“She’s a politician, man. Most of them don’t care who the good guys are. They only care about their interests being served—in this case, her life. Johnson can protect her. We can’t.”
“She’s different. I saw it in her eyes at Raven Rock.”
Chow shook his head and looked out over the water. “They’re all the same in my book, brother.”
Fitz held his opinion for later. He was busy scoping the horizon. A glint of metal flickered in his sights.
“Not Ringgold. She’s different, man, I know it,” Beckham said.
Chow exhaled and changed the subject. “I should have given you these a long time ago, but they were buried in my rucksack from Bragg.”
In Fitz’s peripheral vision, he saw Chow digging in his bag, but his attention was focused on the gleaming metal. It was moving toward the island at top speed.
“I grabbed these patches a few days after the outbreak started,” Chow said. “Found some for Team Ghost.”
Fitz kept his eye on the scope. “Guys,” he said.
Beckham was thanking Chow for the patches, the two of them paying Fitz little attention.
“Guys,” Fitz repeated. “I think we got incoming.”
Chow and Beckham instantly stepped closer to Fitz and shouldered their rifles.
“Talk about de ja fucking vu,” Chow said.
Fitz’s heart stampeded against his ribs as he centered his crosshairs on a red speedboat racing toward the island. It plowed through the water, waves cresting its bow. Two men decked out in camo stood at the helm, but they didn’t look like military. At least not anymore. Zooming in, Fitz saw two filthy faces and thick beards.
“Looks like a civilian boat,” Beckham said. “Radio it in, Chow.” He patted Apollo’s head and knelt next to the German Shepherd.
As the vessel got closer, it slowed, then coasted to a stop about two thousand feet out. The driver pulled a pair of binos and centered them on the island.
“Got a bad feeling about this,” Chow said. He plucked a radio off his vest and said, “Central, Ghost 2. Civilian craft with potential hostiles. Over.”
Corporal Hook replied instantly. “Copy, Ghost 2. Tower 11 and Tower 12 have eyes. Stand by. Over.”
Fitz glanced over his shoulder. Those towers were on the north side of the island. He turned to the others, but Chow was two steps ahead of him.
“Central, we are on the south side of the island. Repeat, south side,” Chow said.
There was a pause and flurry of static. It cleared and Hook said, “Copy, Ghost 2. You have permission to engage if target displays hostile behavior.”
“What do you think, Beckham?” Chow asked.
Fitz magnified his scope on the driver. A middle-aged man with a graying beard and a forehead smothered with grime stared back. Their gazes seemed to meet. Fitz was the first to look away. He watched the boat with naked eyes as it turned and sped off.
“Fuck,” Chow said. “They were scoping us out.”
“Was only a matter of time before someone found us,” Beckham replied. He stood and kicked at the dirt. Apollo looked up, sensing his handler’s frustration. “The Variants aren’t the only ones migrating. Survivors must be too. Looking for safe havens like Plum Island.”
“Hardly call this place safe, but it sure as hell beats the cities,” Chow said.
“I didn’t think there were many survivors left,” Fitz muttered. He remembered the Truxtun barreling toward the island. Everything became a threat in the apocalypse. He’d always loved being a Marine because he always knew who the enemy was. But now, at the end of the world, there were enemies on all sides. It wasn’t just the Variants. It was men like those in the boat and fellow soldiers like those he’d killed the night before.
Beckham whistled at Apollo. The dog was sniffing a bush a few feet away. He came running back to the operator and sat down.
Looking back over the water, Beckham said, “I hope to God Secretary Ringgold has some allies left in the world, because we sure as hell could use some right now.”
An emergency alarm reverberated through the beehive that was the Command Center of Cheyenne Mountain Complex. President Mitchell stood frozen just inside the entrance. All around him, staff worked at their stations, undeterred by the electronic discord. If the mountain had a central nervous system, it was this room.
