“That doesn’t make me feel better, man,” Horn said. “We can’t trust anyone.”
Beckham sucked in a long breath, let it out, and said, “We’ll be back to the island in no time, brother.”
Chow took a swig of juice and wiped his mouth. “Got something else on your mind,” he said to Beckham. “I can tell. And I don’t think it has to do with the war.”
Beckham thought he had done a better job of hiding his emotions, but Chow was an expert on picking up on the little details. Before he had time to think about it, Beckham came out and said it.
“Kate’s pregnant.”
Horn dropped his spoon in his mashed potatoes, and Chow’s black brows arched.
“Holy shit,” Horn said. He patted Beckham on the shoulder. “Congratulations, brother.”
Beckham snorted. “Pretty shitty timing.”
“Hell, man, it could be worse. I mean, at least she’s on the ship. Think about if this happened out there. She’s going to have the best medical care left in the world.”
“He’s right. It’ll be okay, Boss,” Chow added. He reached across the table. “You’re going to make a good father.”
Beckham shook Chow’s hand and cracked a half grin. “Thanks, guys. I appreciate it.”
“That seat taken?” came a coarse voice.
Beckham shot a glance over his shoulder. Garcia stood there, his tan skin bruised and battered.
“Be my guest,” Beckham said, scooting over.
“You guys know Tank and Thomas,” Garcia said. The two Marines took seats on both sides of Chow.
Tank was bald with a rough face and a bit of a beer gut, but his arms were bigger than Horn’s, and that was saying something. Thomas, on the other hand, was built a lot like Garcia. Trim and lean, the type of body that took hundreds of push-ups and sit-ups a day to maintain. They both had thick brown mustaches and olive skin. If it weren’t for Garcia’s longer hair, they could have passed for siblings.
Horn regarded them with a half nod, and sized Tank up with a quick glance. He rolled up his sleeves to expose the tribal tattoos on his forearms, then went back to mowing through his green beans.
The operator wasn’t the only one with ink. Garcia had a cross on the underside of his right arm that Beckham had noticed when they first shook hands. At a closer look, Tank and Thomas had the same tattoo. There were names etched there that Beckham couldn’t make out.
“I figured we should break bread before we start training whoever Lieutenant Davis throws at us,” Garcia said.
Beckham exchanged a glance with Horn and Chow. Neither of them trusted the Marines. Hell, Beckham didn’t even trust the cook who had slopped food on his tray. The Variant Hunters, and everyone else assigned to the strike group, were all under Johnson’s umbrella.
Garcia seemed to be waiting for an answer, but Beckham was just fine letting the Marine run the conversation from here.
“So you guys have been out there?” Thomas asked. He picked at the right side of his mustache.
Chow grinned. “Really, man?”
“Yeah,” Horn growled. “We’ve been out there.”
“How many Variants you killed?” Tank asked. He swallowed a hunk of chicken without even chewing.
Beckham bit back a retort. What the fuck kind of question was that? Sure, he remembered every human hostile he’d ever killed, but it wasn’t something he bragged about. He never liked or understood men who did.
Horn and Chow remained silent, and Beckham continued to scrutinize the Variant Hunters. Every soldier had a mannerism that Beckham looked for; it could tell him a lot about the man. Some were harder to spot than others. Most were physical, but some were mental. Thomas’s was the nervous tick, and Tank’s was the same as Horn’s—they both wanted to be the biggest badass on the block. Sometimes there wasn’t room for two.
“Last time I checked, this wasn’t a contest,” Beckham finally said. “But we’ve done our fair share of killing. That’s not really what you want to discuss though, is it?” He directed the question at Garcia. The Marine still hadn’t touched his food.
“Nah, it’s not. But before I do, I wanted to let you in on something,” Garcia said. He lowered his voice and leaned over the table.
Beckham didn’t like that. The Marine was too close, and Beckham could smell the coffee on his breath.
“You’re heroes in our eyes,” Garcia said, to Beckham’s surprise. “You all deserve a fucking medal, if you ask me. From what I hear, Colonel Wood was a piece of shit, and you helped rid the world of one more asshole.”
