by Tom Abrahams
The buildings were mostly simple mud huts built from the village’s clay-rich dirt, with straw roofs. A few of the nicer houses were made of scrap metal and had tin roofs.
Chad listened to the buzz of insects echoing through the afternoon. 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 conditions. 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 patients inside. Both are in the late stages of infection. They may or may not respond to your presence. Please make your observations, take your samples, and leave them as quickly as possible,” Howard said grimly.
Chad nodded. His job was simple: get samples for 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 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 adjust, but when they did, he 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. Their 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 eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.
The sound of muffled breathing reminded Chad that Dr. Jones 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, his nose, his ears, and even his nipples. There was no mistaking it. This man had Ebola. Which 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 Dr. Jones 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 the patient’s 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. There wasn’t time for empathy in situations like this, but it was difficult to suppress. He wanted to help this man and his wife.
A strong hand on his shoulder snapped Chad’s gaze away from the dying man, reminding him of the truth. There wasn’t anything he could do to help these people. Modern medicine couldn’t save them, but the information he gathered from them could help save lives in the future.
“Let’s go,” Dr. Jones 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 —
April 18, 2015
DAY 1
The six-man team emerged onto the tarmac at dusk. The shadows they cast moved with calculated precision. They passed under the idle blades of Black Hawk 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 carried modified weapons.
But no matter how well trained the eye of an onlooker might have been, none would have known the shadows belonged to the Delta Force operator team code-named Ghost, because technically, they did not exist—technically, they were ghosts who 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 canceled 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: Beckham’s team 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 who snuck in and out of dangerous 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. When they were shot, they bled real blood. They didn’t get a second chance. He’d promised his team from day one that he would do everything in his power to keep them alive—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 his promise like a phantom badge into every mission, right above the picture of his mom.
Patting his vest pocket, Beckham 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 as if 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 and this is my pilot, John Bush,” said a voice from inside the dimly lit space. Beckham focused on a stocky crew chief standing with his hands on his hips and the slim pilot who stood beside him.
“Holy shit,” the chief muttered. He took a moment to give Ghost Alpha and Bravo the reverse-elevator-eyes look, starting with their black helmets and then sca
nning their clear shooting glasses, headsets, tan fatigues, vests stuffed with extra magazines, body armor, and finally, their boots. Then he moved on to their customized weapons, stopping on Beckham’s own MP5 submachine gun with an advanced combat optical gunsight mount. 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 Will 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 precombat ritual. A modified M4 with an ACOG attachment rested next to him.
Tenor didn’t give off any impression of being nervous. His stern face was framed 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. He gripped an M249 Squad Automatic Weapon (SAW). The weapon had saved Team Ghost a dozen times.
To his right sat Staff Sergeant Parker Horn, also holding a SAW. The star college football player hailed from Texas. He’d earned the nickname 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 and wide shoulders. He looked innocent enough at first glance, with his freckled face and strawberry-blond hair, but beneath his fatigues he was a hard man. Delta had made an exception by allowing Horn on the team. With a tumultuous background, history of a broken home, and arms covered in ink, Horn wasn’t a 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 two 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 Beckham’s operators were talented. Each of them had scored 95 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 Alex Riley and Sergeant Jim Edwards. Both men carried Benelli M1014 twelve-gauge shotguns as their primary weapons.
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.”
“Excuse me, sir,” the MP said. “We will have time for proper introductions later. We need to get moving immediately.” There was urgency in his voice.
“Just waiting on you guys,” Beckham replied firmly.
The MP didn’t look amused. He took a seat, and Chief Wright hit the button to close the cargo-bay door. The crew chief gave a thumbs-up and pounded the inside wall. “Good to go,” he said. Groaning, the metal door crunched shut behind them.
Beckham watched Dr. Ellis like a coach sizing up a recruit. The civilian moved quickly down the troop hold, carrying a leather bag clutched against his chest. He searched the empty seats, stopping next to Horn. The operator ignored him, pulling his skull bandanna up to his nose as if to say, This seat’s taken.
Ellis hugged the bag closer to his chest and moved toward Tenor. The man dropped his gear bag into the open seat next to him. “Sorry, taken.”
Beckham chewed the inside of his lip. Typically his men were better behaved, but they weren’t used to babysitting.
