Extinction Shadow

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  “Look at page five of your briefing folder,” Lemke said.

  Beckham flipped to recent poll numbers.

  “The tide has changed.” Ringgold began tapping her foot unconsciously. “Citizens are blaming us for what’s happening at the outposts.”

  She stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “I know what you might be thinking, but you’re not a political pawn. You are a patriot, and your country needs you and your wife again.”

  “And we will serve until our last breaths,” Beckham said.

  “I know,” Ringgold said with a kind smile. “We better get out there.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Lemke said.

  Beckham hesitated before following the president and vice president back to the lobby, his mind racing. By the time he joined them, James Soprano and Elizabeth Cortez had arrived.

  “Ready?” Cortez asked cheerfully.

  “Always,” Ringgold said with a smile.

  Soprano handed the President her speech, and they set off with a team of Secret Service agents. They moved in a cordon around the POTUS and VPOTUS as soon as they were outside, joining more agents posted on the sidewalk.

  Brick and stone buildings framed the historic street where they would give their speech and ask these people for their support. Beckham spotted snipers posted on rooftops and knew there were even more he couldn’t see behind darkened windows.

  The military was also here, with an entire Marine platoon on this block alone. Security was tight, and everyone that had come to see the two speak had gone through metal detectors.

  But there were other ways in and more weapons than guns.

  He fiddled with the buttons on his suit, cursed under his breath, and told himself to relax as he followed the leaders of the country.

  Talking in front of people scared him more than facing a Variant. Coupled with his nerves about threats in the crowd, he was practically sweating bullets.

  Elizabeth Cortez took the stage first, heading to the podium that sported the New America Coalition logo. She tapped the microphone. Static broke from the speakers.

  The crowd quieted.

  “Good afternoon, and thank you for coming out today,” Cortez said. “President Jan Ringgold and Vice President Dan Lemke are here to talk about everything the administration has achieved and hopes to achieve with another four years of the New America Coalition.”

  Beckham sensed the tension in the woman’s normally peppy voice. He didn’t blame her. Only about half of the crowd responded positively with claps and applause.

  Cortez smiled after a pause and said, “But you didn’t come here to see me, so without further ado, I’m honored to present President Jan Ringgold.”

  Beckham clapped and was relieved that most everyone joined in. He watched the President walk up to the stage and step up to the podium.

  “Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for taking the time to be a part of our movement,” Ringgold said. She set her speech out on the podium and looked over the crowd.

  “Today, I’m outlining a vision for our future. A vision that builds on our history of achievements and victories. A vision that includes all of you,” she said. “I know many of you are scared. You’ve heard about the recent attacks, and you might be wondering how can I stand up here and talk about achievements during these trying times.”

  “Damn right!” someone shouted.

  Ringgold recognized the man with a nod. “I understand being scared and being mad. I have done everything in my power to protect our country and will continue to do so in the face of evil.”

  Another man yelled out in the distance. “You failed us!”

  The crowd broke out in a storm of voices.

  Ringgold waited for them to quiet down.

  “Please,” she urged. “Give me a few minutes of your time and, when I finish, I will stick around to personally answer your questions.”

  The citizens seemed to calm down, and she continued after a brief pause.

  “The Variant threat is still out there. We believe they are planning something, but at this point I don’t believe in destroying our cities and killing the people living there or killing the people the Variants have captured.”

  “Nuke the cities!” someone yelled.

  Another shouted. “We have to do it!”

  “No, we don’t,” Ringgold said. “In a few moments, we’re going to introduce you to someone that will explain why we don’t and why doing so will cause far more harm than good.”

  Beckham knew she was looking in his direction, but he was looking at two men dressed in dark brown jackets. One had a scruffy beard, and the other had a face marred by a long scar. Their emotionless features stood out to him.

  Neither of them seemed to be reacting to Ringgold’s speech in a positive or negative manner. Their faces remained stern even when others exploded in enthusiastic cheers or angry jeers.

