Extinction Cycle Dark Age (Book 2): Extinction Inferno

by Smith, Nicholas Sansbury

  “I’m Colonel Presley,” the officer said. “Honored to have you at Outpost Manchester, Captain. Last time I saw you was during Operation Liberty.”

  Beckham paused for a moment, not remembering the man at all.

  “Sorry, sir, but you were in New York?”

  “Yes, Captain, I was one of the few that made it out before the bombing began. I’ll never forget you staying behind.”

  More painful memories surfaced, but Beckham pushed them aside.

  He shook the colonel’s hand. “Looks like you learned from the mistakes we made since. You’ve done a great job securing this place, sir.”

  “We’ve certainly done our best,” Presley said. He gestured for Beckham to follow him through the open front doors. The click of boots from officers and staff down the tiled floor echoed through the hallway.

  Presley led them to a stairwell that took them to a second floor of open space. The bookshelves had all been removed, replaced with tables and storage for equipment along with a few cots.

  Another stairwell took them to a hall of offices. Presley’s was the last one on the left. Two men in black fatigues stood guard outside. They looked oddly familiar, but Beckham couldn’t figure out where he had seen them before. Neither wore a Raven badge or an Orca badge, making it difficult for Beckham to guess where their allegiance lay.

  He walked through the open door of the office. A man sat in a chair in front of his desk, holding a cowboy hat. He turned to reveal a bushy-mustached face and grinned.

  “Ah, Captain Beckham, we meet again,” the man said in a southern drawl, standing.

  Beckham recognized S.M. Fischer, the oil tycoon he had met at the White House. The men in the hallway must be his bodyguards.

  “You’re a long way from Texas,” Beckham said.

  “A lot has changed since we last met,” he said. “Fischer Fields’ operations have expanded more than I expected.”

  Presley gestured to the two chairs in front of his desk. Beckham took a seat and Fischer sat back in his, placing his ten-gallon hat on a crossed leg.

  “When I was told you were coming here, I kept thinking about how small the world really is,” Fischer said. “But then I realized it’s not as small as we think.”

  “How do you mean?” Beckham asked.

  “We were just talking about Team Ghost,” Fischer said.

  Presley leaned forward on his desk.

  “You must already know that Ghost is headed to California to locate equipment from Project Rolling Stone,” he said.

  “Our world is expanding even as our country is shrinking,” Fischer explained. “It’s been a long time since anyone dared venture west again.”

  “The trek will be worth it,” Presley said. “Mr. Fischer and his men are going to set that equipment up once it’s retrieved to help protect outposts and refugees while buying time for SOCOM to mount an offensive.”

  Fischer gave a short briefing on Project Rolling Stone and how the SDS equipment would locate Variant tunnels that the military could then destroy before the beasts surfaced. This, he argued, would protect the base from all underground attacks.

  It sounded great, but none of that addressed a key problem.

  “Those machines won’t do shit against attacks like the one I lived through last night,” Beckham said. “The collaborators aren’t just using the Variants now. They’re using bats, rigged with explosives. God only knows what they’ll roll out next.”

  “We’re well aware, and we’re preparing for aerial attacks,” Presley said.

  “With flamethrowers?” Beckham asked.

  Presley stood and walked to the window, hands behind his back as he scanned the rooftops for a few seconds.

  “You can’t see the other defenses, but the flamethrowers are just part of our overall strategy,” he said, returning to his desk. “You might have seen the snipers from the street earlier. We also have scouts with FLIR MilSight T90 thermal scopes to watch for anything in the air miles out. Not only will we know if bats or other airborne threats are coming, we have M134 Miniguns on the rooftops to eliminate them before they get close.”

  Beckham hadn’t seen all of those defenses on his way in, and if someone of his experience hadn’t seen them, it was a good sign. The Variants and collaborators wouldn’t see them either.

  “Part of what makes this place easy to defend is the terrain,” Presley said. “We have bedrock called granodiorite not too far below the topsoil. That has prevented the Variants from tunneling deep into the safe zone.”

