by Evans, Mike
Clare nodded. “Sorry about that.”
Phelps, now feeling the adrenaline pumping through him, snapped off, “Sorry about that? Sorry about that what?”
Clare now realized it was the perfect time to do the salute that he’d almost been pushed into skipping earlier. “Officer Phelps, sorry about that, sir; I didn’t mean anything by it, sir.”
Phelps heard laughing a few lockers away and made a line straight to its source. He was aggravated and thinking that the shit was going to be hitting the fan. He rounded the corner, where he found McClellan and Aslin lying down on opposite benches, stretched out, each with a lit cigarette in his mouth. Phelps, who was anti-smoking, especially after quitting for his fiftieth time, saw them laughing and decided that, yes, his blood was boiling. He came around the corner and slammed a locker door shut, making both of them fall off the benches then shooting straight up. Aslin’s eyes were cue balls and his hands were up, ready to kill. Phelps said, “You two think there is something funny going on here?”
McClellan hopped up too, never dropping his smoke from his mouth. He nodded his head and pointed around the corner. “We don’t mean anything by it, sir. We just figured it wouldn’t be long before that guy would get his first ass chewing from Officer Phelps.”
Phelps took a breath, staring at the cigarette smoke, knowing that his wife wouldn’t know if he had one. “Yeah, there’s a good chance that it won’t be his last either, if he doesn’t stop putting his nose where it doesn’t need to be.”
McClellan looked over at Aslin who was nodding his head. Aslin shook a smoke free from his pack and handed it to Phelps. “Sir, for the love of country, we both encourage you to please smoke this. We won't tell Julie; we promise. I still got that story if you want to read it.”
Phelps smiled. He knew his wife would give him a hard time if she smelled smoke on his fatigues. He slid it in his shirt pocket, figuring it might be something he would need later.
Phelps needed to find the last of his men to make sure he was ready to go. It was his job to make sure that, before any operation, everyone looked like they had their head on straight. Of course, they also had to give off the perception that they were ready to kill and keep a level head. He went to the last row of lockers and found Gowland sitting by himself with his locker door open. Even from a distance, Phelps could see that there was a shrine to his baby girl in there. He held a picture of her and pressed his lips to it with his eyes shut. He placed it back in its spot on the inside of the locker, made the sign of the cross, and kissed the cross that hung around his neck. Phelps walked up behind him and patted him on the back. “She’s getting big, Gowland. What are you feeding that kid?”
Gowland smiled, looking at her picture and nodding his head. “Steak and potatoes, sir, and whole milk. And of course, nothing but butter on everything she eats.”
Phelps plucked one of the pictures off of the locker and stared at the newborn. He smiled; if he needed a reason to go through the shit that he did everyday, maybe this precious baby girl was it. Gowland started to say something just as the lights inside the barracks began flashing red. He pressed his head against the locker, slid off his wedding ring, placed it inside, and shut the door.
The five men and Phelps assembled in the front of the building as the sun rose higher, heating up the day. A pair of military police waited outside the barracks with a Humvee ready to escort the group to the plane that would be their transport. The men loaded in, slamming the doors, each of them realizing they were about to face an enemy on their own soil. On top of that, they knew nothing more than when they had gotten the news that their leave had been cancelled.
They pulled up to the rear of the plane, which the two pilots had already started. The engines screamed, ready to roar down the tarmac. As the men walked on board, a general handed Phelps a package then extended a hand and shook Phelps’. It was the type of handshake someone gives another when the recipient’s fate is doomed. Phelps smiled and squeezed the man's hand short of breaking it and not caring. “Don’t count me and my boys out just yet, General Baker. We've been to hell and back before and we will do it again.”
The general gave him a smile full of pain and regretted the handshake. “Officer Phelps, I do hope you make it back. Someone has to go. You’ll see the details on the big screen once you get in the air. There isn’t any middle ground on this one, you either succeed or you fail, and failing is not an option.”
“Well, we’re SEALs, sir; we aren’t going to fail.”
Phelps looked up at his men who stood in a line across the entrance to the rear of the plane. He smiled as he looked at them and nodded his head, thinking that they probably had a better chance than people were giving them credit for. They wouldn’t have picked his team for the mission if there was someone else better for the job. Officer Phelps walked to the plane’s tailgate, stopped, and turned halfway to view the base.
Aslin and McClellan, being the smart asses of the group, yelled down, “Sir, modern day aviation is making some wonderful innovations, but there is little they can do about actually getting you onto the plane, sir.”
Phelps, having the rank to do so, lifted his right hand and extended his middle finger. He turned around and saw a group of men who were on the brink of laughter, knowing that if they looked worried, they wouldn’t be the perfect group to go. The officer shook his head in mock frustration and joined his team.
The men took their seats for preflight takeoff and waited patiently. The pilot came over the loud speakers, announcing, “Gentlemen, we will be departing shortly. Please make sure your trays are in the upright position and your seatbelts are fastened.” The men stared at each other, shaking their heads as they looked at the seats in front of them; there were no trays, of course. Aslin spoke up, “I bet we got Forsyth for a pilot. That guy is crazy, like freaking nuts.”