  Beckham relocated down the sidewalk for a better look, keeping his hand low, near the Sig Sauer he had holstered under his suit jacket. For the next few minutes, he drowned out Ringgold’s speech and focused his senses on the crowd.

  Vice President Lemke joined President Ringgold on stage, wearing a dimpled smile.

  The two onlookers still remained stern faced.

  Beckham moved again and was able to see they wore muddy boots and pants with rips in the side. Suspicious, but not all that much different than what a lot of people were wearing.

  Lemke went into his speech, talking about his new proposals to spur the safe zone economies and reignite global trade, but Beckham was hardly listening.

  He started off into the crowd, carefully maneuvering around families that had come out to see the President and Vice President. Several people holding New America Coalition signs moved and blocked his view of the two suspicious men.

  Beckham made his way around the campaign signs and then paused just as the two men spotted him. The one with the beard jerked his chin to the other, and they promptly turned and began their way out.

  The crowd cheered at Lemke’s speech as Beckham moved faster. By the time he got to the sidewalk across the street, the two men were practically jogging.

  “I promise our brave men and women will identify and destroy this new Variant threat!” Lemke said to the roar of the crowd.

  Beckham flagged down two Secret Service agents and pointed at the two men. Using his radio, one of the agents called in reinforcements to stop the men before they could escape.

  The crowd quieted behind them.

  “Now I’d like to introduce you to another brave man that has fought for our country against overwhelming odds since day one of the Variant threat,” Lemke said.

  Beckham paused as two Secret Service agents and a pair of Marines rounded a corner at the end of the block and told the two fleeing men to stop.

  The bearded guy reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a plastic canister the size of a water bottle. The other guy took off running.

  “Drop it!” shouted a soldier, aiming his rifle.

  The other soldier pursued the runner with a Secret Service agent around the next corner. People at the rear of the crowd turned to look, but Lemke was still speaking, his voice booming. Most of the people at the front and middle still hadn’t noticed what was happening.

  “It’s my honor to present Medal of Honor recipient Captain Reed Beckham,” he said. “Please join me in welcoming this hero today!”

  Beckham took off in the opposite direction of the stage.

  “Captain Reed Beckham!” Lemke said again.

  Murmurs flowed through the crowd, but Beckham wasn’t listening. He watched in horror as the bearded man tossed the contents of his canister at the soldier. Fluid hit him in the face and he cried out in agony, dropping to his knees. Gunshots followed as the Secret Service agent took down the assailant with multiple rounds.

  Beckham drew his weapon.

  Screams rang out in all directions, and Beckham glanced over his shoulder
as the President and Vice President were whisked off the stage by security.

  Seeing they were safe, he continued toward the violence, navigating through the crowd until he reached the downed soldier. The man twitched on his back, his sizzling features erased by Variant acid.

  Next to him, the body of the collaborator lay in a pool of blood, his eyes roving. They flitted to Beckham as he approached.

  The dying man gasped for his last breaths through black teeth.

  “Adios, Reed,” he said.

  Then he was gone, his eyes rolling up and his chest flattening.

  — 16 —

  The C-27J Spartan shook as the plane entered another patch of rough turbulence. Fitz held onto the cable above his head, bracing himself. The sounds of groaning and flexing metal resonated through the cabin along with the throaty drone of the engines.

  Fitz looked around at the rest of Team Ghost as they finished putting on the rub that would hopefully mask their scent from the Variants.

  Mendez closed his eyes. His lips moved in silent prayer. Dohi’s jaw was set and expression stern, almost as if he were a marble statue. Rico popped another bubble, and Ace and Lincoln checked their weapons.

  Fitz could feel the electricity of tension in the air. Soon they would be jumping out of the back of the Spartan 17,000 feet above Minneapolis in the dead of night. The mission would leave them alone for several days and nights behind enemy territory.

