“Listen up, Ghost,” Fitz said.
Everyone in the back seat turned their attention to Fitz. Stevenson shifted to look at him but kept his hands on the wheel.
“I’m not going to lie. I don’t know exactly what we’ll face when we get down there. We all know that VX9H9 and Kryptonite wasn’t sprayed effectively over this area, so we should expect hostiles. The Ombres have gone dark, so we should also expect to do some searching when we get to Lisieux.”
“ETA ten minutes, Ghost,” the main pilot announced.
Fitz angled his rifle over a city polka-dotted with gaping craters. The steeple of a church had been sheared off. He leaned closer to the window to focus on what looked like an arm sticking out of the rubble. He raised his scope to confirm but saw only bones. The Variants had plucked it dry like a chicken wing.
He lowered his rifle. “Remember, our mission is to find the Ombres, collect intel, and return that intel to the FOB. Recon, not extraction. Got that?”
“They’re kids, right?” Rico asked. She pointed out the window. “How the hell did kids survive in this wasteland?”
“And we’re going to leave them behind?” Stevenson said.
Fitz didn’t have an easy answer. He didn’t like the idea of leaving anyone behind, especially not kids. “Our orders are clear: get intel and call in air-evac. But…if there’s room, we will personally get the Ombres to the FOB.”
He didn’t need to glance to the back troop hold to see there wasn’t much extra space, especially with the gear already back there.
“Kids are resilient,” Dohi said. “My ancestors survived many years hiding from the US Cavalry in the Dinétah. Many of them were on their own after the army slaughtered their parents.”
“Where’s Dinay-whatever? I thought you were from Arizona,” Stevenson said.
“Dinétah,” Dohi said. “It means homeland. Part of it is in Arizona.”
Stevenson looked in the rear view mirror, his brows crunched together like he had no idea what Dohi was talking about. But Fitz got it. There were uncomfortable similarities between the way the US government had eradicated the indigenous people of America and the way the Variants had swept over the globe. Fitz loved his country, but he wasn’t always proud of the things it had done. He gave Dohi a solemn nod to show he understood.
“ETA five minutes,” a pilot said over the open line.
“Once we set down, I want Dohi on the 240. Everyone else, you keep an eye on your zone of fire. No one fires a bullet until I give the order,” Fitz said.
He did a final inventory of his gear. The gas grenades they had used in Washington hung from his vest next to extra magazines of armor-piercing rounds. Meg’s hatchet was clipped onto his duty belt. He had his M4, M9, and trusty MK11 with him, but after the massacre on the beach he still felt unprepared.
“That’s Lisieux,” Rico said, pointing to another ruined city in the distance. “I always wanted to travel here, see the city and the basilica. It’s a damn shame the EUF bombed the shit out of it.”
They passed over the highway leading in to the town, drafts from the rotors kicking up tornadoes of ash around the charred hulks of vehicles. Buildings with moss-covered tiled roofs faced a ring road littered with debris. The structures still standing had been licked by flames that left a black residue like charcoal. At the north end of the plaza stood a lopsided building with a clock tower. The glass face of the clock was shattered, and the hour and minute hands had twisted like bent silverware.
“Delta 1, tell Black 1 and Black 2 to stay clear of rooftops,” Fitz said into his headset.
“Roger that.”
The King Stallion ascended higher into the sky, pulling the MATV with it. Fitz focused on the tiled roofs that were still intact below. Both Apaches were circling the outskirts of the city, scanning it for hostiles.
Half the zone was covered in a carpet of ash. The majority of the buildings in the center of the city were burned down to their frames, but the town square had mostly survived the devastation.
“Area looks clear,” reported a pilot from one of the Apaches.
“Black 1 sees a clear LZ near the target,” Delta 1 said.
“Copy,” Fitz replied. “Prepare for insertion, Ghost.”