McClellan laughed. “Well, at least we're going to get there quickly. No need to wait for things like safety checks. They were either short on pilots, or he was the only one crazy enough to volunteer to make the flight after hearing where we’re going.”
Clary yelled from the back, “Well, it doesn’t take a crazy son of a bitch to fly over a hot zone and drop six guys into hell, right?”
Clare yelled over the sound of the engines firing up. “What do you mean dropping us into hell? You haven’t even gotten the mission orders yet.”
Clary laughed at the rookie. “Well, rook, I hate to tell you this, but those big packages on the end of the Humvee we passed weren’t diapers. Those are called parachutes son, and that means they're gonna drop that big bastard at ten thousand feet, along with the six lucky fucks who are going down with it.”
Clare rested his head on the seat, thinking of the images he’d saw earlier that day and decided it best that he keep his mouth shut unless he wanted to be thrown off the plane early by Phelps. He hadn’t heard too many stories about the man other than he was a war legend who always brought his men home, even when tasked with the impossible. Clare said a silent prayer to himself that he would be one of the ones who made it back.
Gowland looked over, noticing Clare’s distress and patted the kid on the shoulder. “Hey, man, they’re just screwing with you. Forsyth is a hell of a pilot, but he doesn’t worry about things like dying because, well… okay, so he might be a little crazy, but it works itself out in the end.”
Aslin overheard the conversation. While being one of the craziest men in the group, he was in no way ignorant. “I don’t think it has anything to do with being dropped off in the worst place imaginable, guys.”
Clary yelled back, “Yeah, then, what the hell is it, genius?”
Aslin sat up a little, looking at Clary and Clare. “Well, unless you gentlemen grew wings out of your asses, then there is a hell of a good chance that where ever we are being dropped off, we are also going to need to be picked up to get back home. I agree that the next time we set foot on solid ground, it will be with a parachute strapped to our backs.”
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Phelps, who had been listening to the men as they tossed around their thoughts, agreed with Aslin. Once the plane accelerated down the runway, he stared intently at the writing on the red envelope. Do not open until after takeoff. Top secret. He couldn’t stop running his weathered and scarred fingers over the tabs to pull and open. McClellan saw this and tapped Phelps on the arm. “You don’t usually look this nervous, sir; what’s up?”
Phelps didn’t say anything. As soon as the seatbelt light turned off, he joined the other men in hitting the release and rose to his feet. He was thinking dearly about that smoke in his pocket. With a deep breath, he ripped off the tab that sealed the red folder, discarding it on the floor. He pulled out a single USB thumb drive and stared at it. Clary held out a hand, walking forward and Phelps nodded, not wanting to deal with the tech shit if he didn’t have to. Clary took it to a monitor that was mounted to the wall, inserted it, and brought the machine to life typing on the keyboard below it.
McClellan watched in awe of how fast he was going. “Christ, man, slow it down a little. You got to warm her up before you try and slip it in—caress buddy, take your time. If this flight is so short that you need to move that quick, then I’m feeling worse and worse by the second.”
Clary laughed, pushing McClellan with his giant frame. “Like you have any room to talk about taking your time.”
McClellan looked offended. “Would you stop giving me shit about her? It was a bar shitter; there is no time for romance every time.”
The screen they were all pretending they didn’t care about came to life, showing a map of the United States of America. It was a real-time estimate of the outbreak and how the anaylstys at the goverment predicted that they thought it was going to spread. The men stopped laughing immediately and stared at it. Gowland got up, thinking of his daughter, glad that she was at her grandparents’ place with his wife in the country on the West Coast where they lived.
The screen went blank and turned to green as a message stating standby for a direct message from Washington, D.C. ran across the screen. A video feed from the war room where Lieutenant Colonel Fredrickson was commanding from came into view; he looked like he hadn’t slept since it all started. Because he hadn’t. He had a steaming mug of coffee in front of him and was down to a green Army-issued t-shirt and a pair of camo pants. He dropped his notes, glanced at his watch, and then looked up, seemingly doing math in his mind… as if the current time meant something very important. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and said, “Good afternoon, men. I wish that you weren’t being sent on this mission but resources are devoted to the Middle East right now, and the amount of soldiers on the ground in the US is drastically under numbered. That being said, I have no good news for you today. America is being lost and it is spreading with every single moment. Each minute that passes means precious lives lost.”
Phelps walked closer to the monitor, not sure where to look or speak. Clare pointed to the corner of the monitor. “Right there, sir.”
Phelps cleared his throat. “I heard this was in America before they shut down communications at our base. What is this, sir? What are we going in to do? How bad is it? I got family here; we all do, sir.”
Fredrickson was past his patience and sympathy point for the day. He yelled, “You don’t think I know that? You think that maybe someone else should have been picked for this mission, Officer Phelps? You and yours got something that makes you more special than the other million soldiers on the ground? And with half the resources a SEAL team has?”
The number of a million hit the men like a brick. They weren’t going in to try to stop something. They were taking the first steps of what would be a war that started overnight and caught America with its pants down. It wasn’t coming from the shores; it was coming from the center of America. Phelps sat down, as did the rest of the men. That was a heavy hit and the implication of that many people was too much to grasp at the moment. “What is our mission, sir? We will do whatever you need.”