  “Outpost Manchester is situated with a river on one side, and a lake on the other,” Fischer added.

  “The beasts aren’t tunneling under the water or through the rock, I promise you that,” Presley said.

  “All due respect, I already know that,” Beckham said. “It’s not just the monsters I’m worried about getting in, sir.”

  “You’re worried about collaborators?”

  “Worried?” Beckham with a snort. “Sir, I’m more than worried after what I’ve seen in the past few weeks. We might have an underground network of collaborators working to destroy the Allied States. For all we know, we could have a mole or an entire network of moles in our midst, and I’m afraid we’ve just seen the tip of the iceberg when it comes to these lunatics.”

  Presley opened his mouth to speak but Beckham kept going.

  “They have attacked our outposts, tried to kill President Ringgold and Vice President Lemke, and are working with the monsters in a way I don’t think anyone has fully realized yet,” Beckham added. “So yeah, I’m damn worried about the collaborators.”

  “We don’t have any collaborator problems here. Trust me.” Presley stood again. “I want you to see something.”

  He got up and motioned for Fischer and Beckham to follow him out of the office.

  “Stay here,” Fischer instructed his guards. Tran and Chase remained outside the office while Presley took Beckham and Fischer down the hall to a stairwell that led to the rooftop.

  Snipers and soldiers manned positions across the vantage point.

  Presley went to a wall that overlooked a parking lot lined with black M-ATVs and other armored vehicles.

  “We have a dozen hunter killer teams like that one strategically located across the outpost. They’ll respond to any collaborator attack, and while you can’t see it, we also have two Apache helicopters and some damn fine pilots,” Presley said. “If the collaborators do try some shit here, they will find themselves up against some of the best trained and best equipped soldiers the Allied States has left.”

  The group crossed the roof to a railing overlooking a lake in the distance.

  “We have mines in the water and on the shores,” Presley said. “If the Variants or collaborators make it through that, then they have thousands of rounds of ammunition in their way before they can get close to our fences.”

  “This is all to buy us time,” Fischer said. “Once Team Ghost finds that equipment, we’ll expand our borders, bringing in more refugees to protect while General Souza will be free to go after whoever or whatever is behind this.”

  Beckham took in the sights, impressed.

  “You run a tight ship here, sir,” he said. “But if the monsters and collaborators find out what Team Ghost dropped off to the science team, we can expect more than some rogue attacks.”

  “We’re ready for a full-scale assault,” Presley said.

  “I appreciate you taking the time to show me,” Beckham said. “But how do you know you don’t have a problem with collaborators that might have already infiltrated Manchester?”

  “We’ve gone to great lengths to ensure that isn’t possible,” Presley said. “Besides, if we did, don’t you think we would have had an attack by now?”

  Beckham raised a brow. In war, sometimes silence wasn’t a good thing. Sometimes it meant the enemy was scheming, like the Variants and their human allies had done for the past eight years.

  “Captain, you aren’t a guest here
. You’re a partner,” Presley said. “If you have anything else on your mind, just let me know. I’ll be as transparent as possible.”

  Beckham smiled kindly at that. He liked this man already, and not just because he reminded him of Lieutenant Colonel Jensen. Presley was truly an intelligent leader.

  “You mentioned scouts earlier. Do you have any outside the walls right now?” Beckham asked.

  “Drones in the sky and my best men on the ground at all times,” Presley replied.

  “Good, that’s the one thing we really failed at back in Portland, but resources were also a lot tighter.” Beckham stepped to the side of the rooftop. “If the Variants do come, we need plenty of warning to get people into shelters.”

  “Agreed,” Presley said. “I’ll see if we can widen our scouts’ range.”

  Beckham nodded again. For the first time in weeks, he felt like his family was relatively safe. Even with the mastermind here.

  “If you’ll accept a compliment from a company grade officer, this is good work, sir,” Beckham said. Presley clapped him on the shoulder and smiled.

  “Anything else, Captain?”

