“Follow us, please,” another Medical Corps soldier said from the other end of the hall. Jake, Timothy, and the other civilians were already moving. Beckham’s gaze flicked from the man guarding Horn’s door and then his own escort.
“Please, sir, I don’t want any trouble,” the soldier said.
Beckham didn’t know his name or rank or anything about him, but he could tell the kid wasn’t a killer. Beckham wasn’t going to force him to become one. Flaring his nostrils, he stepped back into the line and followed the others. Horn sat on the bench inside his stall, his lumberjack arms wrapped around his torso. He offered a final nod of reassurance. Beckham returned the gesture.
“Stop at the red line,” said a voice at the end of the hallway. Two Medical Corps soldiers walked around a corner, M4s cradled across their chests.
“I’m Corporal Ingersoll,” one of them said. “You have all been cleared of infection and will be taken through these doors for a briefing.” He directed his sharp gaze at Beckham.
“Captain, please follow me.”
Beckham joined Ingersoll. The guards opened the metal doors and motioned for Jake, Timothy, and the others to go through. Durand stopped and looked at Beckham.
“You’re not going to get away with what you did back there,” he snarled. “We have protocols for a reason.”
“Sorry about your head, Doc, but you deserved it.”
A Medical Corps guard ushered Durand through the doors before he could reply.
“This way, Captain,” Ingersoll said. He gestured for Beckham to follow him down a connecting hallway that curved toward another set of metal doors.
“Where’s Kate?” Beckham asked.
“I’m taking you to her now. We have some news for you.”
That made Beckham walk faster. His next words came out in a rush. “What news? Is she okay? Is it the baby?”
“I think you’d better hear this from her.”
Beckham limped down the hall, heart stuttering in sync with the clicking of his blade on the white tiles.
When they got to the double doors, Ingersoll pushed them open. He nodded at Beckham and jerked his helmet toward a bright room furnished with medical equipment and a single bed. Kate was sitting with her legs over the side and her hand on her swollen stomach.
Beckham rushed over to her, almost slipping on the floor. “Kate, sweetheart, are you okay?”
Kate wiped away the tears rolling down her face. She smiled, and Beckham saw the tears weren’t of pain, but of joy.
“We’re having a boy, Reed,” she said. “We’re having a little boy.”
-4-
Fitz sat in the radio telephone operator seat of the MATV, watching tracer rounds spit across the sky like shooting stars. RIM-7 Sea Sparrows and smaller RIM-116 Rolling Airframe missiles were streaking away from the USS Iwo Jima toward the shore, the blasts blossoming into the air and bursting in exploding crimson bubbles. Operation Beachhead had officially begun.
Salt water spilled over the side of the landing craft air cushion carrying the MATV. Inside were two other all-terrain armored vehicles and a trio of armored Humvees, all mounted with M240s.
Flanked on all sides by dozens of other LCACs, the expeditionary force thumped over the waves, carrying over two thousand Marines and dozens of vehicles and tanks. The other MEUs would be doing the exact same thing in Spain, France, and Germany. Tens of thousands of American soldiers were about to embark on the biggest operation in Europe since D-Day. But unlike the trained American forces in WWII, most of these men and women were volunteers with no basic training.
The boat rumbled as a wing of AV-8B Harrier IIs tore overhead, their single-engines screaming. A dozen Ospreys followed, along with a trio of Black Hawks. Next came the Bell AH-1Z Viper attack helicopters. They buzzed across the night like a swarm of angry bugs.
Fitz held onto the handle above his door as the LCAC jolted over a wave. Mist sprayed in through the open window and drenched the windshield. Stevenson turned on the wipers. They squeaked across, clearing the view just as more missiles screamed into the sky. The Iwo Jima and the other two destroyers were about a mile out, launching their arsenal at Variant coordinates provided by Marine Recon units. The USS Forrest Sherman still hadn’t joined the expeditionary force, but it wasn’t far behind now.
