Distant voices called out to Beckham. The hospital room faded into darkness. He struggled to move, listening to the faint sounds.
Where were they coming from?
His body was a prison, suspended halfway inside a dream and halfway in reality.
“Beckham!”
The voice was louder now. Closer.
There were other noises in the background, the whoosh of helicopter blades and grinding of metal. And there was light—slivers of crimson soaking through the darkness.
He finally awoke and peeled back an eyelid to see Riley staring down at him. The younger man fidgeted with Beckham's respirator, and he sucked in a long, full breath.
“You’re going to be okay, sir,” Riley said.
“I told you not to call me that,” Beckham choked, still trying to draw in all the air he could.
“I know.” The younger operator rapped Beckham’s faceplate with a finger, good to go, and then hoisted himself onto the seat next to Horn.
Beckham slowly pushed himself off the metal floor and took in several quick, shallow breaths. The smell of plastic returned. Within seconds the colors swimming across his vision vanished.
And then he remembered.
Tenor, Spinoza, Edwards. They were all dead, and so were the two Med Corps officers.
The revelation paralyzed Beckham with an agonizing surge of regret. His body went numb as he remembered. The rubbery scent of his helmet was replaced by the cold metallic taste of his own blood. He’d bitten down hard on his lip and could feel a gash from where a tooth had sunk into the fragile flesh.
The pain was nothing compared to what he felt inside. Were his men really dead? Beckham couldn’t bear the guilt and sorrow he felt. He’d served with Tenor, Spinoza, and Edwards for close to a decade. He couldn’t even imagine how many thousands of hours they’d spent training or how many deployments and battles they’d weathered together. It had all ended in a few minutes of horrifying madness.
A promise Beckham had made to each and every man on his team years ago boomed in his mind: “If you follow orders, I’ll get you through this. I will get you home to your families.”
Beckham shook his head, the memory haunting him. He took another deep breath and stared blankly out the window, the view nothing but a blur of hazy morning light.
Static crackled in his earpiece, snapping him momentarily from his daze. The familiar sound of Chief Wright’s voice came online. “Master Sergeant Beckham, what the hell happened down there?” The crew chief's frantic voice no longer sounded friendly. His tone had changed; his words were systematic. When Beckham didn’t respond, Chief Wright said, “I need a SITREP. HQ requests confirmation of the sample.”
How was he supposed to respond? Would anyone even believe him if he told them what really happened? That Medford’s staff had transformed into monsters? That the doctor had been infected with a virus he had likely designed himself?
“Goddammit, Beckham,” Chief Wright said. His voice indicated he had lost every ounce of patience. He wanted an answer and wouldn’t stop pressing Beckham until he got one.
But Beckham still did not respond. He peered over at Horn, who sat hunched over, his helmet between his knees. He looked like a plastic statue under the faint overhead lights.
“Sir,” Riley said over their private channel. “Do you want me to report?”
“No,” Beckham said. He raised his hand to wipe off his faceplate and realized his hands were shaking.
Craning his neck, Beckham looked toward Chief Wright and very sternly said, “Negative on the sample.” He paused to consider his next words. He had abandoned the mission to save his men, but he reminded himself if he hadn’t, then no one would have been around to even give a damn SITREP.
Exhaling into his comm, Beckham said, “Tell them I hope those F-22s destroyed everything because whatever we saw down there can’t be allowed to see the light of day.”
Chief Wright didn’t immediately answer. The chopper pulled to the right and a mass of white clouds filled the skyline. Below an infinite sea of sand stretched across the stark landscape.
“You can tell them yourself,” Chief Wright finally replied. “We’re landing in New Mexico in thirty minutes. Prepare for decon.”
“Decon?” Riley asked.
Horn’s helmet shot up. “You didn’t think they were just going to send us back to Fort Bragg, did you?”