  Beckham glanced at his watch. It was already late afternoon. “If you’d excuse me, sir, I’d like to go see how my wife and the science team are doing.”

  “Let me know if there is anything we can do for your family while you’re here,” Presley said.

  “Likewise, sir,” Beckham said. “I’m here to help.”

  He gave a nod to Fischer, but Fischer followed him away from the railing.

  “Mind if I join you, Captain?” Fischer asked. “I want another look at that ugly bastard.”

  Beckham didn’t really want company, but he also didn’t want to disrespect a person so crucial to the war effort.

  “Sure,” he replied.

  They went to the street and walked to the lab building, accompanied by the two guards that Fischer had brought with them, Tran and Chase. Neither of the men spoke other than to say hello to Beckham. They scanned the streets and people for threats, clearly taking their job protecting Fischer very seriously.

  “Your family is here?” Fischer asked.

  “Yes, we decided to bring them along. I worry less when they’re close, and President Ringgold assured me this is one of the safest outposts.”

  Fischer put on his cowboy hat. “General Cornelius did a good job making Outpost Galveston pretty damn secure, too. I was there not long ago.”

  “That’s good to hear, and especially since he’s working with President Ringgold, even though he’s retired—”

  “He’s not retired. General Cornelius is doing more to save the Allied States than you might know.”

  “I’m aware of his commitments—”

  “I need to be honest with you,” Fischer interrupted again. “A war hero like you probably has a better perspective on this than me, but I was always taught to back the best horse in a race, and that is, without a doubt, the general.”

  Beckham halted and faced Fischer. The two guards moved away to give them some space.

  “The only race right now is the one for survival, Mr. Fischer,” Beckham said. “I’m not interested in talking politics or who to support now that the election is on hold. I’m interested in saving our country, so that maybe someday we can have that conversation.”

  “Fair enough, but I urge you to make some time to talk with General Cornelius. Your talents might be better spent keeping a closer dialogue going with him than you’d expect.”

  “I work for the president.”

  “Of course. I mean no disrespect.”

  Beckham kept walking, slightly frustrated. Fischer kept up and his guards closed back in around them. The sound of diesel engines provided a welcome distraction to the awkward silence that passed between them on the rest of the journey to the lab.

  People walking on the street moved to the side as a convoy of armored vehicles turned down the road and raced past Beckham and Fischer. Soldiers gripped machine guns in the turrets of Humvees.

  Beckham looked toward where they were heading, and a dark pit formed in his stomach. The first Humvee had already stopped right in front of the lab, and soldiers had piled out.

  Tran and Chase both cradled their rifles, looking around, clearly nervous by the commotion. They weren’t the only ones caught off guard.

  The security Beckham felt slipped away at the sight of a strike team speeding to the location where his wife was working.

  It reminded him that the biggest threat from an enemy wasn’t always from the outside; sometimes it came from within.

  — 17 —

  Team Ghost had slept on the C-130H flight to Palo Alto, California, refueling their energy reserves after their successful mission to New Orleans. Eight hours ago, Dohi and the team had changed aircraft at an FOB in Alabama.

  Now Dohi sat in one of the mesh jumper seats against the plane’s sand-colored fuselage beside Ace, who was still snoring on his left with his arms folded over his chest and belly. Mendez was another seat down, clutching a rosary. Rico and Fitz were on his right, talking quietly amongst themselves.

  She smiled, dimples forming at something he said.

  Dohi usually envied them, but not today—today he needed the silence.

  He surveyed the Orca soldiers across the tracks and bolts of the deck. The Wolfhounds, a platoon-sized group of twenty soldiers led by Lieutenant Singh were all seated along the opposite bulkhead.

  The team was a hodgepodge of former mercenaries and militia who had joined General Cornelius’s private army. Another group of soldiers with Orca badges sat near the cockpit, but they would be staying back to guard the plane during the mission.

  Dohi had listened to them talk on the long trip across the country. From what he gathered, the Wolfhounds had spent most of the past eight years working in the field on missions hunting collaborators and Variants outside of Galveston.