Apollo looked up from the floor, and Fitz patted him on his head. The dog had been through hundreds of hours of combat in the past few months, but this was his first invasion. It wasn’t Fitz’s first rodeo, however. He had been there at the start of Operation Iraqi Freedom, rolling into Baghdad on the front lines with the other Marines. Fighting Saddam’s forces was much less frightening than facing the monsters of the new world, especially with the rumors of even nastier beasts emerging across the European front.
An icy ball formed in the pit of Fitz’s stomach as he stroked Apollo’s fur. He wasn’t worried about losing his life. But he was responsible for more lives than just his own now. He was worried about Apollo, the members of Team Ghost, and all of the other young men and women with the MEU.
In the back seat, Rico was writing in a journal. Tanaka seemed oblivious to the assault, but Fitz knew the man was taking a measure of their approach while listening to his music. Dohi was watching the waves for anything hostile. Stevenson kept his eyes on the water, too, and his hands on the steering wheel.
“What you listenin’ to, Tanaka?” Stevenson called.
Tanaka didn’t reply at first. He looked up to the front seat like he was unsure if Stevenson was messing with him.
“Tupac,” Tanaka finally said.
“You love that old school shit.”
“That’s old school?” Fitz said. “Shit, now you’re making me feel old.”
Stevenson grinned. “You are old, sir.”
Rico rolled her eyes at Fitz. He cracked a half grin and went back to patting Apollo’s head. As the boat slapped over the waves, he found himself not looking to the future but to the past.
“Seventy years ago, my grandfather was on a landing craft headed for a beach just like this on D-Day,” Fitz mused out loud. “Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
“My grandpa too,” said Stevenson.
Fitz blinked in surprise. “For real? I didn’t know that there were…I mean, I thought that…”
He trailed off, realizing his foot was firmly wedged in his mouth.
Stevenson just laughed. “African-American soldiers fought in Operation Overlord, sir. Only the history books don’t talk about it so much. My grandpa talked about having to dig graves for American troops, but trust me, he also killed his fair share of Nazis. ”
“Wonder if the history books will be talking about us someday,” said Rico.
Fitz smiled, but his heart wasn’t in it. He let his mind wander. Rumors of massive underground meat factories, eerily similar to the concentration camps of the Nazis, had reached them. The EUF had discovered several WWII bunkers filled with human prisoners, all being used to feed the growing juvenile armies that were eating their way across Europe. He knew they wouldn’t all make it back from this mission in one piece. They were facing the worst threat humanity had ever seen.
A transmission crackled in Fitz’s earpiece, a welcome distraction from his thoughts.
“Command, this is Delta 1. First flyover shows no signs of juveniles or adults. Infrared is picking up zero. Over.”
Another voice replied, “Copy that, Delta 1. Fox 1 to 6, you have permission to land. Repeat, you have permission to land.”
“Roger,” Fox 1 replied. “We’re preparing to dock.”
The first wave was made up of the M1A1 Abrams Tanks, LAV-25 Light Armored Vehicles, Humvees, and Assault Breacher Vehicles. Team Ghost was part of the second wave. Most of the ground troops were in the second and third waves, held back to cut down on casualties in case there were any Variants lurking near the landing point
s. The plan was pretty simple: Let their eyes in the sky identify Variant nests and soften up those areas with heavy artillery. Then send in the troops to mop up the rest.
General Nixon’s strategy didn’t seem much different than those his predecessors had used during Operation Liberty and every other mission since the Hemorrhage Virus raged across the states. Fitz had questioned the orders back on the Iwo Jima, but the commanders had shut him down, insisting they had learned from their mistakes and that this operation was different.
He sure hoped they were right about that. Commander Bradley was right about one thing at least—the juveniles were very different from their parents. And Europe wasn’t just crawling with Variant offspring; it was still swarming with adults, too. Which meant more of the little bastards would be coming.
Colonel Gibson, the man behind this nightmare, couldn’t possibly have known what his engineered bioweapon would spawn. The colonel was dead now, but the terror he had helped create lived on. First the Hemorrhage Virus, then the Variants, and now the ever-evolving juveniles.