“We'll have to go through decontamination procedures,” Beckham said. He double-tapped his comm so only Riley and Horn could hear his next message. “They're going to grill us. Ask us every detail of the mission. Don’t try to protect me, guys,” he said coldly. “I broke protocol. I abandoned the mission when I saw what we were dealing with.”
“And you were fucking right to do so,” Horn said. “Brass'll see that. They'll understand what happened.” He began to speak more rapidly. “They can’t—”
“They can do whatever they want,” Beckham interjected. He looked at Horn. The operator was snorting like a raging bull. “Don’t you fucking lose it when we land,” Beckham warned. “I need you to stay focused. Remember your family, Big Horn.”
Horn punched the side of the chopper wall and looked at the floor. Beside him, Riley fidgeted nervously. “That motherfucker Caster held a gun to your head!” he announced. “Don’t worry, sir, we have your back.”
Beckham shook his head. Neither of them understood. Colonel Gibson would place the blame on Beckham’s shoulders and his alone. The loss of life, the failure to retrieve the sample—it would all be pinned on him.
“That sample is better off destroyed,” another voice said. At first, Beckham didn’t recognize it, but then he saw Ellis looking over at them from the corner of the compartment. His faceplate was covered with specks of gore. Sitting there stiffly in his blood-soaked CRBN suit, Ellis looked like a robot that had just gone on a killing spree.
“Thanks for getting me out of there,” Ellis said, bowing his head.
“Prepare for landing,” the pilot said over the main channel.
Beckham gave Ellis a nod and then turned to look out the window. He squinted and saw a glimpse of a landing strip at the edge of the sand dunes. The view was partially obscured by a few unruly rays of sunlight peeking through the clouds, but there was no mistaking the three long white structures on the tarmac. The portable biohazard facilities were already prepped and ready for their arrival. Constructed side by side, a center passage connected all three. Near their entrances, he could vaguely make out several square boxes that he assumed were HVAC and negative pressure isolation units.
They were state-of-the-art portable domes with controlled environments, designed to deal with the most severe Level 4 contagions. The view reminded him of the potential for infection, but as the chopper began to descend Beckham wasn’t worried about that or even a court martial. All he could think about were the charred bodies of his men back at Building 8.
Tires squealed across the tarmac the moment their Blackhawk landed. Beckham watched a pair of Humvees screech to a halt a hundred yards away. Both vehicles had gunners in CBRN suits up top, one equipped with a TOW launcher and one with a .50 cal. They leveled their weapons at the chopper.
Beckham instinctively swung the bay door open, flinching as the weapons greeted him.
“We aren’t infected!” he yelled.
“Don’t move, Sergeant!” the man on the right yelled. His voice, muffled by the breathing apparatus, made him seem less human and more like a cold, calculating machine. Beckham wasn’t used to being on the other end of a gun, not a friendly one at least, and the sound of the soldier’s stifled voice reminded him just how fast the tide could change.
“You will be given a set of directions shortly. We have orders to fire if you or your team fails to comply,” the man in the other turret said.
Beckham watched the soldier grip the .50 even tighter.
“We aren’t infected!” Ellis said, joining Beckham in the doorway. “I want to talk to someone from
the CDC!”
“Stay put, sir!” the right gunner repeated.
Beckham pushed the doctor back into the chopper.
The door to one of the Humvees swung open. Three men wearing white biohazard suits stepped onto the tarmac, each with the insignia of USAMRIID. They were trained to deal with the most infectious diseases in the world. And it showed. Their faces were emotionless behind their visors, devoid of worry or fear.
That’s all about to change, Beckham thought, waiting for further instructions.
The men approached the chopper cautiously. One of them stepped out in front and said, “My name is Doctor Blake. I’m with USAMRIID. This is Doctor Fry,” he said, gesturing to the man on the left. “And this is Doctor Ibsen,” he said, systematically pointing to the other man with a stiff arm. He paused for a second and then dropped his hands to his sides in a very non-threatening manner. He continued in the same mechanical and systematic tone.