He pulled a magazine from his vest and slammed it into his M4. Next he loaded his MK11 and finally his M9. Rico slapped a magazine into her rifle and then grabbed her sawed-off shotgun and pumped in the buckshot shells she’d used to kill a juvenile on the LCAC the night before. Two more clicks sounded from Tanaka charging his M4 and Stevenson palming a magazine into his SAW. A thump followed from Dohi loading a grenade into his M4 launcher. Apollo sat up, knowing damn well what was about to go down.
“Ready, boy? Just like old times.” Fitz strapped an armored vest around the dog’s back. In its pouches were extra magazines, medical supplies, and rations.
Apollo licked Fitz on his cheek as he leaned down. Fitz searched the dog’s amber eyes to see if he had any idea how far into enemy territory they were. Judging by his wagging tail, Apollo didn’t know, and that was fine with Fitz. He didn’t want his best friend to worry.
“Ghost 1, change of plans. Best spot for insertion looks like a courtyard about two blocks from the Basilica of St. Thérèse.”
“Copy,” Fitz said. He looked back at Dohi. “Up top, oorah?”
Dohi nodded and said, “Rah.”
He flipped the hatch open and climbed up into the turret. Wind rushed into the vehicle. Rico and Tanaka angled their weapons at their windows, and Stevenson bent low over the steering wheel, ready to start driving the MATV for real.
Across the city, the two Apaches continued to search the outskirts for hostiles. The King Stallion flew low over a street blocked with destroyed vehicles and an old overturned wagon. Fitz raised his MK11 to scope the massive church rising in the distance. Unlike the broken steeple he had seen earlier, the bell tower was still standing.
“How’s it looking up there, Dohi?” Fitz asked, craning his neck.
“All clear so far.”
Fitz loosened his seatbelt and twisted for a better view. The street was a couple hundred feet below, racing by so fast it made his guts tighten. He pivoted back to the windshield as Black 1 approached the Basilica of St. Thérèse. Set on top of a hill at the edge of the city, the white stone structure looked almost like a fortress. It was a beautiful cathedral, even with nothing but ruins all around it. The building stood tall and proud, overlooking the town of Lisieux. A wide path led from a roadway through overgrown gardens and up to the entrance. Small towers jutted from the rooftop, matching the steepled tops of the evergreens that grew along both flanks of the building.
“Hot damn,” Rico said. “It’s even more gorgeous than in pictures.”
“My grandpa told me about this place,” Stevenson said. “That church survived World War Two.”
“And now World War Three,” Tanaka said.
“Stay focused,” Fitz said. “We can discuss history when we get back to the FOB.”
Despite his own orders, he couldn’t stop looking at the basilica. Extravagant, brash, and intriguing—the church was one of the most impressive buildings Fitz had ever seen. Seventy years after the Nazis bombed it, it was still standing, but not without damage. Now that they were closer, he could see that the war with the Variants had left its mark. The grounds were pockmarked with black craters. Jagged pieces of stained glass surrounded boarded-up windows. The stone pillars framing the entrance were cracked and crumbling in places, and the two towers flanking the vestry were blown away completely.
The chopper pulled the MATV closer, giving Team Ghost a better view. Burned vines climbed the side of the building like dead, shriveled veins. Against all odds, the basilica had survived whatever battle had occurred here.
But where were the Ombres?
Nothing stirred in the wastel
and below, and the only sign he saw of people was the occasional skeleton stretched out on the grounds. The Variants never left anything more behind.
“Take us over the gardens,” Fitz said. He wanted a better look before they dropped down there.
The Apache flew toward the back end of the church.
“Does anyone have eyes?” Fitz asked.
“I don’t see shit,” Stevenson said. “Looks like a ghost town to me.”
“Same,” Rico added.
“Nothing up here,” Dohi replied.
Fitz adjusted his sunglasses and moved back to his window to watch the Apache vanish behind the bell tower of the basilica. It hovered there for a moment, rotors whipping through the air out of view.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
The sound caught them all off guard. Fitz raised his rifle at the bell tower. It chimed, over and over.
“Is someone doing that?” Rico asked.
Stevenson ducked down for a better look. “Can’t be.”