  This wasn’t Fitz’s first rodeo, but he couldn’t help but feel this mission was more dangerous and different than all the others.

  “Five minutes until drop,” the crew chief reported, standing near the rear door. A tether hooked to his harness kept him attached to a metal loop on the bulkhead.

  “Alright, y’all,” Fitz said, looking at each member seated around him. “Call signs are the usual. I’m Ghost 1 and Alpha team leader with Ace and Lincoln. They’re Ghost 4 and 5. Ace is our designated R2TD operator. Rico, you’re Ghost 2 and Bravo leader with Dohi and Mendez. They’re 6 and 3, respectively.”

  The team responded with a chorus of grunts and nods.

  “This is a HALO jump,” Fitz continued. “So we won’t be pulling chutes until three thousand feet. There’s no telling what’s down there. Stealth will be key to avoiding detection. Keep your wits about you and stay low.”

  He looked at Rico with those last words, and she nodded, giving him a wink. Just enough to let him know she understood what had gone unspoken between them: Be careful.

  The aircraft bucked again.

  “If we encounter civilians, we mark their location and move on,” Fitz said. “Our goal is to extract intel, not people.”

  “What if we find a shit ton?” Lincoln questioned with raised brows.

  “You mark it, dummy,” Ace responded.

  “Pendejo,” Mendez said. Fitz had since learned that roughly translated to dumbass or idiot. He’d had about enough of Ace and Mendez’s bantering.

  “Cut the shit already!” Fitz snapped.

  “He’s right,” Rico said. “You guys need to quit the jokes and focus.”

  Fitz waited a moment before continuing. Now that he had their full attention, he said, “Our DZ is a softball field. Rally point is a hundred yards east, place called Bohemian Flats park. If you land outside the DZ, head straight to the rally point.”

  The team nodded in response.

  “Our two main targets are the University of Minnesota and downtown Minneapolis,” he added. “Satellite imagery confirms some recent Variant activity in both locations, so maintain radio silence on the surface unless it’s an absolute emergency.”

  “Approaching target!” the crew chief said. “Oxygen on!”

  Rico spit out her gum into her palm and slapped it on her helmet. She hesitated before putting her oxygen mask on to look at Fitz. “Stay safe, Fitzie!” she said.

  “I love you,” Fitz mouthed in reply.

  Her dimples widened. “I love you, too.”

  “Cute shit!” Ace yelled.

  Rico rolled her eyes and strapped her oxygen mask over her face. Fitz did the same thing and secured his visor.

  “Door open!” the crew chief said, as he hit the mechanism to open the rear door.

  Air blasted in, wind slamming the team. Fitz could barely hear anything over the roar filling the troop hold.

  With a hand signal, the crew chief gestured for them to approach the rear door. Fitz waddled toward him. The weight of all his gear for this multi-day mission and the heavy MC-5 parachute strapped to his back dragged him down. Ace had it the worst with the R2TD system over the front of his chest plus his shotgun and suppressed M4A1.

  Dohi was first in line with his fingers wrapped tightly around the harnesses strapped over his chest. The crew chief held his arm bent at the elbow and then made a chopping motion.

  Go time, Fitz thought.

  Dohi stepped out first and immediately disappeared in the blackness. Next went Ace, then Lincoln. Rico followed with Mendez, leaving just Fitz on the platform. He paused there briefly.

  Beneath the scattered clouds lay a carpet of black. No lights punctuated the city. No fires. No signs of life at all. Even with the assistance of his night vision goggles, he saw only dark except for the blinking strobes of his team’s IR tags far below.

  The crew chief motioned for Fitz to drop and he moved over the edge into freefall. For the first few moments, he felt nothing but the weight of his pack and gear. Then the wind took him: pulling, tugging, and slamming his body like an angry ghost.

  He fought back, battling the forces lashing his body until he brought his arms tight against his sides. Maneuvering into a nosedive he rocketed toward terminal velocity.