Over the blaring alarm, he could hear someone shouting at him, but he couldn’t seem to make out the words. He was too focused on the wall-mounted screens. He took a step closer and squinted. The displays were built to monitor air defense over the United States and Canada. But these screens weren’t tracking missiles or satellites in space; they were tracking a pack of Variants prowling Pike National Forest just outside the bunker. At least they had been tracking them. The monsters had seemingly vanished into thin air.
Six miniature displays showed the green-hued view from a squad of Marines wearing NVGs with built-in cameras. The images on each display bounced up and down as the men hauled ass back to base.
“How could they just disappear like that?” Vice President Black asked. “It makes no sense.”
Of the forty-plus command staff, no one seemed to have an answer. Most of them seemed to be in as much shock as Mitchell. The Variants had finally found Cheyenne Mountain. Mitchell had feared this day would come since the moment he set foot in the aging facility.
“Is it possible they’re tunneling underground?” he asked.
Black started to shake his head, but stopped short. “That would actually make sense. Someone get me a SITREP.”
Officers, civilians, and enlisted soldiers who were staring at the monitors went back to work. Fingers pecked at keyboards and chatter broke out all around Mitchell. Over the panicked voices came one from the only man Mitchell trusted.
“Mr. President, Mr. Vice President, we need to move both of you,” Chief of Staff Olson said.
Mitchell’s eyes flitted to the briefcase in his right hand. For a second, things didn’t seem to make sense. It was a product of shock—the same feeling Mitchell had every damn day since the outbreak started.
How can this be happening?
The case Olson carried had a lot of nicknames: atomic football, black box, president’s emergency satchel, or simply the button. In Mitchell’s mind, none of them effectively represented the package. Inside were the codes to launch America’s nuclear arsenal. If ordered, the attack would obliterate both Variants and humans alike. The launch codes Mitchell had memorized surfaced in his mind.
Not yet. That’s a last resort.
Over the alarms and shouts came the pounding of heavy boots. A detail of armed Marines filed into the room. They weren’t Secret Service—they were better. These men had fought and killed Variants. Marine Lieutenant Stanton hurried over with his rifle lowered at the ground. His features crunched together in a snarl.
“Mr. President—”
“Cut the formalities. What the hell is going on?” Mitchell snapped. He took a step toward the Marine so he could hear his response over the alarms.
Stanton pointed at the screen. “I ordered all of our patrols to pull back, but Bravo squad is still stuck in the field. The Variants have vanished. We’re not sure where the hell they went.” He paused and exhaled. “But one thing is certain. They seem to know we’re here, sir.”
Mitchell narrowed his eye. “How, Lieutenant? How do they know we’re here?”
“My guess is they’ve been watching our patrols,” Black replied.
“We need to evacuate,” Olson said. “Get POTUS and VPOTUS out of here.”
“I wouldn’t recommend that,” Stanton said. “Not right now, at least. We’re safer inside. Every entrance is sealed.”
“Do I need to remind you the Variants found their way into Offutt, Langley, and countless other ‘secure’ facilities?” Black asked.
“No, sir, but with all due respect, Marine One and the squadron of Sea Kings and White Hawks are on the heliport a half mile from the front entrance
. I’m the head of security here—”
“And I’m a goddamn Lieutenant General, Secretary of Defense, and the Vice President,” Black grumbled.
Stanton held his gaze. “I’m sorry, sir, but if we move now, we risk...” his voice trailed off as an NCO shouted from the front of the room.
“Sir, thermal scans from our drones are picking up heat signatures in multiple locations.”
“Show me,” Stanton said.
The NCO, a short man with glasses, gestured at a female officer sitting in front of a sixty-inch display. She typed a command into her computer, and a map of the area emerged on screen.
“Bravo squad is here,” she said.
“And what is that?” Stanton asked. He pointed at a cluster of red dots on the map.
“I’m not sure, sir, but Bravo squad is moving right toward them.”
“Holy shit, did you see that?” someone shouted.