The scouting Apache suddenly jerked to the right. The entire nose, including the windshield, was covered by what looked like a wrinkled plastic bag.
“The bell is a warning signal!” Fitz shouted. He zoomed in with his MK11.
“Bandit at three o’clock!” Dohi called from above.
The church bell chimed again, the noise echoing over the burned-out city.
“I can’t see!” shouted Black 1.
Fitz attempted to follow the Apache in his scope as it banked hard to the right. His crosshairs centered on something that took his breath away. A Reaver had wrapped its wings around the cockpit, blinding the pilots.
“Black 1, watch out!” Delta 1 said over the comms.
The weight of the monster pulled the Apache toward the ground. The beast flapped away at the last moment, giving the pilots only a second to react. They pulled up and narrowly cleared a building adjacent to the church, but the rotors clipped one of the towers, sending the Apache whirling out of control.
“Bandits to the north!” Dohi shouted.
Shadows peeled away from burned buildings as Black 1 crashed to the ground. The nose slammed into the cobblestone street, breaking the ancient bricks like a bulldozer busting through concrete. The chopper skidded to a halt without catching fire. Fitz expected an explosion, but there was only smoke rising from the ruined metal. Dozens of Reavers took to the sky, flapping toward the other Apache.
Motion in the center of the city commanded Fitz’s attention. All at once, adult Variants squeezed out of sewer openings and bolted from ruined buildings. They galloped toward the downed chopper.
“Open fire, open fire!” Fitz roared, his heart rising to his throat. The time to fight had come at last.
-12-
President Jan Ringgold walked through the gardens outside the new White House, her hands clasped behind her back. She was sick to her stomach over the events of the past three days. She laced her fingers together too tightly, pain racing up her right arm. The bullet that Lieutenant Brett, the monstrous first victim of this war, had fired into her shoulder still stung from time to time. She didn’t mind the pain; it was a reminder of the evil that had reshaped the world.
Now that evil was back. It might have a new name and wear a new face, but the motivations behind it were still the same. Power. Vengeance. How many more lives would be lost because of these ROT terrorists?
Ringgold felt paralyzed by the same darkness she had felt when she was hiding at the bunker in Raven Rock. She refused to let that darkness consume her. Instead, she paused by a rose bush and bent down to inhale the sweet scent of the blossoms. Perhaps stopping to smell the roses was a cliché, but it served as another necessary reminder.
There is goodness and beauty in the world. There is hope. That’s why you have to keep fighting.
She looked up from the flowers to find her National Security Advisor, Ben Nelson, standing before her, dressed impeccably as always. Ringgold wondered where he managed to find his vast assortment of colorful ties. Today’s was the same bright red as the roses. Chief of Staff James Soprano rounded a hedge of bushes a moment later, sweat dripping down his bald head. He flattened his gut as he approached and stood up straighter.
“Madame President,” Nelson said.
Soprano, out of breath, joined them. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”
“Is it?” Ringgold asked. She unclasped her hands and looked at the men in turn. Though she had personally vetted them, she didn’t fully trust them. There was no doubting their intelligence; both men were brilliant. But in a way that only made them more dangerous. They hadn’t risked their lives for anyone. They hadn’t taken bullets or killed like she had. Maybe it was a lot to expect, but that was the type of loyalty she was looking for. Until then, she would remain on her guard.
“We have an update, ma’am,” Nelson said. “We’ve reached out to all of the SZTs to warn them of the threat from ROT. We’ve also increased security and diverted several Marine brigades from city-clearing duty to protect the uncompromised SZTs.”
“That’s good,” Ringgold replied. She crossed her arms. Then Nelson’s words hit home.
“Wait, did you say ‘uncompromised’?”
“Yes, Madame President. There’s bad news, too,” Soprano added. He dragged a handkerchief across his forehead. “SZT 61 has declared sovereignty.”
Ringgold’s eyes shot up. “New Orleans has…seceded?”
Nelson chimed in. “We knew it was coming, ma’am. SZT 14 is on the fence. SZT 33 and 49 are threatening the same thing.”
