Riley fidgeted with the bandanna. The kid was still new and he was probably nervous as all hell.
Beckham didn’t blame him. Shit, he was nervous too. He considered telling Riley that everything would be fine, that the mission was just a routine recovery, but that would be a lie. Beckham had never lied to his men and wasn’t about to start now.
Stiffening his back, he locked eyes with Tenor, his co-lead. “We’re gonna get in, grab the sample, and get out.” Turning to Riley, he said, “And hopefully we will have some leave left when this is all over.”
Riley let out his infamous and reassuring chuckle. It reminded Beckham of the time Riley had climbed onstage at the Bing and danced in his underwear, which had actually been closer to a thong. At least they had the kid to lighten up the mood when it grew dark.
“So do you guys want to tell me what the hell is going on?” Ellis asked. He squirmed under his harness and looked toward Beckham.
The other men grew quiet, and the noise from the V-22’s motors reclaimed the troop hold. They would let Beckham respond.
Closing his eyes, he took in a short, silent breath and rested his helmet on the metal wall behind him. Need-to-know info only, Beckham thought as he blinked and stared at the bank of LEDs above.
“You’re on a reclamation mission, Doctor. Target is a sample of experimental work that the Medical Corps was doing at a secret location.”
“What kind of sample?”
“Classified,” Beckham replied.
“That’s just great,” Ellis huffed, settling back into his seat.
Satisfied with his cryptic answer, Beckham closed his eyes again. With any luck he would snag a nap before they landed. And if he was really lucky, he wouldn’t dream of any hemorrhaging Ebola patients—or worse, of the monster that Lieutenant Brett had transformed into.
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The Wastelanders Page 55
