Gibson’s profile reappeared. “Make no mistake gentlemen, the likelihood of anyone inside being alive is slim to none. You may be walking into a morgue.” He paused briefly and then added, “In approximately one hour from this briefing you will land at Edwards Air Force Base. From there you will rendezvous with two men from our Emergency Operations Center: Major Caster and Major Noble. Noble is a virologist and a damn good one. You will then be fitted to your protective suits and further briefed. After securing your equipment, you will proceed to San Nicholas Island by helicopter. By this time tomorrow I hope to be congratulating you all via conference call after you acquire the sample. Good luck.”
The video fizzled out, and Beckham looked up to meet the intense stares from his team. Their eyes pleaded for reassurance, for Beckham to say something inspirational.
He sat there trying to think of something, but his mind raced. Suddenly, a single image froze there. He could see the black, detached eyes of Lieutenant Brett as vividly as if he was staring right at the man. He finally understood why they’d been activated. They were protecting Gibson’s men from a possible Brett.
A distant voice snapped Beckham from his thoughts. The youngest and smallest team member, Sergeant Riley, stared from across the aisle. An overhead light illuminated his youthful features, reminding Beckham why the man had earned the name Kid. With light blue eyes and an enthusiastic and contagious laugh, Riley was the team’s little brother. He wore a constant cheerful grin.
“Guess we aren’t going to the Keys after all?”
“No,” Beckham replied grimly.
Riley pulled the bandana with the illustration of a smiling Joker over his mouth and let out a deep laugh. “Good, I didn’t want to go anyways.”
Several of the other men chuckled. Big Horn reached over and smacked the kid’s armored knee. “Think of this like a game of football. That’s what I do,” he said, crossing his arms. “War is easier when you compare it to something you’re good at.”
Riley fidgeted with the bandana. The kid was still new and he was probably nervous as all hell.
Beckham didn’t blame him. Shit, he was nervous too. He considered telling Riley that everything would be fine, that the mission was just a routine recovery, but that would be a lie. Beckham had never lied to his men and wasn’t about to start now.
Stiffening his back, he locked eyes with Tenor, his co-lead. “We’re gonna get in, grab the sample, and get out.” Turning to Riley, he said, “And hopefully we will have some leave left when this is all over.”
Riley let out his infamous and reassuring chuckle. It reminded Beckham of the time Riley had climbed on stage at The Bing and danced in his underwear, which had actually been closer to a thong. At least they had the kid to lighten up the mood when it grew dark.
“So do you guys want to tell me what the hell is going on?” Ellis asked. He squirmed under his harness and craned his neck toward Beckham.
The other men grew quiet, and the noise from the motors reclaimed the troop hold. They would let Beckham respond.
Closing his eyes, he took in a short, silent breath and rested his helmet on the metal wall behind him. Need to know info only, Beckham thought as he blinked and started at the bank of LEDs above.
“You’re on a reclamation mission, doctor. Target is a sample of work that the Medical Corps was working on at a secret location.”
“What kind of sample?”
“Classified,” Beckham replied.
“That’s just great,” Ellis huffed, settling back into his seat.
Satisfied with his cryptic answer, Beckham closed his eyes again. With any luck he would snag a nap before they landed. And if he was really lucky he wouldn’t dream of any hemorrhaging Ebola patients—or worse, images of the monster that Lieutenant Brett had transformed into.
-2-
Beckham woke up suddenly, his neck straining as he lurched forward. The dim cabin lighting revealed the silhouettes of his team. Their heads bobbed up and down in the slight turbulence. Glancing down at his wristwatch he saw he’d slept for half an hour. Not bad, considering, he thought.
“Catch some sleep?” an eager voice said.
He nodded and made brief eye contact with Dr. Ellis. He knew the doctor wanted to discuss the mission, but Beckham had no such plans. He reached for his bag and pretended to do a gear check, hoping the man would get the picture.
It didn’t work.
“This is all pretty exciting. I’ve never been attached to a military unit before,” Ellis said, leaning over in his seat as if he didn’t want anyone to overhear their one-sided conversation.