Beckham used his tongue to pick at something stuck in his teeth, unsure what to say, yet still scrutinizing Garcia. Was this a ploy? He still hadn’t discovered what made this man tick.
“Anyway,” Garcia said, softly slapping the table with his right hand. “Those things have gotten smarter, and they will continue to get smarter. This White King,” Garcia said, grimacing. He stabbed at the plastic-looking filet with a fork. “And those collaborating pieces of shit. You ever come across anything like that?”
“No,” Horn said. “But if I did, I’d snap their fucking necks.”
Garcia nodded. “I’m with you. If it weren’t for Frankie.” His eyes glazed over for a moment, a memory clearly surfacing.
“The dynamics have changed out there. As food gets harder to find, the Variants are going to be looking for new resources. And they’re going to use whatever they can to survive,” Beckham said.
“Stevo’s still down there,” Tank said. “What if they try and turn him?”
“I told you he’s dead,” Garcia whispered, almost as if he didn’t really believe it.
“I’m sorry,” Beckham said, but he thought, Never leave a man behind. The phrase didn’t apply here like it had on battlefields of the past. Jinx’s was the only body Team Ghost had recovered.
Beckham gritted his teeth, fending off the rage rising inside of him. “Look,” he said. “We’ve all seen what’s out there. We know how bad it is. And we all know that this is basically a suicide mission, no matter how well we prepare the soldiers Davis assigns us. They’re going to have to survive hell to capture one of those things.”
“That’s why we should be the ones to do it,” Garcia said.
Beckham held his gaze. Now he understood what made Garcia tick. He wanted to go back out there and get his man. Beckham could relate, and deep down he knew the Marine was right. They were the most qualified for this mission. Even deeper, past the grit and conflicting emotions, Beckham wanted to go back out there, too. He struggled with his commitment to his country and his commitment to Kate. In the past, he had never let a man do a job he could do himself. But in the past, it had just been him and Team Ghost. He had a bigger family now, and he would be damned if he put those he loved in jeopardy.
-15-
Summer was closing in. The scorching sun warmed Riley’s right arm, which was hanging out of the passenger side window of a Humvee. As spring turned to summer, the bodies rotting in the cities would finish the final stages of decay. The stench would be intolerable, the concrete jungles transformed into cesspools of rot.
Riley hadn’t looked at a calendar for days, but it had to be June by now. That was right, wasn’t it? Being cooped up on the island for so long had messed with his internal clock. All he knew for sure was that it had been four days since Kate and his brothers left for the GW Strike Group. Riley had spent that time training Meg to shoot and watching the new troops stationed at the island. It was boring as hell, but that was all about to change.
I have a mission for you, Staff Sergeant Riley, Major Smith had said earlier that morning. Now Smith was driving them to the docks on the south side of Plum Island. Gravel crunched under the off-road tires as the Major drove away from the post.
“You got any idea what I’ll be doing?” Riley asked.
Smith pulled down a frontage road. “Not sure. I’ve only been told Lieutenant Rowe is back. He docked an hour ago and asked to speak to you.”
Riley pulled his arm back into the vehicle and scratched a mosquito bite on his elbow. He didn’t bother asking more questions. Smith would have told him if he knew anything more.
They endured the rest of the trip in silence, passing though groves of trees and thick underbrush. Through a clearing, he saw two rows of electric fences and beyond that, a dock stretching across the glistening water. Two Mark V Special Operation Crafts were docked there. A dozen Marines were already unloading gear from the crafts. A third Mark V SOC hammered across the water a quarter mile out.
The charcoal gunboats weren’t the Navy cruisers Riley had hoped for, but they were better than the alternative, which had been nothing. Built with a V-shaped hull, the angular ships were designed to travel in rough waters with efficient handling and maneuverability. Team Ghost had trained on them before, and Riley still remembered how comfortable the seats were.
