Extinction War

by Nicholas Smith

  Rico handed Fitz their GPS, and he relayed the coordinates over the comms while he kept an eye on Dohi and Tanaka. One of the beasts struggled to its feet even as flames licked the creature. It raised an arm with a pincher-like claw, snapping it shut once before dropping to its knees and finally succumbing to the burns.

  “Roger that, Ghost One,” Bradley said. “When you finish burning the tunnel, get topside. You have an hour to get the hell out of there before we drop an MOAB on those motherfuckers. Stand by for coordinates.”

  Fitz appreciated the blunt use of force, but the biggest bomb in the US military besides a nuke sounded a bit like overkill.

  “Guess they aren’t taking any chances this time,” Fitz said.

  “What’s an MOAB?” Alecia asked.

  “The mother of all bombs, kid,” Stevenson said. “Better get Dohi and Tanaka back here, Sarge.”

  The men returned to the MATV and climbed inside, letting in smoke and the scent of scorched flesh.

  “There’s an EUF mechanized unit about forty miles west of you in Hardanges,” Bradley said over the radio. “I’ll send you the coordinates shortly. The Twenty-Fourth MEU is heading there now.”

  “Nixon ordered the advance?” Fitz asked.

  “Phase Two of Operation Reach is a go, Ghost One,” replied Bradley. “The HQ in Paris is evacuating. We’re out of time.”

  Fitz watched the flames outside and the monsters still wriggling and fighting the fire down the tunnel.

  “Roger that, sir,” Fitz said into the receiver. “Oh, one more thing—can someone bring me a spare set of prosthetic blades?”

  Davis eyed Beckham’s broken blade as she slipped on her CBRN suit, thinking of Master Sergeant Joe Fitzpatrick. She had fought alongside the disabled veteran at the Earthfall facility, and she owed him her life. She had no idea where he was now or even if he was still alive. But Beckham was still fighting, despite all odds, and she had a feeling Fitz was too. Both men had proven to be extremely difficult to kill.

  “You sure you’re up for this, Captain?” Blade asked.

  At first Davis thought the senior chief petty officer was talking to Beckham, but he was focused on her.

  “Yeah,” she said, palming a magazine into her new M4.

  Blade glanced over at Beckham. “And you?”

  “I’m fine,” he replied gingerly.

  “Check him again, Melnick,” Blade said.

  SEAL Team Four’s medic got up from his seat and moved over to Beckham. He had already checked him three times, but Blade wasn’t taking any chances, especially since Beckham was still displaying one sign of infection: a headache. No matter how many times Davis told Blade he was giving her a headache, he insisted on being cautious.

  “Prepare for landing in five minutes,” one of the pilots said over the comms.

  “Any sign of contacts?” Blade asked.

  “Negative, Chief,” replied one of the men.

  “All right—listen up, everyone,” Blade said in a voice loud enough to reach everyone in the troop hold, even Beckham, who didn’t have a comm-link connection.

  The SEALs finished their gear checks and turned toward the senior chief petty officer as the helicopter shot over the dark landscape.

  “Larson, Dixon, as soon as we hit dirt you two head out for recon. There were marines trapped outside when that missile hit the White House with the hemorrhage virus,” Blade said. “Once we figure out what we’re dealing with, we’re splitting into two teams. I’m taking Alpha with Captain Davis, Dixon, and Melnick.”

  Great, she thought.

  “Watson, you’ve got Bravo team with Larson and Tandy,” Blade said. He gestured toward Crew Chief Ronaldo. “You keep an eye on Beckham while we’re gone. No offense, Captain.”

  Beckham shrugged. “At least give me a gun.”

  “Sorry, but that’s not going to happen,” Blade said.

  Davis patted Beckham on the shoulder and turned to look out the window. Bare branches reached up toward the chopper. A creek snaked through the landscape. In the springtime, it was probably pretty. Now the grounds of the famous resort were a barren, almost alien, landscape.

  She took a swig of water and then secured her helmet. Beckham leaned his head against the bulkhead, accepting that it was his fate to stay behind on this mission.

  The pilots circled the field near the forest’s edge until Blade instructed them to put down in a meadow. The rotor wash spread the overgrown weeds outward like ripples in a pond.