Beckham pulled the magazine out of his MP5 with a metallic snap. The sound echoed in the compartment. Helmets shot up instantly at the noise.
“Never seen one of those before. I prefer a shotgun myself. You don’t have to be as good a shot.” Ellis paused and scrutinized Beckham, “I guess you don’t really have to worry about aiming. You look like you could hit a target from a mile away.”
Beckham caught a glimpse of the MP peeking his head around Horn at the far end of the aircraft to get a better look at the doctor.
“Listen. Dr. Ellis,” Beckham began to say.
“Ellis, call me Ellis.”
“Okay. Ellis. I’m not big on conversation. And even if I were, I wouldn’t tell you anything I haven't already. Orders are orders. Nothin’ personal,” he said, jamming the magazine back into his weapon with a loud click.
“I understand, sir,” the man said.
“Master Sergeant, or just Sergeant. But not sir. I’m an NCO. I work for my rank,” Beckham said. Through his peripheral vision he watched Ellis nod and run a hand through his jet black hair, slicking it back.
They endured the rest of the flight in silence, the Osprey rocking back and forth as they traveled through a rainstorm. It gave Beckham time to contemplate the mission in more detail. He knew little of chemical and biological weapons besides the fact that their development had been banned decades ago. He knew even less about viruses such as Ebola or Marburg Fever. Most of what he had picked up over the years had come from his training. If one thing was clear, it was that the average American civilian lived under the constant threat of a chemical or biological attack. Even with the strides the government had made over the past two decades with organizing first responder teams, they were all just one accident or attack away from Armageddon.
If Gibson had his way, the public would remain in the dark. That’s why Beckham was sitting with a team of ‘ghosts’ in an Osprey. They existed for the sole purpose of making sure the average civilian had no idea just how close they were to the apocalypse.
Ignorance is bliss, he mused. He shook his head, cursing his luck just as the pilot said, “Prepare for landing. ETA fifteen minutes.”
The sound of gear rustling filled the aircraft, and Beckham didn’t hear the rap of the footfalls from the MP.
“Master Sergeant,” the soldier said, stopping in front of Beckham. “This is where I get off. Major Caster and Major Noble will brief your team further.” He shot Ellis a glare and then said, “Good luck.”
Beckham nodded. He didn’t like the MP. There was just something about the man’s two-dimensional personality. The feeling added to the sour sensation growing in the pit of his stomach. He’d learned a long time ago never to trust someone without a sense of humor. Over the years Beckham had grown to know many men in his career that lacked this trait. He’d found it was a good way to judge character.
The Osprey lurched forward and then began to sway side to side as they descended. With an audible thud the tires connected with the tarmac, the chopper shaking before it settled.
As soon as they were stopped, Chief Wright stood and punched the button to the cargo bay door. It groaned open, and the MP disappeared into the darkness.
“Good riddance,” Ellis said under his breath. “Now can you tell me what’s going on?”
“No, but I can,” a new voice said.
Standing in the s
hadows of the aircraft were two men, both officers. The larger man on the right filled his uniform out with a thick set of arms and broad shoulders. The other officer took off a pair of black-rimmed glasses and said, “Welcome to Edwards Air Force Base. I’m Major Noble, and this is Major Caster. We're here on orders from Colonel Gibson. If you would please come with us, time is of the essence.”
Beckham stood and motioned his team out of the Osprey and onto the wet tarmac. They followed the two men toward a cluster of well-lit buildings. A warm breeze rustled across the runway, quite the change in weather from North Carolina. The air felt good. Not as good as Florida would have felt, but better than what they had just come from in Afghanistan.
They crossed the tarmac swiftly, making their way toward an unmarked metal building. Two guards wearing the insignia of the Medical Corps stood outside with M4s.
Noble approached a set of double doors and swung them open for the team. Inside, Beckham expected to find a room bustling with activity, but instead a dimly lit space greeted them. Four metal tables had been set up in the center of the room, gear stacked neatly on top of them. There were gloves, helmets, and hazard suits.