  But this mission had pushed them out of their element, and Lieutenant Singh had made it clear Fitz was in charge. Their rank meant nothing because the Orca soldiers weren’t part of the Allied States army. And so long as they were out in Variant territory, the Wolfhounds would defer to Team Ghost.

  Dohi just hoped their new friends lived up to their namesake, but he wasn’t impressed. The nervous tap of boots echoed in the aircraft while the soldiers looked out the windows.

  They were beginning their descent over the coast of California. A low-lying fog blanketed most of the landscape. A few skeletal skyscrapers pierced the gray like broken bones through flesh, some of their upper levels sheared off.

  “It’s a graveyard down there,” said one Singh’s men.

  Ace stirred awake, pulling his folded arms away from his chest.

  “Is that… is that San Jose we just passed?” asked one of the Wolfhounds.

  “Yeah, I think so,” answered the first soldier.

  “We haven’t seen anything yet,” said a Wolfhound soldier with a spider neck tattoo. “The shit at the ground level is the really bad stuff. I heard there are mutant animals out here with the Variants.”

  “Martin, what did I tell you about sharing conspiracy shit?” Singh asked.

  “LT, it ain’t conspiracy shit,” Martin replied. He toyed with a gold chain that had a gold AK-47 pendant on it.

  The young man was another example of a former merc turned soldier.

  A man with a scraggly beard and deep-set green eyes chuckled. His name-tape read Hopkins. “You got to learn the difference between reality and your damn nightmares.”

  “Shit is real, brah,” Martin added. “I heard ’bout a guy that saw some dogs that looked half-zombie. That VX-99 stuff can make animals crazy.”

  “That was just a rabid dog,” Hopkins said. “Not VX-99. You do know the difference, don’t you? The shit doesn’t work on animals.”

  “You sure about that?” Martin asked, one eyebrow raised.

  Ace leaned over to Dohi and whispered, “These guys are like puppies at a firewor
ks show. Nervous as hell.”

  Dohi gave a half nod.

  Truth was, the Wolfhounds weren’t the only nervous ones.

  The difference between Ghost and these guys was that Dohi and his teammates knew how to control the fear. Countless missions behind enemy lines had taught them to handle their fear and use it to their advantage.

  Newbies like Martin and Hopkins didn’t.

  And that’s what made Dohi really nervous.

  “Mios dios, if this is Cornelius’ best, we’re fucked,” Mendez said quietly. He slipped his rosary back in his chest pocket.

  Rico narrowed her eyes, leaning in so the Wolfhounds wouldn’t overhear. “Come on, amigo. You don’t remember your first drop into uncharted territory?”

  Ace chuckled again. “I heard you pissed yourself.”

  “That’s a damn lie,” Mendez said. “Stepped into a creek. Sure smelled like piss though.”

  “Whatever you say, man,” Rico said.

  Fitz shook his head. “Guys, come on.”

  San Jose disappeared into the distance, and Dohi turned back to the troop hold as the plane descended toward the coastline. Dark waves lapped over a wide, pebbly beach beneath sheer cliffs.

  “All right, listen up,” Fitz said. “Our mission is to infiltrate the National Accelerator Laboratories and retrieve all the SDS equipment and available intel on Project Rolling Stone…”

  He paused a moment. “We’ll move in two units, with members of Team Ghost leading both. Lieutenant Singh has command of the Wolfhounds, but for the purposes of this mission, I’m top dog. We get in, find the material we need, bring it back to the plane, and we’re out of here. If you listen to orders, stay frosty, and keep your eyes open, we’ll all go home. Understood?”

  Most of the soldiers nodded. It was clear they looked up to Team Ghost, which was good, because that hopefully meant they would listen to them in the field. But there were a few that didn’t seem to appreciate the ad hoc rank structure.

  “What about enemies?” Martin asked. “You going to tell us what to expect down there?”

  “SOCOM doesn’t have much intel on this area,” Fitz said.