“I’m going to give you a set of very detailed instructions. Please follow them exactly. We will escort the members of Delta Force Ghost and Dr. Ellis to the decon facilities first. Crew chief Ted Wright and pilot John Bush will go last. Nod if you understand.”
Beckham responded with a quick nod.
“Okay. Good. First, I’d like Delta Force Team Ghost and Dr. Ellis to step out on the concrete. Leave your weapons inside the Blackhawk. Then take five steps away from the helicopter, forming a line side by side.”
“This is bullshit,” Horn said over their private channel.
Beckham kept still but said, “Just follow their orders.”
They dropped their guns on the floor and climbed out of the chopper one by one. Then they paced five steps forward and stood shoulder to shoulder as instructed.
Blake kept his hands at his sides but took two very mechanical steps toward the men, leaving only about fifty yards between them. Then he said, “Starting with the man on the left, I want you to answer the following question with a clear nod of your head if your answer is yes. If the answer is no, simply shake your head.” He waited a moment and then continued, “Do you have any of the following symptoms: Headache, fever, nausea, itching, or abdominal pain? Again, if the answer is yes to any of these symptoms, then simply nod. If it is no then shake your head.”
One by one the four men shook their heads.
“That’s good. Okay. Next I need to know if any of you have experienced tears in your suits. If you know your suit has been compromised please tell us now.”
Riley, Horn, and Beckham shook their heads, but Ellis hesitated. He looked down at his arm.
“Well, I,” he stuttered. “I don’t know. I can’t tell with all of this blood.” He began wiping the dark red gore off his suit with his gloves.
“Doctor Ellis, please don’t do that,” Blake said quickly. His voice was sterner than before, but still calm.
Beckham watched out of the corner of his eye as the .50 gunner trained his heavy weapon on Ellis. Beckham kept his gaze ahead, fixated on the group of doctors. His heart raced, the massacre inside Building 8 replaying over and over in his mind. He couldn’t compartmentalize it.
“Yes or no,” Blake entreated.
Ellis shook his head and slowly lowered his hands to his sides.
“Okay, good. Next, you will all follow Doctor Fry to Decon Facility 1.” He twisted his head in the same methodical manner and pointed a stiff arm at the first white dome about five hundred yards away. “Walk single file. No sudden movements.”
“Let’s go,” Doctor Fry said.
Beckham led what was left of his team and Dr. Ellis down the black concrete in silence. He thought about using the private channel but opted against it. There was no telling what USAMRIID would do if they thought someone in Ghost was infected, and he knew from firsthand experience what a .50 caliber round could do to human flesh.
When they arrived outside the first plastic dome, a soldier in a full biohazard suit approached them with an M4. He kept the barrel aimed at the concrete, which helped Beckham relax a bit.
Doctor Fry punched a code into the keypad and waited for the door to buzz. “There are three compartments inside. A dirty room where an assistant will help clean your suit and respirator. A decon shower where you will be sprayed down with chemicals to further kill anything missed in the first area, and finally a shower where you can get cleaned up and change into new clothes. Then you will be directed to the next dome for a debriefing. Please proceed one by…”
The sound of shouting caught the doctor off guard. He paused to see what was happening just as a sudden explosion boomed through the afternoon. An orange glow reflected off Fry’s faceplate, and Beckham caught a glimpse of the Blackhawk disappear in an enormous fireball.
Resisting the urge to remain still, Beckham twisted to see one of the TOW gunners still aiming the launcher at the burning remains of the chopper. Huddling behind the safety of the Humvee were Doctors Blake and Ibsen. But where were Chief Wright and the pilot?
Beckham scanned the wreckage and stopped on two flaming lumps about five feet away from the chopper. He flinched as pieces of charred metal pinged off the concrete next to one of his boots.
It only took a moment for him to realize what had happened. Either Chief Wright or the pilot must have answered yes to one of Doctor Blake’s questions, and one of the gunners had been a bit too trigger happy. Beckham could tell by the look on Fry’s face that things weren’t supposed to go down like that.