The nightmare is just beginning, Fitz thought as the boat skirted over the water. He remembered what Dr. Ellis had said about the children. They were far more intelligent than any serial killer or Nazi general, not to mention stronger and faster. Even worse, they were developing more weapons to fight against humans, from the toxins to thicker armor and flame-resistant flesh. The beasts were more than a new breed of monsters—they were the ultimate predator. Kate and her team were studying the creatures and sending updates to the military, but that intel rarely got all the way down to Fitz, and he hadn’t been able to talk to Beckham or Kate for several days.
“I’ll be right back,” Fitz said. He opened the door and stepped out onto the deck of the landing craft. The vibration ran up his carbon fiber blades and his thighs like the tingle from gripping a motorcycle throttle.
Fitz shut the door just as the back door opened and Rico jumped out. She tucked her small journal in her pocket, and they stood next to each other to watch the tracer rounds split the horizon. Sparrows and RAMs continued to fly overhead.
Rico blew a bubble that popped the same moment a trio of missiles hit a cliff. The sparks showered onto the beach, illuminating the rocky terrain and the first of the LCACs making up the first wave.
There was no sign of Variants or juveniles on the shore. Perhaps Command had been right about this one.
He unstrapped his MK11 and brought the scope to his eye, scanning the beach with the infrared optics. The juveniles could be difficult to detect because their armored shells blocked their heat signatures, but all he saw were smooth rocks and sand.
“Anything?” Rico asked. She gestured for his rifle.
He handed it to her and took a step back, using the moment to examine the other vehicles in the landing craft. There were fifty Marines aboard, all inside their all-terrain vehicles. Some of them were just kids and hadn’t even finished their training. Others were aging vets that had been saved from the cities and had answered Ringgold’s call to serve. Doing so meant they got to eat better than the people back at the SZTs. Other than Plum Island, most of the strongholds were disease-infested communities plagued with violence and crime.
The boat jolted again as the bottom scraped over a rock.
Fitz cupped his hand over the radio to hear an incoming transmission over the distant explosions and the exhaust from the turbo fans at the rear of the LCAC.
“Command, this is Fox 1, we’ve reached the shore. No sign of contacts. Preparing to disembark, over.”
“Copy that, Fox 1. You have a green light to proceed. Stay frosty.”
Fitz patted Rico’s shoulder and took his rifle back. He walked to the metal landing ramp at the right side of the craft. A middle-aged Marine with his arm in a sling stood at the gate, his helmet and flak jacket soaked with salt water from the spray. Through the mist, Fitz could see the first wave of boats running ashore. The ramps opened, and Humvees shot out onto the beach. The tankers followed in the M1A1s, plowing over the sand.
“Master Sergeant, you’re supposed to stay in your vehicle until we beach,” the Marine said. “Please get back to—”
A thud rocked the side of the landing craft, cutting the man off mid-sentence. He glanced over his shoulder, then back at Fitz. “You hear that?”
“Just a wave,” Fitz said. He looked past the sentry, focusing on the ocean. It was difficult to see in the darkness, and he could only spot the outlines of the other LCACs to the east. Rico joined him at the ramp and grabbed the railing.
“Please return to your vehicle,” said the Marine guard. “We’re going to be on the beach in a couple minutes.”
“We’re going, just give me a second,” Fitz replied. He scoped the shoreline again and zoomed in on the tanks. They were crawling across the beach toward a dirt ramp that curved up and over the cliffs.
Fitz roved his rifle back and forth when he saw a sudden flash of motion at the top of one of those cliffs. He jerked the gun back to a figure skittering up a jagged summit like a spider. The monster crested the peak and perched.
“Command, this is Fox 1. Beach is clear of contacts, repeat…”
Another jolt hit the side of the LCAC.
“What the hell are we hitting?” Rico asked. “It’s not supposed to be shallow out here.”
Fitz didn’t reply. He zoomed in on the biggest juvenile Variant he had ever seen. The beast, covered from head to feet in plates of armor, was crouched like a gargoyle on the rocks over the beach.
Fitz pushed his mini-mic into position to report the contact when another transmission came over the net.