Mitchell followed Stanton across the room to stand behind a gathering cluster of staff members. The soldier on Feed 1 had stopped at the bottom of a ridgeline. He stood there for several moments, his helmet roving from left to right. At the top of the hill, the ferns at the base of a stand of Ponderosas shifted in the wind. Limbs covered in needles reached toward the Marine. The low branches suddenly moved the other way, exposing the trunks of the trees. All at once, a dozen slitted eyes flipped open where there should have been bark. Stalk-like limbs extended from the trunks, and the withered bodies of Variants peeled away from the trees. Falling to the ground, the monsters scattered in all directions.
“What in God’s name...” Black said.
“It’s an ambush!” Stanton shouted. He pulled his vest-mounted radio. “Bravo 1, get the hell out of there!”
Mitchell resisted the urge to grip his sour gut as he watched. The Marine in Feed 1 staggered backward, tripping over something out of view. He pushed himself to his feet and took off running away from the beasts. Ahead of him, something meaty and muscular darted across the camera and vanished into the underbrush. In the distance, a pair of dark figures skittered up the base of a tree. The other five members of the squad were bolting through a grove of pines. Low evergreen branches hit them as they moved, obstructing the video.
“We have movement on Feeds 3 and 5,” a staffer said.
Stanton brought his radio back to his lips. “Bravo 1, do you copy?”
The only response came in the hiss of static, but Mitchell was hardly paying attention. He watched the six monitors with a sense of awe that only live battle could produce.
“Bravo 1, return to home plate. I repeat, return to home plate. Do not engage. Over.” Stanton turned and shouted at a Marine across the room. “Where are they?”
“West side of the mountain, sir!” the Marine shouted back.
“Dammit,” Stanton muttered. He pushed his way closer to the monitors.
The squad was spreading out through the tall, thin trees. Their rifles searched the branches and rocky terrain. Stanton cursed at that too.
A flash of movement suddenly broke across Feed 5. The Marine turned to the right just as a Variant came barreling over a boulder. He fired a volley that sent the creature smashing into the rock. It slumped to the ground, blood smearing across the smooth surface.
“Bravo 1! Do not engage!” Stanton repeated into his radio, his voice rising into a shout.
Again, there was no response but the white noise of static.
The Marine in Feed 5 backpedaled away from the dying creature. He turned to run, but crashed into a Variant that had flanked him. The impact knocked them both to the ground. In a blink the creature was on him. It slashed at the Marine’s neck with both hands, eyes bulging with bloodlust. Blood peppered the cam. It was hard to see, but this Variant had developed some sort of scales or bark on its skin. Before Mitchell could get a good look, the monster brought an elbow down on the camera.
“Bravo 1, goddammit, get the hell out of there!” Stanton shouted. He clenched his jaw and turned to the NCO. “Patch this channel over the speakers.”
Mitchell shifted his gaze to Feed 4. The Marine was running through the woods, brushing into trees and swatting his way through low limbs. He shot a look over his shoulder and his cam picked up a Variant springing across the dirt. Mitchell could almost hear the panicked breathing of the young Marine.
The creature’s swollen lips opened, exposing a black oblivion with needle teeth dripping saliva. It lunged and knocked the Marine down in a cloud of dirt that momentarily blocked the view. When it cleared, the Variant had clamped down on the man’s stomach. Scaly, oily skin filled the screen. The beast lurched back, ropy cords hanging from its wormy lips. The Marine squirmed frantically as the Variant reached down and pulled more steaming intestines from his gut.
“My God,” Mitchell whispered. He gagged, and tasted the shitty coffee he’d had for breakfast. He swallowed the acidic taste, took in several deep breaths, and forced himself to watch the monitors. Mitchell didn’t know any of these Marines by name. He had only seen them in passing, but he knew each had a mother and a father. Some of them had families of their own. They didn’t deserve to die out there in the dark forest at the hands of men turned into monsters.
Feeds 2 and 3 went dark a moment later, leaving only 1 and 6. Those two Marines were still on the move. They raced around trees, swatting at limbs and underbrush. Mitchell felt his heart climbing toward his throat. Sweat dripped from his hairline. He wiped it away with a sleeve and tried his best to remain calm. On screen, the remaining Marines closed in on a frontage road.
