort. Cannons still poked from the walls. They were there for the tourists, but once those cannons had protected this spot from hostile ships.
More bloody carcasses of manatees dotted the sand below the fort. She zoomed in on the remains. Not a single ounce of meat was left on the creatures. The Variants here had picked them clean.
She flicked her muzzle to the wooded area up the beach, expecting to see eyes staring back from the foliage, but all she saw was tangled weeds and branches swaying in the wind.
“Faster,” she said.
The driver turned the throttle, and the craft zipped over the waves. Storm clouds were rolling in from the west. Rain that looked like rays of light hit the ocean on the horizon. Davis turned her attention back to the peninsula to scan the water for hostiles. She scooted closer to Black, who stood at the bow, his SAW trained on Fort Pickens.
She balled her hand into a fist to tell the driver to ease off the gas as they rounded the corner. The Zodiac crested a wave, slapped the water, and coasted toward the shallows. The Marine on the engine navigated the craft around boulders sticking out of the clear water. Schools of fish swam by, just small enough to avoid interest from the monsters.
Davis held in a breath as they cleared the edge of the peninsula, letting it out into her mask when she saw the stern of the GW. It was already moving through Pensacola Bay toward the natural harbor.
Diaz looked up from the map. “They’re definitely not heading toward—”
The thump of a helicopter cut her off. A Little Bird rose from the center of Fort Pickens and climbed into the sky, Humphrey’s body still hanging from the skids.
Davis clenched her jaw and pointed toward the shore. The boat turned sharply, engines humming and water spraying. Davis took a seat and grabbed a handle as the boat accelerated. The GW was now in the bay, and there was a flurry of movement on the deck.
“They’re anchoring,” Diaz said.
Zodiacs and black speedboats raced from Fort Pickens with more men and supplies. ROT soldiers lowered ladders from the hangar decks of the GW to quickly transfer the boxes.
“Up there,” Diaz whispered. She pointed to the deck where a dozen of Davis’s crew were being marched to the starboard side with guns to their backs.
Marks rose from his position, but Davis pulled him back down.
“No,” she grunted.
“We have to help them,” Marks said. He squirmed in her grip, and eventually Black helped restrain him.
“Stay down, Sergeant,” Davis said. She watched her men knelt on deck with guns to the backs of their heads.
Davis flinched at the crack of gunfire. To her right, Diaz cupped a hand over her face and wept, but Davis forced herself to look as the ROT soldiers executed twelve members of her crew. The bodies plummeted over the side of the ship into the water. It took every bit of her self-control to not open fire, but now was not the time.
Soon, she silently promised. Soon these bastards would get what was coming to them.
Beckham was supposed to be preparing corn on the cob and vegetable stew with Kate. His mouth watered at the thought. Instead, he was riding with her to the BSL4 lab, where she would be continuing her research on the European juveniles. She was in the back seat, arms crossed over her swollen stomach, frustration painted on her face. Horn was behind the wheel, his expression neutral. He clearly didn’t want to get in the middle of this particular fight.
“You’re both supposed to be retired,” Kate huffed. “President Ringgold blessed the decision herself. Now she’s asking you to put your uniforms back on.”
Horn’s eyes flicked from the road to Beckham, but he kept his mouth shut.
“And you’re not supposed to be in a biohazard lab,” Beckham said. “We all have our duty.”
Kate looked toward the roof, then back at Beckham. “What about Tasha and Jenny? What about the baby?” Her hand caressed the outside of her stomach. “If something happens to you…”
Beckham’s heart ached, but he had already made his decision.
“Kate, if the Zumwalt shows up in the harbor or the GW launches their arsenal at us, then we’re all going to end up dead. ROT already tested our defenses once. Next time we might not be so lucky.”
“You call that lucky? Hundreds of people were killed.”
Beckham reached back with his prosthetic hand, hesitated, and pulled it back. He reached out again with his left hand, but she reared away.