These ships were outfitted with five weapon mounts, but they had removed the Stringer-Man Portable Air Defense System. There was no need for anti-aircraft anymore. Instead, the craft was decked out with two 7.62 mm Gatling guns and three .50 cal machine guns. It was an extra layer of security Plum Island hadn’t had earlier, but hardly enough to fend off a major invasion.
Smith coasted to a stop outside the gate leading to the dock. A Marine approached and checked his ID.
“Good to go, sir,” the guard said.
The gate opened, and Smith drove them down to the beach. He parked the truck next to another Humvee. It took five minutes for Smith to help Riley in his wheelchair, but none of the Marines on the dock seemed to pay them any attention. Normally, Riley would have been self-conscious, but the thrill of a potential assignment kept him focused.
As soon as he was in his chair, Riley wheeled toward the dock. Major Smith had to jog to keep up with him.
“Lieutenant Rowe,” Major Smith said.
The lieutenant was supervising three Marines unloading extra ammunition. He turned from the crates and came over to salute Smith, but he kept his chiseled jaw locked in place like an alligator.
“This is Staff Sergeant Riley. Corporal Fitzpatrick is finishing up guard duty and should be here shortly,” Smith said.
“Yes, sir,” Rowe said, training his gaze on Riley. “I remember you from the landing the other day, Staff Sergeant. You said something about not trusting Vice President Johnson.”
Riley felt his cheeks burning, “Yes, sir. At the time we had reason to believe he was connected with Colonel Wood and Colonel Gibson. But I was wrong, sir.”
Rowe gave him a once over and said, “Understandable, considering the situation.” He pointed at the boats. “In two days, we’re launching a covert mission called Operation Condor. Thirty-four strike teams will be inserted into coastal cities with a single objective: to capture and extract a live juvenile Variant.”
Riley swallowed. A child? He’d heard rumors of the breeders, but shit, he had no idea they were real.
“That’s where you and Fitzpatrick will come in. Master Sergeant Beckham said you’re the best the island has. You’ve both been out there. You’ve fought the Variants. Now I want you to train the strike teams from Plum Island to do what you did. Most of these men haven’t seen any real action against the Variants. I’m hoping your experience will help keep them alive.” He strode back to the dock and picked up a crate marked explosives.
The words left Riley with a chill. They had their work cut out for them, especially if they had any hope of saving any of these young men. He waited for Rowe to finish, but the lieutenant continued unloading boxes as they waited for Fitz.
This wasn’t exactly the mission Riley had hoped for, but it sure as hell beat shooting at bottles. Even if shooting bottles meant he got to see Meg.
All three men turned at the sound of an approaching engine. Another Humvee crunched through the gravel and ground to a stop outside the gates. Fitz jumped out onto the rock. He reached inside the truck, pulled out his rifle, then slung it over his back.
“Corporal Fitzpatrick reporting for duty. Sorry I’m late, sir,” Fitz said.
Rowe simply nodded. He turned toward the dock and whistled at the dozen Marines still unloading crates. They hurried over and fell into line.
“Men, this is Delta Force Operator Staff Sergeant Riley and Marine Corporal Fitzpatrick. They’ll be training you over the next two days for your mission to New York.”
Fitz joined Riley at his side. The Marines were all staring at them. A minute of awkward silence passed. Riley had been so focused on the mission that he’d forgotten his chair, and he’d known Fitz for so long he didn’t even look twice at the man’s blades. But these Marines weren’t used to them. Riley knew what they were likely thinking. How could these guys train them? Or would they end up looking like Fitz and Riley if they went out there?
“Take a good look,” Riley said. “Go ahead.” He gave the Marines a few seconds. Most of them probably had buddies with war injuries, but Riley doubted any of those buddies ended up training them.
“You good?” Riley asked. “You obviously don’t need to look at us to know what the Variants are capable of. But Fitz and me,” Riley said reached over to pat Fitz on the arm, “we’ve survived out there. And if you want to come back in one piece, you’re going to listen to everything we say.”
Rowe grinned. Perhaps it was respect, or something else. Riley wasn’t sure. But it felt damn good to have it again.