  Larson and Dixon jumped out and took off for the trees along the western edge of the field, while the other SEALs set up a perimeter as ordered.

  Davis exchanged a glance with Beckham as she got out of the bird. He remained in his seat with his foot still bound to his prosthetic blade. The crew chief had out his M9, and once the two pilots finished powering down the bird, they pulled out their own weapons to watch Beckham.

  It was an insult, the way they were treating him. She held rank and could have forced the issue, but maybe Blade was right. Beckham wasn’t in any condition to go anywhere anyway. His battered body needed a break from fighting.

  “Stay safe,” he said.

  Davis nodded her helmet and joined Blade out in the grass. She shouldered her M4 and aimed it at the trees that Larson and Dixon had vanished into.

  The men returned a few minutes later, and Dixon hurried over with his MK16 cradled.

  “All clear, Senior Chief,” he reported. “Thermal and visual scans revealed zero contacts in the vicinity.”

  “Good,” Blade said. He pulled out a map of the sixty-five hundred acres surrounding the Greenbrier.

  “All right, gents, listen up. Alpha will take this wing, and Bravo will take this wing,” Blade said, pointing. “Once we clear the grounds and gardens, we move in. Access to the PEOC is here, but we’re going to have to turn the power back on first. Bravo, that’s your job.”

  “Roger that,” Watson said.

  “Think we should get a message through to Command before we move in?” Blade asked Davis.

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to take the risk of ROT intercepting anything.”

  “Good idea, Captain,” Blade said. “Same goes for this mission: radio silence. Hand signals only, unless it’s an absolute emergency, and by emergency I mean, unless you’re about to become Variant chow.”

  Six nods acknowledged his order.

  “Okay, let’s move out,” Blade said. He turned to look at Beckham one more time, then jogged away from the bird. Davis exchanged a nod with Beckham before she too turned and left the Delta operator behind.

  17

  President Ringgold managed to sleep for a few hours before she was awoken by her reoccurring nightmare about her cousin Emilia. For several minutes after waking, Ringgold lay in the small bed, staring in horror at the bulkhead, her heart pounding. This time it took longer to shake the terror of the dream.

  A knock sounded on the door to her quarters.

  “One moment,” Ringgold said groggily.

  She threw on some clothes and opened the door to see Nelson standing in the passage, dressed impeccably as ever, not a wrinkle visible on his suit.

  “Did you find an iron somewhere on the ship?” Ringgold asked.

  Nelson tightened his red tie proudly. “No, ma’am, but I learned a few techniques while traveling back in the day.”

  “I imagine you did,” Ringgold said. She could tell by his casual tone that whatever he had to say wasn’t an emergency. “Give me a second to freshen up.”

  Ben nodded and retreated into the passage while she splashed frigid water on her face. It helped her shake off the fog of sleep and the horror of the nightmare.

  When she was presentable, she followed Nelson to the aircraft carrier’s island, a command center for flight-deck operations on the USS Abraham Lincoln. Rear Admiral Lemke was standing stoically at the window with a pair of binoculars angled at the ocean.

  All around him, a team of sailors worked at their stat
ions, surprisingly bright-eyed despite the early-morning hour. She followed Nelson to the panoramic viewpoint set six stories above the flight deck. Captain Ingves was nowhere in sight, but the bridge was above the island, and he was probably watching from his leather chair.

  “Ah, President Ringgold,” Lemke said. “Did you get some sleep?”

  “Yes, I got a few hours,” Ringgold said.

  “Sorry to wake you, but I thought you would want to be here when the USS Forrest Sherman and the USS Ashland arrive,” Lemke said. “My communications team has picked up the destroyers and an advance team of three Sikorsky SH-60 Seahawks carrying General Nixon’s men.”

  “Excellent,” Ringgold said.

  Soprano walked into the room behind them, attempting to tuck in his shirt. He fetched a mug of coffee without needing to be asked and handed it to Ringgold, while Lemke spoke to one of his officers. She tried to listen to the conversation, but truthfully, she was having a hard time focusing, and not just because she was exhausted. She still felt terrible about Kate leaving in the manner she had, not even saying good-bye before boarding a chopper to the Thalassa.