Ringgold cursed under her breath. Those last two safe zone territories were in Texas. Their mayors were congressmen who had served on the opposite side of the aisle from Ringgold. But old-school politics was supposed to be a thing of the past. The war against the Variants and their offspring had brought politicians together and created allies out of old enemies.
At least, that’s what she’d thought.
Marine One flew overhead, distracting her for a moment. Vice President Johnson was back from a meeting at SZT 45, just fifty miles east of the new White House. A sniper stood in his crow’s nest on the roof and flung his rifle over his back to climb down the ladder. Another man took his place for the change in shift. Everywhere she looked there were snipers and Marine sentries. Secret Service agents patrolled the gardens. There were hundreds of men and women here to protect her, but she still would have traded them all for Beckham and Horn.
The whoosh of the helicopter waned, and Ringgold directed her gaze back to her chief of staff. “What else?”
Soprano hesitated like he was afraid to tell her. He hooked a finger under his collar and said, “It’s the Zumwalt, ma’am. It has disappeared off radar. By the time we got ships within range, she was gone. The GW is on the run, too. We’re tracking her toward Louisiana.”
“I understand it has stealth capabilities, but how does a ship the size of the Zumwalt go missing?
Soprano looked to Nelson.
“Well?” Ringgold asked, waiting.
“It was built to disappear, Madame President,” Soprano said.
“Do we not have aircraft that can search for it?” Ringgold asked. “I still don’t understand how a ship can go missing in broad daylight.”
Nelson took over. “There are hundreds if not thousands of derelict ships in the ocean right now. Finding the Zumwalt without radar is like finding a needle in a haystack. Besides, I wouldn’t advise testing Lieutenant Wood. He said no aircraft within striking distance. We simply can’t risk it.”
“Yes, I heard him. But you’re telling me the Zumwalt, which is armed with some of the most advanced weaponry left in the world, is gone. And we have no idea where it went. I’m sure you can understand why I’m not happy.”
The execution video of Admiral Humphrey replayed in Ringgold’s mind. Wood and his men were animals, and no
w they had the weapons to inflict damage on an unfathomable scale.
“Let me make one thing clear,” Ringgold said. “We cannot fight this war on two fronts. If we are forced to split our resources between the Variants and these terrorists, we will not prevail.”
“Vice President Johnson should know more now that he’s back,” Soprano said. “He should be here in a few minutes.”
Nelson grabbed his satellite phone. “If you don’t mind, I need to make a call. I have one scheduled with Mayor Walker of Plum Island.”
“Good. Tell him I want to talk to Captain Beckham,” Ringgold said. She unfolded her arms and pointed at the phone when Nelson hesitated.
“Now,” she ordered.
“Yes, ma’am,” Nelson replied. He stepped to the side, punched in a number, and tapped his foot on the ground.
Footfalls pounded the brick walkway of the garden a moment later, and a team of Marines and Secret Service agents rounded the corner with Vice President Johnson in tow. He walked with his head down, reading a document in a buff folder.
“Should be just a few minutes,” Nelson said, taking his ear away from the phone.
Ringgold nodded and hurried to meet Johnson. “Hello, George,” she said.
Johnson glanced up from his folder, his forehead a line of creases. His eyes were flinty, like they had been the first time Ringgold had met him, back when the enemy was mostly just mutated monsters. She’d never thought to look back on those days with fond nostalgia.
“Madame President,” he said with a nod. “I’m assuming you already got the bad news about the Zumwalt and the GW?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “Why does every briefing have to be bad?”
He closed his folder and sighed. “Because we’re still at war.”
The sobering words made Ringgold let out her own sigh.
“ROT is more organized than we thought,” Johnson continued. “I’ve already sent Special Ops teams in for recon at their known facilities, but I’m almost positive we won’t find anything there. They are likely operating out of the Zumwalt now. According to Commander Davis, they also have a considerable number of men on board the GW. She’s tracking the vessel now.”
Extinction Aftermath (Extinction Cycle Book 6) Page 17
