Looking over the field, a distant memory of a brick house and woman entered his thoughts. He quickly pushed them away. There was only one thing that he wanted now. Only one thing he desired…
To kill.
47 Years Later
March 3rd, 2015
WHO Field Hospital
Guinea, Africa
Doctor Chad Roberts popped a stimulant into his mouth and swallowed without the aid of any water. He was exhausted from traveling. In less than twenty-four hours, he’d left his office at the Centers for Disease Control headquarters in Atlanta, crossed the Atlantic Ocean, and landed in Conakry, Guinea. From there a chopper had taken him to a World Health Organization field hospital on the outskirts of a remote village twenty miles west of the city of Dabola. The region, while isolated, had a population of approximately 114,000.
During his flights he’d slogged through the reports of the new and deadly Ebola strain. Preliminary notes revealed the microbreak was severe. The virus was killing faster than ever before, and he suspected it had mutated. The mere thought had prevented him from sleeping as he traveled. Chad had arrived with deep bags under his eyes and a headache that made it difficult to think.
Sucking in a long, deep breath, he slipped on his biohazard space suit. The white walls of the portable biohazard facility closed in around him as he pulled on his helmet. The narrow view from his visor always made everything seem smaller, but he also felt safe—secure, even. Many scientists described feeling claustrophobic in the suits, but not Chad. The suit gave him the reassurance he needed to face the world’s most lethal biological agents.
After hastily moving through the laundry list of protocols, Chad pulled back a plastic screen and moved into the next room where Doctor Debra Jones from the WHO waited. She tapped her boot against the floor and glanced up with a scowl when she saw him.
“We’re late,” she said. “The rest of the team is already at the village.”
“Sorry,” Chad replied. “I have a hell of an awful headache.”
“I presume it will get much worse when you arrive in the hot zone,” Debra said coldly.
Chad’s gut sank at the statement. This wasn’t his first time in the field, but he’d never seen the effects of Ebola in person. He swallowed hard as they stepped into the blinding sunlight. The humidity instantly fogged Chad’s visor as they left the cool interior of the biohazard facility. The door sealed behind them with a metallic click.
They moved briskly across a dirt path the color of clay. A Toyota pickup truck waited a hundred yards away, the aged muffler coughing smoke into the sky. Chad set his equipment on the tan bed of the truck and hoisted himself up. He spun and offered a hand to Debra. She took it reluctantly and without uttering a single word. They settled onto the metal bed with their backs against the cab as a slender African man closed the lift gate behind them.
Squinting, Chad looked up at the ruthless midday sun. He’d been outside for only two minutes, but he was already suffocating within his suit. Salty drops of perspiration cascaded down his forehead.
It was going to be a brutally long day.
Typically they would have traveled in the morning to beat the midday heat, but a problem with his equipment back at the airport had caused a delay. Now they were heading out in the hottest period of the day.
The African man smacked the side of the truck, and the driver hit the gas. The Toyota lurched forward and pulled onto a brown frontage road leading away from the cluster of dome-shaped biohazard facilities. Chad stared in awe, realizing how foreign they looked against the lush green landscape. The locals probably thought the white buildings were some sort of alien spaceships.
“How long until we get there?” Chad shouted.
Debra held up three fingers as she watched a herd of gazelle dash across the plains. A cloud of dust followed them over a ridgeline.
The Faranah Region of Guinea was a beautiful place. Thick forests claimed the landscape. The mixture of browns and greens formed a warm collage of colors. But somewhere inside the dense trees, there was an ancient evil.
Chad focused on the plentiful tree line and wondered where the Ebola virus was hiding. They still didn’t know what the reservoir was. Mother Nature had harbored versions of the virus for millions of years, but it wasn’t until the twentieth century that scientists had actually identified the Ebola strain.
Ebola wasn’t the only virus Africa was hiding. The continent was a cesspool for some of the nastiest Level 4 contagions that Mother Nature had cooked up. Chad thought of Africa kind of like a modern day Jurassic Park without the dinosaurs. The world here was prehistoric.