“Shit,” Fry muttered, shaking his head. He looked away from the smoking wreckage and scanned Beckham and his men. “Let’s go,” he said, gesturing inside the dome.
-7-
Kate tapped her finger on the conference room table, staring at the wall-sized HD television screen. The display augmented the features of CDC Deputy Director of Infectious Diseases, Jed Frank. He was middle aged with an intelligent and plain face. Deep grooves lined his forehead above arched brows. Kate had only met the man a handful of times but didn’t remember him looking so old, or so worried.
No, she decided after scrutinizing him further. There was fear in his glazed eyes. She recognized it immediately. She’d seen the same look in Africa when she’d encountered scientists who’d come face to face with a Level 4 contagion. Ebola, Marburg, Yellow Fever, Bacterial Meningitis; they all had the same effect on even veteran doctors—transforming men and women into terrified shells of their former selves.
“Good afternoon, Doctors Allen and Lovato,” Frank said, regarding them both with a nod. He brought a Styrofoam cup of coffee to his lips but did not take a drink. Instead, he looked down at it like it was poison and set it aside. Without further delay, he said, “As you’ve already heard, we have a reported case of Ebola in Chicago. I’ve deployed Doctors Lucas and Roberts into the field. They are on their way to the Windy City as we speak. I’ve canceled my speaking engagement here in Los Angeles, and I’m boarding the first flight back to Atlanta.”
Michael ignored the formalities and asked the most obvious question first. “Is it contained?”
“In short, yes. But …”
Kate felt like chewing her fingernails, an old habit she had developed as a kid. She waited anxiously for Frank to gather his thoughts. He was the freaking Deputy Director of the CDC! Was it really that bad in Chicago?
“It’s been difficult to get an accurate report on the situation. I just got off the phone a few minutes ago with the Director of Northwestern Memorial Hospital, but what he described doesn’t make any sense.” Frank shook his head. “There are three victims total. Two male Homeland Security Officers and a male passenger. We haven’t been able to confirm what flight the man got off of yet.”
“What? That should be the first thing you do, so you can quarantine the other passengers,” Kate blurted.
Frank licked his lips. “I know that, Doctor. But this passenger didn’t have any identification. The man wasn’t even wearing a shirt.”
Kate knew right away what the signs meant. The man was likely burning
up from a fever and had removed his clothes in order to cool down.
“What about video feed? There are cameras all over O’Hare,” Michael said.
“Local law enforcement is checking them now. So far the man appears to have emerged out of nowhere.”
“If this man has Ebola, then surely a flight attendant or pilot would have confirmed they had a very sick passenger,” Kate said.
“And we have no such reports,” Frank replied.
Michael cleared his throat. “So we have no idea where this man came from?”
“We’re working on it,” Frank said. “Listen,” he continued. “We’re following every protocol in the book, but none of this makes any sense. We’re in unprecedented territory.”
Kate couldn’t sit still. She had so many questions, and she knew they weren’t going to get anywhere with Frank. To make things even worse, she was worried about Javier. His apartment was so close to the airport.
She resisted the urge to ask to take the first flight to Chicago, knowing Michael would never allow it, especially with Ellis in the field. She finally bit down on one of her fingernails.
Frank looked at his phone again. “Hold on,” he said, palming the air in front of the camera.
“This is Doctor Frank,” he said in the background.
Kate listened intently in an attempt to hear the conversation.
“Excellent, email the video over ASAP,” Frank said. He reemerged and faked a smile. “Good news. Dr. Roberts is on the ground and is emailing footage of the incident between the passenger and the two Homeland Security officers. Give me a second and I will forward it to you, Michael.”
Kate stood and walked over to retrieve his laptop. She returned a moment later, setting it in the middle of the mahogany conference table.
“Okay, sending now,” Frank said.
Michael typed in his password and brought up his inbox. Seconds later the email came through. He clicked on the link and repositioned the screen so Kate could see.
Extinction Horizon (The Extinction Cycle Book 1) Page 9