“Where’s that lead?” Stanton asked.
“Access point 14,” the NCO under the monitor said. “It’s one of the back doors to the facility.”
“Shit, they’re leading the Variants right to it!” Stanton shouted. He squinted at the individual feeds, watching helplessly. After a pause he said, “Hanson, Ralph. Do either of you copy? Over.”
A garbled voice surged out of the speakers mounted over the displays. Labored breathing followed. Then came a raspy voice, “Hanson... Hanson here. That you, LT?”
“Yes, son. I need you to listen very carefully.”
“They’re everywhere!” Hanson stopped and turned to fire at four Variants leaping through the trees. The rounds took one of them down, but the other three scattered.
Hanson’s cam bobbled as he continued to fire blindly at the forest. Long pine needles rained to the ground and bark exploded in all directions. Sap oozed from the bleeding trees. Low evergreen branches reached out at the Marine like the limbs of a scarecrow.
“Hanson, move your ass!” Stanton shouted into his comm. The words came a beat too late. Hanson pivoted to the right and shouldered his rifle to fire at a pack of flanking Variants, but this time the muzzle didn’t flash. The creatures tackled him to the ground.
Mitchell turned his attention to Feed 6, knowing Hanson was gone. The other Marine, Ralph, was through the clearing and running down the frontage road. His camera was focused on a hill in the distance. As he got closer, the feed showed a pair of rusted doors built into the embankment.
A high-pitched, animalistic screech suddenly roared from the speakers. The tortured scream echoed through the room with a blare of static. At first, Mitchell thought it was coming from Ralph’s comm, but when he looked back at Camera 1, he saw that a trio of the creatures had wrestled Hanson to the ground. The Marine was still fighting. He had pulled his handgun and was firing over and over. A Variant skull exploded, covering the cam with brain matter. Beyond the red goo there was a flurry of motion—a talon, thick chest muscles, and a yellow, reptilian eye. Hanson managed three more shots before the gun was knocked away. As the brain chunks slid away from the camera, the two remaining creatures slashed at Hanson’s flesh. A second later, the video feed disappeared completely in a mist of blood and gore.
“No!” Hanson shouted. “Mama! Please, Ma—”
Mitchell cupped his hands over his ears as the monsters tore Hanson limb from limb. But no matte
r how hard he pushed, Mitchell could still hear the Marine crying out for his mother in a terrified voice. This time Mitchell forced himself to look away. His gaze flitted to Feed 6—the final Marine.
Ralph was almost to the door. He shot a glance over his shoulder. The camera showed a pack of Variants racing down the road. Powerful limbs pounded the dirt, kicking up a trail of exhaust.
“Ralph! Do not lead them back to the doors!” Stanton shouted. “That’s an order!”
The Marine either couldn’t hear the lieutenant or was too frightened to answer. He arrived at the partially hidden entrance to the mountain a minute later and pounded the steel with both fists. A staffer activated the feed from a video camera over the door. It fed to the wall-mounted display to the right of the monitor connected to Ralph’s helmet-mounted cam. Side by side, the screens showed Ralph’s POV and the view from the camera above him.
Stanton turned to his Marines positioned behind the command staff and shouted, “Sergeant, take every available man and get your ass to access point 14!”
Mitchell alternated his gaze from monitor to monitor. Ralph was staring up at the camera, waving and screaming. His face looked far too young to know the horror of the Variants. He turned, and the display to the left captured the creatures just as they plowed into him. The camera feed went topsy-turvy, but Ralph quickly fought his way back to his feet.
“Jesus Christ,” Stanton said in a voice hardly audible over the chaos.
The knot in Mitchell’s gut tightened as the monsters clamped their sucker lips onto Ralph’s arms, legs, and back. They wrestled him to the ground. He squirmed and screamed, but it was no use. Four more creatures joined, clawing and biting their way to the feeding. Ralph reached up toward the camera with a bloody hand missing two fingers. Then he disappeared under the tidal wave of diseased, bark-like flesh.
“Will those doors hold them?” someone asked.
Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4) Page 4