The truck suddenly swerved to the right; dirt exploded from under the back tires and sent a cloud of dust into the sky. Chad flailed his arms and grabbed the side of the pickup. His head bounced up and down as the driver pulled the Toyota to the side of the road. Branches and twigs snapped under the weight of the truck’s oversized tires. When the dust cleared, Chad saw the tree barriers crossing the frontage road they had just come from.
“The locals did that!” Debra yelled. “They’ve done it for decades to stop the spread of infection.”
Chad nodded and tightened his grip on the side of the truck. He’d heard of villages isolating themselves in the past to prevent the spread of deadly viruses. It was probably one reason Ebola rarely showed up in major population centers. People tended to die at home with their loved ones.
Several minutes later, the truck pulled back onto the main road. Glancing through the glass of the cab window, Chad saw they were approaching their location—a small village where the outbreak had started.
Debra had been deployed here a week ago with the first team from WHO. Chad had read her most recent report. The population of the village was ninety-four. Over half of those residents had already been infected, with half of the infected already dead. Preliminary statistics pointed at a new strain, but Chad wasn’t so sure. Not yet.
He bit the inside of his lip as the driver eased the brakes and pulled the truck to a stop about a hundred yards from two WHO doctors wearing biohazard suits.
The local driver jumped onto the dirt and walked around the truck to let Debra and Chad out of the back.
“Thanks,” Chad muttered. He followed Debra to the other doctors, a short man named Howard Lacey and his taller colleague, Bill Fischer. After brief introductions the two men led them toward the village at a brisk and urgent pace.
The buildings were mostly simple mud huts with straw roofs built from the clay-rich dirt. A few of the nicer houses were made of scrap metal with tin roofs.
Chad listened to the annoying buzz echoing through the afternoon. The sound was not from an air-conditioner; it was from the flies and other bugs that dominated the area. A heat shimmer flickered in the distance, a reminder of the hell they had entered.
Howard paused outside one of the huts. Behind his visor Chad could see an intelligent set of eyes. This was a man used to working in extreme places. For him, this was just another day in the office—but for Chad, it was much more than that. He was getting his Ebola cherry popped, losing his v-card to yet another Level 4 virus.
“We have two infected patients inside. Both are in the late stages of the virus. They may or may not respond to your presence. Please make your observations, take your sample, and leave them as quickly as possible,” Howard said grimly.
Chad nodded. His job was simple. Get a sample for the CDC, take his field notes, and observe. He wasn’t there to provide medical support to any of the victims. He was there to see if this was a new strain and bring back a sample so the CDC could get started on a cure.
Ducking inside the building, he blinked rapidly. The single room hut was dimly lit by a few rays of sunlight bleeding through the wooden shades covering the only window. It took a few minutes for his eyes to focus, but when they did, he instantly saw a man and his wife curled up on straw beds in the center of the room. Blood and sweat-soaked blankets lay on the dusty floor next to them. The
ir skin was covered with blotches, bruises, and a thin layer of bloody sweat.
Flies buzzed over their skin, but both the man and his wife were too weak to shoo them away. Their glazed, detached eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.
The sound of muffled breathing reminded Chad that Debra was with him. He moved to the right and then inched closer to the man’s bedside. Placing a small box of supplies on the ground, he paused to scan the patient. Blood oozed from every visible orifice on the man’s body. It trickled from his bloodshot eyes, nose, ears, and even his nipples. There was no mistaking it. This man had Ebola. What strain of Ebola was the real question.
Blinking, Chad tried his best to remain calm. The sight was worse than he’d ever imagined. There was just so much blood. He looked to the man’s wife. She too was hemorrhaging. Both victims were bleeding out as they lay helplessly in the scorching hot hell. The bugs hummed inside the dark room like little engines, waiting to feed.