  “Want to have a look?” Lemke asked.

  Ringgold took the binoculars. She glassed the ocean and the ships making up the fleet. The water sparkled under the reflection of the moon, illuminating the shapes of the USS Bunker Hill and the USS Fitzgerald, which flanked the aircraft carrier. She pivoted to get a view of the civilian ships. The oil tanker and container ship carved through the water on the starboard side of the aircraft carrier, but she didn’t see the dorsal fin of the USS Florida.

  “Where’s Captain Konkoly?” she asked.

  “Submerged right now, just in case we run into trouble,” Lemke said. “We have hundreds of early-warning systems to detect threats and plenty of firepower to combat them, but Konkoly is our final out if something goes awry.”

  Ringgold took a seat next to the rear admiral. He had put his life and the lives of everyone in the strike group on the line by backing Ringgold.

  “Why did you do it?” she asked bluntly.

  Lemke turned slightly toward her. He was a handsome man with a full head of hair and dimples, but he also had the face of a warrior, with a crooked nose clearly broken and not set right, and a scar cutting through his right eyebrow. He arched that brow and said, “Pardon me, ma’am?”

  “What made you risk everything to stand against Wood?”

  Lemke grinned. “Simple answer—I knew his older brother.”

  “Ah,” Ringgold said. “Zach Wood was a monster too, but Andrew seems to be even worse.”

  “Yes, he is.” Lemke paused, his smile gone. “That’s not the only reason, though. I followed your career as secretary of state and have a lot respect for you, ma’am. I saw what you were doing with the SZTs, and I knew you wouldn’t hit one with the hemorrhage virus. My duty is to do what’s right, and protecting you is the greatest honor of my life.”

  “I wish the other commanders back in the States and the mayors of the SZTs shared your sentiment—which I appreciate very much, by the way.”

  “Some of them do, but Wood, unfortunately for us, is a sadistically brilliant bastard. He played his cards perfectly, waiting for the right opportunity to rise to power and then using WMDs to strike fear into all those who opposed him.”

  “History shows that men who are willing to use WMDs don’t need the strongest army to win a war,” Ringgold said. “Look at World War Two. If we hadn’t dropped the atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, we might have been fighting for years against the Japanese.”

  “Indeed, but President Harry Truman wasn’t a crazy SOB like Wood, and the hemorrhage virus is more than a WMD. It’s a species ender.”

  “I know,” Ringgold said. “Forgive me if my analogy wasn’t appropriate. I’m exhausted.”

  “Nothing to forgive, ma’am. As I said, I have a lot of respect for you and will give my life to protect you. So will my sailors.”

  Ringgold reached out and patted Lemke on his shoulder. “Thank you, Admiral.”

  “Call me Dan,” he said. His dimples deepened again with a warm smile that reassured Ringgold she’d made the right decision by coming here.

  “Ma’am,” Nelson said. He was still waiting by the porthole windows with Soprano.

  “I’ve just got a few updates for you while we wait for those destroyers,” Nelson said. “Mind if I borrow some of your time?”

  “You can use the flag bridge to meet,” Lemke said. “I’ll send someone to get you when the Seahawks arrive.”

  “Thank you, Ad—” Ringgold corrected herself. “Thank you, Dan.”

  He pushed the binoculars back up to his eyes as they made the trip two decks below to the admiral’s personal command center. She eyed the pictures on the wall as she walked in, noticing again the one of Lemke and his two deceased brothers.

  Don’t give up hope, Dan, she thought. We can get back what we lost.

  Once she sat at the conference table, Soprano got right to it. “Doctor Lovato has landed at the Thalassa with Master Sergeant Horn’s team.”

  “How close are they to a cure?” Ringgold asked.

  “We don’t know yet. We’re waiting for a sitrep from Doctor Adriana Bruno, the lead scientist.”

  “Good. I want you to keep Horn and his men there for a while until we’re sure it’s safe for Kate,” Ringgold said.

  Soprano nodded, and Nelson loosened his tie, an indication that the next bit of news wasn’t going to be good.