“Command, this is Fox 1. Our tracks are stuck in something.”
“Come again, Fox 1.”
Fitz centered his gun on the Abrams. Several of them were stopped about halfway up the beach, not far from the natural sandy incline leading out. Steam from the engines rose around them like steaks cooking in a skillet.
White noise crackled from his headset, the spotty transmissions breaking up.
“Tracks… Stuck in some sort of oil…” the tank commander replied over the comms. “Something’s burning.”
Fitz aimed back at the Variant. It was gone now. A pair of Black Hawks swooped over the spot where it had been and headed back to sea.
“This is all wrong,” Fitz whispered. He lowered his rifle and opened the channel to Command. “This is Ghost 1, reporting hostiles on the cliffs. Over.”
“Copy that, Ghost 1. How many did you see?”
“One,” Fitz replied, realizing how silly it sounded.
The reply was shortly delayed.
“Ghost 1, Command. Advise if you spot anything else. Over.”
Fitz’s cheeks flared with embarrassment. He turned to move back to his vehicle, but then he saw something that made him stop. The whitecaps near the LCAC looked strange. He elbowed the Marine out of the way, squinting for a better look at what could have been fins in the water.
Flares suddenly shot into the sky in all directions from the second wave of the MEU. Their red light illuminated the water and beach.
Boom, boom, boom.
The sound of more flares fired above, and in their wake came a sight that seized the breath from Fitz’s lungs. Those weren’t waves at all—they were the turtle-like shells of juveniles swimming just beneath the water. Hundreds of them.
All at once they seemed to jump from the water, claws extended and puckered mouths popping. The beasts leapt onto the sides of the LCACs and clung like barnacles.
“CONTACTS!” Fitz screamed. He swung his MK11 up just as one of the creatures grabbed the Marine guard by the back of the neck. The monster plucked his head off with the ease of a man popping the tail off a shrimp. The sound of the man’s skull disconnecting from his spine made Fitz’s stomach roll. He angled his MK11 up, chambered a round, and shot the monster i
n the right eye, blowing out the back of its head over the water.
Rico grabbed Fitz and pulled him away from the ramp as two more of the beasts emerged, their claws gripping the top gate of the landing craft. Their talons shrieked over the metal as they pulled themselves up.
“Move!” Rico screamed. “Get back to the MATV!”
Fitz fired off two more rounds as soon as a pair of bulbous eyes emerged over the side of the ramp. One of the creatures opened its mouth and sucked down a round that exited through the armor lining its neck. The second juvenile jerked to the left an instant too late, and Fitz shot it in the skull. Chunks of armor and flesh peppered his helmet.
“On the 240s!” he yelled, waving to the other vehicles. He pushed his mini-mic to his lips and opened the channel to Team Ghost. “Dohi, get on the big gun!”
Marines emerged from their MATVs and climbed into the turrets, swerving the automatic weapons into position. Within seconds the whine of 7.62mm rounds sounded, echoing in the enclosed space. They streaked in all directions, smashing through armored plates and sending juveniles spinning down to watery graves.
“Don’t hit the sides of the ship!” Fitz yelled. But it wasn’t just the rounds he was worried about cutting through the delicate landing craft. It was the talons of the juveniles. He ran back to his MATV and opened the passenger door.
Stevenson beat on the wheel. “Close the door!”
Apollo was barking at the approaching monsters, saliva dripping from his maw. Fitz turned where he stood and fired. Two more of the juveniles vanished over the high walls of the LCAC. He chambered another round and was moving into the vehicle when an explosion on the beach commanded his attention. The Abrams had opened fire. Fitz zoomed in with his rifle at dozens of creatures mounting the bluffs. Several of the beasts jumped into the air as the shells punched into the cliffs, blowing pieces of rock sky high.
Another explosion flashed in his peripheral. He pulled his scope away to see the beach ignite in a massive blue fireball. The heat was fast and intense, and he could feel it on his face even a quarter-mile from shore.
Extinction Aftermath (Extinction Cycle Book 6) Page 7