A picture of Frank Fox came on screen. Fredrickson stayed in the background as voice only. “The man pictured is Frank Fox, retired Army biochemist.”
Clary leaned in towards Aslin. “Isn’t that how we want to start off a conversation. ‘The country is going to hell in a handbag. And by the way, it’s a bio threat.’”
Phelps whispered over his shoulder to Clary and Aslin, “Do you to feel confident about your parachuting skills?”
Both men nodded to Phelps, who continued, “How do you feel about them without a fucking parachute? Some of what this man is saying might be important. Do you think you could let him hold your goddamn attention for a fucking minute, please?”
They sat up straight, nodding. Phelps wasn’t the biggest joker of the group, but when he was taking something seriously, he sure as hell wanted the men under him to react and do the same.
Phelps looked back to the screen, which had gone momentarily quiet. He nodded his head that his men were back in full attention and it would not waiver again. Fredrickson continued, “This is Frank Fox. The original reports from the CDC claim that Karen Randall, who we are calling patient zero, had been checked in earlier that morning in a coma-like state. The hospital records and videotapes show Frank Fox arriving early in the morning and entering her room. Patient zero’s daughter, Ellie, and Fox’s son, Shaun, were in the room at the time. We can assume they were waiting for him. The video shows Fox leaving the hospital and then coming back a few hours later, looking frantic.
“We believe that sometime during that day, Frank Fox administered a drug to the woman, and she, in turn, infected the hospital staff.” The screen changed, showing security camera footage of people rushing into Karen’s room and shortly after being taken out on wheelchairs and stretchers. The men stared in disbelief, looking at one another. The footage changed to a slide showing the beaten hospital staff arriving in the emergency medical unit. The footage then jumped to a few hours later when all hell broke loose with an Indian man leading the front, jumping on top of a nurse and eating her. Phelps said, “Oh my. Please, God help us.”
Clary said, “I might not be a religious man but, good god, if that’s where we are going I sure as hell wouldn’t mind an assist from the man upstairs.”
Fredrickson switched the slide to Frank and Officer Lennon running across the parking lot of the hospital where the Turned were running rampant and wild. Clare, who couldn't help himself, whispered, “What the hell did he do to that lady to make this?”
The last slide showed Frank and Lennon in his unmarked police sedan peeling out of the parking lot and then heading west on the interstate toward Adel.
Phelps said, “Is that all that we got to worry about then, sir? I mean, do you know anything other than that?”
Without explanation, another slide came on showing a large E&T truck overturned on the interstate. “We believe that, for whatever reason, they had already created a large batch of this drug and was shipping it to their sister company in Chicago. There was a volleyball tournament that ended around the same time and, unfortunately, we believe this tanker to have been full. The spread, in part, we believe is because of the incubation period. Based on Karen Randall and when she arrived at the hospital, along with when Fox arrived, we think that there are a few hours between the time when the drug takes effect and when the change happens to these people. The large numbers of people who were in the traffic accident or held up because of it were exposed to the drug somehow—possibly in vapor form.”
The screen then showed a last reel of slides in order: Iowa, Nebraska, Minnesota, Missouri, Arkansas… all showing people on traffic camera footage either running wild in the streets for their lives or running to end one. When the footage showed the first person who was missing his insides up and walking around, most of the SEAL team made a sign of the cross, wondering how in the hell this feat would ever be pulled off.
Phelps asked, “So, sir, we are being dropped in Adel, not Des Moines where the outbreak actually happe
ned. Is that what you are saying?”
“Affirmative. In the folder, we have maps and directions to Fox’s home, Karen Randall’s home, and to E&T, where he worked and where we believe he would have done the majority of his work. We need this, men; we do not have a backup plan. You are our hope. You are carrying the future of America and her children on your shoulders.”
The men nodded, thinking of all the seemingly impossible missions they had been through together; they were probably easy compared to what they were going to encounter once their feet touched the ground. Phelps asked, “Sir, I don’t want to ask this, but how do we get back out?”
“You have to succeed, son. Pilots and planes are a commodity we do not have to waste, so give them a reason to land. Also, you'll need to get this information as soon as possible, as there just isn’t time. We have a fight in front of us, boys, and we need to cut it off at the knees if we can. We are already behind on this and will be starting from absolutely nowhere.”
Phelps stared at the frozen image on the screen of a woman whose torso had been completely eaten through, yet she was on her feet and running at speeds a track star would envy. “How would you like us to treat the natives, sir?”
“You can consider anyone you see as potentially infected. Aim to kill, son, do not waste time sorting people out. If they are running after you, make an executive decision.”
“Sir, if we encounter any healthy individuals, would you like us to try and rescue them?”
“Phelps, unless it is Frank Fox, no one leaves with you. This is not a rescue mission, and with the incubation period of the drugs, we won’t know if it is an infected you are bringing back or not. We are putting up perimeters for a reason. If we bring the sick back, what do you expect to do with them?”