“You can sit here,” Beckham offered.
The doctor’s face lit up when he saw the open seat, and he rushed over to it, plopping down just as the V-22’s engines hummed to life.
“Thanks,” Ellis said.
The roar of the aircraft’s motors rippled through the walls. Ospreys were known for more than their speed and versatility; they were known for their noise. Beckham had always thought they sounded like a large lawn mower with too many ponies and a dire need for an oil change.
Beckham handed Ellis a pair of earplugs and said, “Better put these on.”
“Thanks,” Ellis remarked. He grabbed them and held them out in front of his face as if he’d never seen them before, then slowly slipped them into his ears. Then, with the utmost precision, he reached for his harness and buckled in with a click.
The whoosh from the rotors filled the cabin, sending vibrations through the craft. The doctor’s eyes widened ever so slightly, but not from fear. He looked excited, like a kid riding on a roller coaster for the first time. The aircraft pulled to the right as the pilots maneuvered it onto the runway. The rumble of the engines intensified. Moments later they were ascending into the sky.
Beckham leaned over to look out his window. Below, the shadow of the aircraft glided across a vast green field. They were still low enough that he could make out the shapes of several horses running freely through a pasture. The rolling hills and crystal clear creeks snaking through the terrain were serene, but Beckham still felt anxious.
The view quickly vanished, and the horses faded into tiny black dots moving slowly across the distant landscape.
“Which one of you is Master Sergeant Beckham?” asked a voice from the other end of the aircraft.
Beckham raised his knife hand. He craned his neck to see the MP pulling several tablets out of a bag.
“Take one of these, each of you,” the man said. He walked down the aisle and handed the devices out in turn. “Once you submit your electronic signature and fingerprint, you will have access to a classified briefing from Colonel Gibson, commanding officer of the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. Mission details will be provided at the end of the briefing.”
The MP stopped and handed Beckham his tablet.
“What about me?” Dr. Ellis asked, his voice more eager than before.
“I’m sorry, sir, but this briefing is for military personnel only. Master Sergeant Beckham will ensure you have all the information you need to help make this mission a success, but I should remind you that you are here only as a consultant.” The MP returned to his seat at the other end of the craft and melted into the shadows.
Ellis spoke louder. “How can I consult if I don’t know what’s going on?”
Beckham glanced over at the doctor and gave him a reassuring nod as if to say, Don’t worry, I’ll tell you everything I know. But that would have been a lie. He didn’t like the fact he had to d
rag a civilian along with them, and neither did his men. Even if Ellis did bring a medical opinion to the mission, civilians typically ended up becoming liabilities and only slowed his team down.
Beckham looked out the window to catch a final glimpse of the sun as it made one last valiant effort before disappearing over the horizon. Darkness filled the aircraft until a bank of lights blinked on above them.
With a quick flick of the touch screen, Beckham activated his tablet. He linked his headset to the device with a small cord, and a message appeared immediately.
CLASSIFIED—TOP SECRET
EYES ONLY—DELTA TEAM GHOST
Examination by unauthorized persons is an act of treason punishable by fines up to $100,000 and imprisonment up to fifteen years.
If you are Master Sergeant Reed Beckham, born 13 March 1978, please enter your electronic signature and then hover your index finger over the display for acceptance.
Beckham looked down the aisle at Horn and Carlos and then across the way at Edwards, Riley, and Tenor. Their faces were all illuminated by the same white glow radiating off their tablets. One by one they removed their gloves and signed the display.
It was odd being warned about the repercussions of sharing any classified information. In fact, it was downright patronizing, especially for a Delta Force operator. Beckham had given his entire life to his country. Chosen Her over a wife and kids and spent time away from the small bit of family he had, fighting in faraway lands. But there was something else about the message that went far beyond insult. Its very existence made him uneasy; something didn’t feel right about this mission.
Whatever it was.
Beckham considered what he already knew. The facts were slowly coming together. Their leave had been canceled only a few days after returning to Fort Bragg from Afghanistan. That told him brass wanted a team that had been in the field recently and was sharp. The lack of a formal briefing from command told him that someone higher up was in charge. The CIA instantly came to mind, but that didn’t explain Ellis and the involvement of the CDC.