  The adrenaline chugging through his body seemed to lessen, and instinct took over. This was the part of jumps he could normally enjoy. The feeling of weightlessness and freedom.

  But there was no joy to be found in a dive like this knowing what they were headed toward tonight.

  Craning his visor, he saw the last two blinking IR tags showing Rico and Lincoln catching up to him. The Spartan continued onward, abandoning them to gravity and the Variants.

  The IR tags below started to coalesce, just as they were trained. After another couple thousand feet, Fitz made it over to Dohi, Ace, and Lincoln, who were already into stable arch positions to slow their fall.

  Not long after, Rico and Mendez found them, breaking out of their nosedives and into arch position, too. For now, the team moved into formation, bodies spread out, arms and legs bent enough to guide them through the air.

  If all went well and the stars aligned, the Variants would never know they were even here.

  Fitz shifted his wrist enough to see his altimeter watch. Just a few thousand more feet to go before they deployed their chutes. The Navigation Aid (NAVAID) showed they were still on target.

  Low opening free-falls like this were not forgiving when it came to mistakes and, once they hit an altitude of three-thousand feet, there was precious little time between deploying their chutes and landing without busting their bones, especially with the weight of all their equipment.

  Fitz watched the numbers shoot down on his watch. They were seconds from deployment.

  He motioned for the team to spread back out. The team gracefully fanned apart, giving each other ample room to deploy their chutes without tangling their lines or colliding.

  When Fitz was comfortable with their distance, he reached up and yanked on his cord. His chute exploded open behind him, pulling hard on his body. The harnesses tightened around his shoulders like a giant hand from the back.

  The dark chutes of the other Team Ghost members bloomed around him one by one.

  All except for Mendez. His chute came out like a snake, twisting around wildly. Somewhere, somehow, something had gotten tangled just enough that the chute couldn’t fully deploy.

  Mendez whipped around like he was trapped in a cyclone.

  Fitz adjusted his chute, positioning himself closer to Me
ndez’s position. But the other soldier was being pulled away wildly.

  “Can’t get control!” Mendez yelled over their channel.

  “Cut to reserve!” Fitz shouted back.

  Mendez reached to release his chute but thanks to the malfunction of his first chute, he’d been tossed far from the landing site showing on Fitz’s NAVAID.

  An enemy world of whites and greens came into view. The concrete jungle rose up to meet their boots, growing nearer by the second. Fitz was close enough to see highways littered with charred vehicles, and skeletal buildings blown to pieces from the failed Operation Liberty.

  Fitz’s heart climbed into his throat. If Mendez’s reserve chute didn’t pull soon, he would end up smeared across the concrete.

  “Deploy!” Fitz cried.

  The reserve chute shot out of Mendez’s pack in the distance. He was far from the Mississippi River now, pushed off course and headed past the snaking 35 West interstate toward downtown.

  Fitz breathed a sigh of relief.

  But his relief was short lived.

  “Mother of Jesus!” Mendez said. “I’ve got hostiles across my LZ!”

  Fitz glanced at the NAVAID. The rest of the team was still on their way to the DZ near Bohemian Flats. They would land in the open fields and make their way to the park on the river, giving them plenty of open space to cut loose and leave their chutes.

  But Mendez was headed right in the middle of the urban hell.

  The ground was approaching quickly, and there was no way for Fitz to make up enough distance now to reunite with Mendez.

  “Ghost 3, I want you to get as close as you can to Gold Medal Park. It’s a mile west of our DZ,” Fitz said. “Post up there if the streets aren’t safe.”

  “Copy,” Mendez said.

  His chute disappeared behind a screen of buildings framing the highway.

  The tattered grass of the old softball fields spread before Fitz. He eyed the landing zone and prepared to do a two-stage flare. Seconds later, his blades hit the ground and he ran out the momentum, all the while looking for movement in the field.

  His chute floated down behind him as he ran forward and slowed. Coming to a stop, he quickly shed his harness and chute.