“Damn it, Kate, I don’t want to go back out there either. But if I have to kill every one of those ROT bastards to keep you safe, that’s what I’ll do. I have to do it.”
Those words made everyone in the jeep pause. Horn turned the steering wheel slowly, his breathing heavy. The whoosh of a chopper in the distance broke the uneasy silence.
Beckham ducked down to see a trio of Apaches were racing out to sea. A transmission over the open line followed in his earpiece. “Bogey spotted five miles north of home plate. Sending Rogue 1, 2, and 3, to check it out. Over.”
Horn turned down the road that dead-ended at the BSL4 lab. Several Marines in CBRN gear were positioned at the gate. The largest of them approached the jeep, and Horn rolled down the window to flash his credentials.
“Evenin’,” Horn said.
The Marine looked in the window, studying each of them.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Doctor Lovato,” the man said, his voice raspy from his breathing apparatus.
He stepped away from the jeep, nodded at the gate operator, then gestured for Horn to proceed. The lift rose into the air, and Horn drove onto the bridge that extended out to the lab on its raised platform. A second gate slowly opened.
Beckham and Horn both looked at the dock connecting to the facility from the west. The USS Monterey had left the island, and the docks where its civilian passengers had perished were shiny from the rigorous spraying of chemicals.
A Marine waved Horn through the next gate, and he pulled up to the windowless facility. A white dome marked with the Medical Corps symbol rose above them.
Beckham stepped out on the pavement and gently touched Kate’s arm. She glanced up, blue eyes avoiding his for a moment.
“You and I both know there are monsters out there,” Beckham said. “You and Ellis are fighting them here in this lab, and our friends are fighting them halfway around the globe. My fight is here, protecting this island.”
“It’s not the same thing,” Kate said.
“We all fight in our own ways.”
Kate looked at her stomach and shook her head. “I just…I thought you were done fighting.”
“I can’t promise I’ll ever be done,” Beckham said. “You’re needed in the lab, an
d President Ringgold needs me to manage security here at the island. That’s the reality of our situation, Kate. We can’t just quit with the world falling apart around us.”
“Okay,” she said after a moment’s hesitation.
“Okay.”
She put her palms on his chest and leaned in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“We’ll pick you up in a couple of hours. Be careful.”
“Always am.” She moved away, but he pulled her back.
“Please don’t be mad at me. I love you, Kate.”
Her rigid posture relaxed and her eyes softened. “I love you too.”
She followed two Marine escorts toward the building but stopped and held up a hand before vanishing into the lab.
Fifteen minutes later Horn was speeding down a gravel road on the way to the island’s forward operating base near the cemetery overlooking the water. He parked the jeep in a gravel lot already filled with Humvees and pickup trucks. Neither of the men said a word when they saw the white crosses on the hill in the distance.
The ocean was rough tonight, whitecaps stained red by the setting sun. The Zumwalt was out there somewhere, waiting to strike. There was no telling where, when, or even if ROT would hit Plum Island, so Beckham had to prepare for every possible scenario.
He got out of the jeep and retrieved his gear from the back. It had been a few months since he had carried his rucksack. It felt heavier, or maybe it was all the muscle he had lost.
The two Delta Operators walked past the graves of the heroes lost in the war against the Variants in silence. They paused at one grave in particular to look down at the white marker.
Alex T. Riley
“The Kid”
Closing his eyes, Beckham sucked in a breath through his nostrils. He felt one of Horn’s massive hands on his back.
“If I had been there,” Beckham said, bowing his head.
“You have to let that guilt go, man. It will eat you up.”
Beckham dragged his sleeve across his face and nodded. “You’re right, Big Horn. Our job is to make sure we don’t have to keep digging graves.”
It was hard to believe he would never see most of his men again. He hadn’t even been able to bring their remains home. The only one they had buried from the original Team Ghost was Riley. He’d died not far from here, at the hands of the Bone Collector.
The Extinction Cycle (Book 6): Extinction Aftermath Page 19