Chad remembered Howard’s orders and felt Debra looming over him. Reaching inside his case, he pulled out a syringe and cautiously took hold of the man’s limp right arm. He looked for a vein and found one hidden under a rash covering most of his forearm. Clenching his teeth, Chad inserted the needle and quickly removed a sample of blood.
The man suddenly twisted his head and narrowed in on Chad’s visor. Gasping for air, he choked out one word in broken English.
“Ha-llllp.”
Chad froze, his stomach climbing into his throat. His heart kicked violently as he gripped the syringe.
A strong hand on his shoulder snapped Chad’s gaze away from the dying man.
“Let’s go,” Debra said.
Chad nodded and placed the sample inside his secure box, closing the lid with a click. Rising to his feet, he glanced down one more time at the man. His infected, bloodshot eyes followed Chad for a second and then rolled back up into his head.
“I’m sorry,” Chad whispered as he rushed out into the blinding sunlight.
-1-
Present Day
April 18th, 2015
DAY 1
The six-man team emerged onto the tarmac at dusk. The shadows they cast reflected men that moved with calculated precision. They passed under the idle blades of Blackhawk helicopters and crossed between the crates of supplies waiting to be shipped to hot spots around the world.
Any onlooker with even limited military knowledge would know the silhouettes did not belong to the average grunt. Their body armor was thinner and their muscles were sculpted in a way that reflected constant training and exercise. Further scrutiny would reveal that these men did not carry standard-issue weapons. There were no M4s or M249s amongst this group.
But no matter how well-trained the eye of an onlooker might have been, no one would have known the shadows belonged to the Delta Force Operator Team codenamed Ghost. Because technically, they did not exist—technically, they were ghosts that were activated only when the most critical situations emerged.
Today was one of those days.
It was April, but Master Sergeant Reed Beckham hardly noticed the budding trees and vibrant colors around him. He was still trying to figure out why Command had cancelled leave after a six-month tour of Afghanistan. He was supposed to be at a bar in Key West with his buddies, pounding beers and taking afternoon naps under the brilliant white sun. Instead of boarding a charter flight to the Keys, he found himself following his men into the belly of a V-22 Osprey at Fort Bragg.
When Colonel Clinton had told him the team would receive a full briefing on a flight to Edwards Air Force Base, Beckham hadn’t been concerned. That wasn’t unusual. On most missions they were briefed on the fly before dropping into a hot zone. This was a source of great pride amongst his men.
Drop. Take out target. Repeat.
They had the process down like a well-oiled machine. That machine never broke. The Delta Force Operators on Team Ghost were so well-trained they could prep for whatever bullshit the world had to throw at them in just minutes.
But that bullshit typically didn’t involve what Clinton had said next, that Beckham was to escort a CDC doctor to Edwards AFB, where they would rendezvous with two officers from the Medical Corps. From there they would receive more orders.
Beckham was team lead for a strike team composed of six men. They weren’t in the business of escorting doctors. They weren’t babysitters. They were operators that snuck in and out of places and took care of business the old-fashioned way. He led the type of missions the good old US of A loved to watch on the big screen.
Only Beckham wasn’t Chuck Norris, and his men weren’t actors. His men were composed of flesh, bone, and blood. When they were shot, they bled real blood. They didn’t get a second chance. He’d promised his team he would do everything in his power to keep them alive from day one—that he would die before they did. For the average person, it was a promise that couldn’t be kept. But for Beckham, it was sacred. It meant everything to him. He wore the phantom badge into every mission, right above the picture of his mom.
Patting his vest pocket, he stared into the troop hold and watched his men board. Each and every one of them was capable of completing a mission single-handedly, and they were all responsible for making the same life or death decisions Beckham did. But he was their leader. He’d never lost a man under his command. Everyone on Team Ghost had come home in one piece. They’d been shot, stabbed, and hit with shrapnel, but they’d always survived. He’d felt every one of their injuries like they were his own. Their pain was his pain.
The training bible had taught him that his men always came second to the mission, but in Beckham’s book, the men surrounding him were just as important. His first squad leader had said, “My mission, my men, myself.” Beckham had rearranged the order a bit.