Beckham followed his men over to the first table. Curious, he reached out and grabbed one of the suits. This one looked different than the one he’d trained in before. Thinner and more advanced.
Caster lowered his hand, motioning for Beckham to put the suit down. “We don’t have much time,” he said from the front of the room, looking down at his watch. “Our Blackhawk leaves in fifteen minutes. Major Noble will explain and help you into your gear. We can discuss the mission further on the flight to San Nicholas. Unfortunately, I don’t have much new data beyond what Colonel Gibson’s briefing already provided. We have attempted multiple communications with Building 8. All have failed. If anyone is alive, they aren’t answering.”
Noble stepped forward. He scanned the faces of the team individually, locking eyes with every member, stopping last on Beckham. Clearing his throat, he said, “Gentlemen, I never thought we would be in this situation. One of our most secure facilities has somehow been compromised. We don’t know what we are dealing with, but we aren’t ruling anything out. Could be an accident or could be an act of terror. We just don’t know. That’s why you are here. You are one of the best teams the U.S. military has to offer.” He paused and reached for one of the neatly stacked suits.
Beckham narrowed his eyes, focusing on Major Noble. “Sir, have you considered sabotage from within?”
The officer shrugged. “Like Major Caster said, nothing is off the table.”
Unfolding the suit, Noble continued, “This is the most advanced chemical, biological, radiological, and nuclear suit available, designed with a new class of membrane. The manufacturer incorporated nanopores that are filled with novel ionic polymers. In short, it allows water vapor to pass through, so it isn’t so hot. You may also notice there aren’t oxygen tanks. The gas masks are state of the art. They filter out ninety-nine percent of any contagions you may encounter. They are a prototype, but…”
Riley wedged his way through the group. “Did you say prototype, sir?”
Noble nodded. “You heard right. Rest assured. You will be fine.”
Beckham waited for Riley to say something stupid, but to his surprise, the younger operator backed away.
“So what exactly are we going to need those for?” Doctor Ellis asked from behind the team. He was still standing in front of the door, hidden by the large frames of Beckham’s men.
“Ah, you must be Dr. Ellis with the CDC. Glad to have you here. I know this has all been very last minute. I understand you are a virologist?” Noble said, he pulled a notepad from a pocket and thumbed through it. “Yes, here we go,” he said narrowing his gaze. “You graduated at the top of your class from the University of California, Berkeley, in the Infectious Diseases Program,” he said and then paused. “I was class of '95.”
“That’s right. Crazy coincidence, but what I really want to know is why am I here?”
“Some clause in a law written by politicians who have no idea about the nature of our business,” Caster said.
“Checks and balances,” Beckham added with a snort.
“Due to the top secret nature of this mission, there are certain things you aren’t supposed to know, but…” Noble began to say.
Caster took over. “With time being a concern, I’m going to say fuck protocol, so listen up. Our mission is to retrieve the work of Dr. Medford, the lead assigned to Section 4 of Building 8, I believe…” He glanced at Noble and added, “We believe that this isn’t a matter of sabotage or terrorism, but there may be hostages. A different type of hostage.”
“The fuck does that mean?” Horn exclaimed. “I thought you said you didn’t know what we are dealing with.” He pulled his skull mask away from his mouth.
“We did. It’s only a theory, but if I’m right it means we are dealing with a potential viral outbreak, one where ‘human hostages’ has taken on a whole new meaning,” Noble said.
Caster nodded. “As you know, Colonel Gibson received a message from Building 8. Medford explained they were working with VX-99 in an attempt to destroy the new Zaire Strain of Ebola. We think when he attempted to kill the virus, the chemicals bonded with the virus shell, mutating the strain into something else.”
Caster ran a finger over his right eyebrow. “Truth is, if things are as bad as I think they might be, then we are going to need more than your expertise and skill to retrieve Dr. Medford’s work. We are going to need some luck.”
“Wait a second,” Dr. Ellis blurted. “Can you explain that last sentence?”