“You heard the man,” Rowe said, clapping his hands. “At 1900 hours you’re to meet at the mess hall for your first briefing. Now get back to work.”
The dozen Marines hurried back to the dock and continued unloading the boats. Fitz leaned down to Riley and whispered, “They probably think I lost my legs to the Variants.”
Riley cracked a shit-eating grin. “That was the point, brother.”
“Europe seems to be mostly dark,” Dr. Yokoyama said. “We did manage to contact a lab in the UK and one in both Switzerland and France, but besides those, there isn’t much out there. Italy, Greece, Russia. The governments have all fallen.”
He continued listing the labs they had contacted in the Middle East, Asia, and South America, but Kate wasn’t paying attention. Her heart sank in her chest as her body sank in her chair. She avoided President Ringgold’s gaze from across the table. The last thing she wanted was pity. All she wanted was time to grieve, but that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.
“That’s all that’s left?” Ringgold said after Yokoyama had finished.
He nodded, gravely. “I’m afraid VX9H9 wasn’t deployed quickly enough in other countries. The Hemorrhage Virus was able to infect a much larger percentage of the population. When the weapon was finally deployed, it eradicated ninety percent of the infected, but those that had turned into Variants seem to have already killed most of the surviving population. Since then, military bases and critical facilities have fallen. Just like they have here,” Yokoyama said. “I’m not saying there aren’t survivors in other countries, but the governments and infrastructures have crumbled.”
Kate bowed her head. She understood perfectly what Yokoyama meant, and knew then her parents were among the dead. Kryptonite couldn’t save them. It would be too late. She thought she’d feel something in this moment–anger, sadness. But she only felt hollow, like she’d lost another piece of herself.
There was a knock on the door, and Vice President Johnson entered the room with Lieutenant Davis.
“Sorry I’m late,” Johnson said. He took a seat next to Ringgold. “There was a report of Variants swimming off the coast.”
Ringgold arched a brow. “And?”
“Nothing a few Apaches couldn’t handle,” Johnson replied. “So where are we? Have you connected with any other labs?”
Yokoyama repeated the situation, but his words didn’t have the same effect on Johnson. Any trace of emotion had disappeared from the Vice President’s face.
“With the help of those labs, we should be able to produce enough K
ryptonite to deploy around the world, but they are already behind schedule. Even if they start today, they won’t have finished batches for another two weeks,” Dr. Carmen said, scratching at his beard.
“Where exactly are these facilities? And how do we know they won’t be overrun with Variants when we go to launch Kryptonite?” Ringgold asked.
It was a good question, one Kate had thought of a few times. She tried not to think about her parents, and focus on the task at hand. There were still humans out there, people she could save.
“Lieutenant Davis, show us the locations of Project Earthfall,” Johnson said.
The Lieutenant walked over to the computer in the corner of the room and tapped at the keyboard.
“I can’t promise these locations are secure, but I can promise we will send enough soldiers to take the facilities back from the Variants if they have been compromised. At least for the silos that will launch Kryptonite over the US,” Johnson said. He folded his hands on the table.
“What about the others?” Kate asked. “The worldwide sites?”
“My staff has been in communication with the British and French militaries. There are other small contingents in Spain and Finland. We might be able to count on their soldiers to secure the Earthfall facilities in Europe. We’re still working on making contact with militaries in Asia and elsewhere, but rest assured, it’s only a matter of time.”
The overlay of a map spread over the wall behind President Ringgold and Vice President Johnson. They twisted for a better look.
Davis stood to the side of the image and used a pen to point at the red dots. “There are sixteen locations for Earthfall. Each placed strategically to manipulate the weather on a global scale. There’s one facility on each continent, and the others are spread out through the five oceans.”
“In order to coat the United States with Kryptonite, we will need to launch from these locations,” Davis said. She pointed to the dots in the Atlantic, Pacific, and one centered in the States.
“Is that in Colorado?” Ringgold asked.
“Yes, President Ringgold. It’s located in Rocky Mountain National Park, just above Estes Park, Colorado. The silo was constructed on one of the highest peaks,” Davis said.
Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4) Page 19