This mission was no different, and the facts surrounding it gave him an uneasy feeling as he grabbed a handhold and climbed into the Osprey.
“Welcome aboard. I’m Chief Wright,” came a voice from inside the dimly lit space. Beckham focused on a stocky crew chief standing with his hands on his hips. “Holy shit,” the crewman muttered.
He took a moment to give Ghost Alpha and Bravo the reverse elevator eyes look: starting with their black helmets and then scanning their clear shooting glasses, headsets, tan fatigues, vests stuffed with extra magazines, body armor, and finally their boots. Then he moved to their customized weapons, stopping on Beckham’s own MP5 submachine gun.
The crew chief twisted his mouth to the side. “Damn, you all look like you’re about to drop into a war zone.”
“We just came from one,” Beckham replied. He wasn’t exactly in the mood for small talk. He was exhausted and had been looking forward to some R&R. On top of that, he was anxious to get moving. The sooner he knew what was going on, the sooner he could plan for the dangers and, ultimately, victory.
The chief’s features darkened. He narrowed his eyes and in a stern voice said, “We're still waiting for the CDC doctor.”
Beckham took a seat across from Sergeant Tenor. This was Tenor's first mission at the helm of a strike team. He was a solid leader and quick thinker—the perfect pick to lead Bravo. Beckham scrutinized the man discreetly in the dimly lit section of the Osprey. The younger Delta operator held his helmet in his hand and cleaned the interior with a cloth. A pre-combat ritual. He didn’t give off any impressions of being nervous. His stern face was landlocked by a solid jaw and topped with a strip of hair perfectly groomed into a Mohawk. He flashed Beckham a confident smirk as if he knew he was being sized up. That was Tenor's way of saying he was ready to go.
The other men wore the same confident looks, but Beckham scanned each one of them to ensure none had shown up with a hangover. He started with Staff Sergeant Carlos “Panda” Spinoza, the team’s demolitions expert. The thick man had a booming voice and the whitest teeth Beckham had ever seen. But he rarely smiled or spoke. Battle had hardened him years ago.
To his right sat Staff Sergeant Horn, the star coll
ege football player from Texas. He’d earned the name Big Horn at Texas Tech, where he’d crushed the school’s sack record. He was a staggering six feet two with a thick skull topped with strawberry blonde hair. Delta had made an exception by allowing him on the team. With a tumultuous background, history of a broken home, and arms covered in ink, Horn wasn’t the model recruit, but Beckham had vetted the man himself. He’d read his file. He knew how Horn worked under pressure when his life and those of his men were threatened. His valor in the early days of Operation Iraqi Freedom had earned him three Purple Hearts and a Bronze Star. Beckham knew instantly he wanted the man on Team Ghost, and he had never regretted the decision for a minute. Horn was one of the most talented operators he’d ever worked with.
Horn wasn’t the only one. All of the operators were talented. Each of them had scored ninety-five percent accuracy or better in shooting tests at a thousand yards. They’d all survived the grueling endurance tests that would have left other men dead. They were the best of the best. Beckham’s team was America’s first line of defense that no one knew existed. Unseen and unheard, they were truly ghosts. He could count on every single one of them when the shit hit the fan.
A flash of movement from the tarmac distracted Beckham before he could examine the youngest members of his team, Staff Sergeant Riley and Sergeant Edwards. Standing, Beckham watched a short man with an enthusiastic stride and slicked-back hair climb inside the compartment with the aid of a stern-looking African-American MP. The soldier had the eyes of a hawk. Beckham stifled a snort. He knew the type. They took their jobs very seriously—sometimes too seriously.
Holding out his hand Beckham said, “Welcome, doctor...”
“Ellis. Dr. Pat Ellis,” the man said, shaking Beckham's hand vigorously and turning to the rest of the team with a smile. “Most people just call me, uh, Ellis.”
Extinction Horizon (The Extinction Cycle Book 1) Page 2