“I believe Dr. Medford may have inadvertently created a new virus in his attempt to destroy the Ebola virus. And I believe his team may be infected.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Noble said with a hand raised.
Ellis ran a hand through his hair and blinked rapidly like he was trying to make sense of the situation.
Caster seemed to notice the man’s change in demeanor and said, “Can you handle this, Dr. Ellis? Legally, we are required to have you here, but you don’t have to go with the team if you don’t want to. We can’t force you to do so.”
“Yes,” Ellis replied assertively. His posture said otherwise. His shoulders sagged, and his thin frame seemed to shrink inside his jacket as if he was trying to hide.
Ten minutes later they were on the move with their gear in tow. The pale CDC virologist followed the rest of the team onto the tarmac. Like a child that had used up all of his energy, the doctor seemed defeated. Beckham spied a glimpse of the man’s face and could see he didn’t just look defeated—he looked terrified.
They climbed solemnly into the belly of the Blackhawk. Everyone on the team knew this was no longer a routine mission. They were up against an unknown enemy, unlike any they had ever faced.
Beckham took the seat closest to the cockpit and saw Chief Wright scrutinizing him for the second time. “Guess you aren’t dropping into a war zone after all. Now the extra hazardous duty pay makes sense.”
This time Beckham didn’t respond at all. He focused on the briefing and began the mental prep for the mission. By the time they were airborne, it was finally all beginning to sink in, and he couldn’t believe their luck.
Instead of paradise, he was preparing to enter hell—a hell that terrified him unlike any other he could think of. He remembered the first years of his training as a Delta Force Operator, back in the House of Horrors, the nickname for the training facility where he became an operator.
It was there that he had attended a week-long NBC course where experts explained the effects of the various nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons. He could still remember pulling that first gas mask over his face and the intense terror he’d experienced knowing he couldn’t see the enemy. He’d pushed through and learned to adapt to the equipment, but he would never forget how it made him feel—the tightness in his lungs, the shallow breathing
.
Beckham fumbled with the helmet on his lap, staring intensely at the visor. If anyone had ever known, he would never have become an operator.
“Remember, those suits are state of the art, but they aren’t indestructible. The tiniest tear will expose you to any contagions in the lab,” Noble reminded the team.
Beckham looked down the aisle at Big Horn and Panda and then across the way at Edwards, the Kid, and Tenor. They slipped into their suits, and the well-rehearsed chorus of pre-combat rituals echoed off the metal walls as they broke in their new gear.
Pulling back a handful of his thick brown hair, Beckham stuffed the helmet over his head, feeling the narrow sides squeeze the shadow of a beard clinging to his face. He cringed as he pulled it over his nose and mouth. No matter how much the military tried, they couldn’t seem to acquire equipment that didn’t smell like cheap plastic. For a suit that was supposed to protect him from the nastiest contagions, he was surprised it was part of the design. He sucked in one last breath of fresh air before securing the helmet with a click and then he grabbed his night vision goggles. They were the most advanced optics on the market, with four 16mm image-intensifying tubes that earned them the nickname “four eyes.” He slipped the strap over the top of his helmet, positioning them over his visor.
Instead of a headset, the team was connected by a comm system built into their suits. Bumping his chin on a small pad, Beckham could open up a line to his men.
“Testing,” he said. His voice sounded remarkably clear. Satisfied, he continued, “Listen up. I know you're all disappointed that we’re not taking shots of Bacardi at The Bing right now, but remember we have no idea what we are heading into. So stop feeling sorry for yourselves and suck it up. We need to bring our A game to this one, Ghost. The Bing'll be waiting for us when we get back.”
“Don’t remind us of The Bing!” Riley laughed. “What’s that dancer’s name who said she wanted to marry you? She’s going to be very disappointed.”
The kid loved women. He loved them in all shapes and all sizes. And whenever they were granted leave, Riley made sure he experienced all the locals had to offer.
Extinction Horizon (The Extinction Cycle Book 1) Page 4