  “We haven’t heard anything from SEAL Team Four and Captain Davis yet,” he said, “but they should have arrived or should be close to arriving at the White House at the Greenbrier.”

  “So we don’t know if Captain Beckham is infected with the virus?” Ringgold asked. “Should we be worried that we haven’t heard from them?”

  “We don’t know about his condition, but we do know the team was under strict orders to monitor him for infection. They were also told to keep radio silence, so I wouldn’t worry too much,” Nelson replied.

  “Okay. What else?” Ringgold took a sip of her coffee and reached for the folder Soprano pushed across the table.

  “We lost SZT Two and SZT Four yesterday.”

  She opened the folder and read over the list of SZTs that still hadn’t aligned with ROT, her heart sinking. After all she had done to start the recovery and rebuilding efforts, seeing how short the list was made her nauseous.

  “That means Wood now has the majority of SZTs on his side, and the others will quickly follow suit,” Nelson said gravely. “It’s just a matter of time now.”

  Ringgold’s heart sank even lower. A knock on the door interrupted their meeting. It was Lemke, with Captain Ingves right behind him.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got excellent news,” Lemke said. He nodded at Ingves, who stepped into the flag bridge.

  “We have a spy at SZT Nineteen in Los Angeles, and we just got word that Wood was spotted there,” Ingves said.

  Ringgold flipped the folder closed and stood. “How sure are you?”

  “Pretty sure,” Ingves said. “Our spy was working in one of the farm silos and claims to have seen Wood piloting a Little Bird with a prisoner hanging from the skids. Apparently he smashed the guy into the side of the building in front of everyone.”

  “Sounds like Wood,” Ringgold said. “Scramble together whatever teams we can in the area. If we can get proof of my innocence at the Greenbrier, then this is our chance to cut the head off the snake.”

  “We’re really in trouble now, Ringo,” Piero whispered.

  The mouse squeaked at him in acknowledgment. They were back in their apartment a few blocks from the Colosseum, waiting for a message from Paris.

  It was late morning in Rome, and they had been tracking the monsters through the night. The creatures were gone now, having retreated into the ancient sewers below the Colosseum. And Piero knew it wouldn’t be long before he had to go back down there.

  He sa
t cross-legged on the floor, with Ringo on his knee. The mouse was hungry, and so was Piero. He pulled out a granola bar, peeled back the wrapper, and tore off a small hunk that he placed in front of Ringo. The mouse greedily chomped onto the side of the morsel. He had already gained some weight back since Piero found supplies a few days earlier, but he could still see Ringo’s ribs.

  “Angaran, this is Piazza, do you copy? Over.”

  Piero fumbled for the radio, nearly knocking it to the floor. He turned the volume down and then pushed the radio up to his lips.

  “Roger that, sir.”

  “Good to hear your voice, Sergeant. I’m told you have a report for me.”

  “I do, sir,” Piero said. “Last night I observed something new—something that the scientists are going to want to hear.”

  He paused, recalling the mother and daughter he hadn’t been able to save. Using his index finger, he stroked Ringo’s furry head while the mouse ate.

  There was a flurry of static, and then what sounded like gunshots.

  “Sir, is everything okay?” Piero asked.

  “We’re under siege, Sergeant. The Variants have us surrounded at Sainte-Chapelle. I’m not sure how much longer we can hold out.”

  Piero didn’t know what to say. All this time he’d been feeling alone, but he wasn’t the only one risking his life. Piazza was talking to him during a firefight!

  “I’m sorry, sir. Let me get right to it. The mutated monsters here are nesting beneath the Colosseum. Last night I saw them tear one another apart after capturing a woman and her daughter.”

  Ringo finished his morsel and looked up for more food. Piero tore off another small chunk of granola bar for the mouse as he spoke.

  “I’ve heard your transmissions, Sergeant,” Angaran said. “There must be a Queen or something controlling the beasts there, and you’re the only man we have in Rome to kill it.”

  Piero swallowed at the new orders and, just to be sure, said, “Come again, sir? I didn’t catch that last part.”

  “Sergeant, you’re the only man we have in Rome, so I need you to find, and kill, this Queen if possible. It may be the only way to take back your city and win the war.”