“Wooooo!” Mendez wailed. “That’s how we do this shit!”
The remaining Variants flagged in their assault, turning and squawking like disoriented beasts at the death of their monstrous leaders. They scattered as the soldiers and Marines fired into their fleeing ranks.
“Parking lot clear,” came a voice over the public channel. “All units near the parking lot, fall back to command.”
Fitz retreated with Team Ghost, listening to the rattle of gunfire. Some of it came from the airfield where people still rushed through nearby streets, streaming toward the planes waiting to evacuate them.
Two helicopters circled, their door gunners firing bursts to keep back the Variants.
An officer moved onto the landing of the command building.
“Fine work, everyone!” he yelled.
Several grunts and “Oorahs,” roared from the men.
“Don’t celebrate yet,” the officer said. “We have another group pinned down. We need volunteers to extract them. The rest of us will stay here and hold this post.”
“Where are they?” someone asked.
The officer pointed toward a cluster of buildings about a mile away from the command building.
“Damn,” Mendez muttered.
Fitz looked at his team in turn. There was no way they could stand idly by while those families were stuck out there. But at the same time, they were needed here to help defend the command.
“Dohi, Rico…” Fitz said. His words trailed off. Could he really send his girlfriend out there? He hated doing it, but she was the second in command. When Ghost split into Alpha and Bravo teams, Bravo was always hers.
He had to trust her like she trusted him.
“We got this, Fitzie,” she said, chewing on her gum. She jogged with Dohi toward a group of volunteers gathering in front of the officer, apparently not even thinking twice about heading behind enemy lines.
Fitz swallowed hard and looked out from the base wondering how long they could hold back the beasts. If the previous night’s attack was just the beginning, the next time the Variant hordes returned, they would crash over the Allied States’ defenses.
— 2 —
Marine One and Marine Two flew north to the USS George Johnson. The choppers hugged the eastern shore close enough that Captain Reed Beckham could see the fires on the horizon.
An inferno blazed in Outpost New Boston.
After eight years of peace and reconstruction, everything was falling apart. If they didn’t stop this invasion soon, the Allied States would be nothing but ashes.
“Must be collaborators,” said Master Sergeant Parker Horn.
“Yeah,” Beckham agreed.
Variants didn’t use guns, but the collaborators and their raiding parties were well versed in guerrilla warfare, utilizing everything from C4 to the acid produced by Variants.
Almost every face in Marine One was turned to the windows. Kate had Javier wrapped up in her arms next to Beckham, and Horn watched the fires next to Tasha and Jenny. An unlit cigarette wobbled between his lips as he cursed under his breath.
“We shouldn’t have left Timothy,” Tasha said, wiping her eyes.
“He’s going to be okay,” Horn replied.
Beckham nodded back. He wanted to believe they could stop the invading monsters and collaborators, but with the addition of juveniles in their army, he wasn’t so sure.
Command didn’t even know the Variants’ strength anymore or where the masterminds controlling the hordes were located.
For a split-second back in the Presidential Emergency Operations Center (PEOC), Beckham had given some thought to Brigadier General Lucas Barnes’s suggestion to nuke the cities where they suspected the masterminds might be. But even using low-yield nuclear weapons was no guarantee they would stop the masterminds, and it would guarantee the death of any human prisoners there along with the people in the surrounding outposts.
Evacuating those outposts by land would be nearly impossible now that the Variants were attacking and surrounding them. It would be almost as difficult by air, given the dearth of resources currently available to the Allied States and the sheer number of people who would need to be transported.
The numbers simply didn’t add up, and places like Outpost Boston only had one option right now.
Stand their ground and fight.
“We should have evacuated before,” Beckham said quietly.
“Do you think Portland is going to be okay?” Kate asked.
Javier glanced up to his dad for an answer.
“Portland is a long way from the main target cities and it’s well-defended,” Beckham said. “They should be fine.”
He said it as much to reassure himself as the others.
“I’m worried about Donna, Bo, and Timothy.” Javier’s gaze flitted from Beckham to Kate and then back again. “They’re going to get on another helicopter, right, Dad?”
“If we think they’re in trouble, we’ll get them out of there,” Beckham said.
He exchanged a glance with Kate, seeing the extreme worry in her eyes.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
“Where are you going?” Javier asked.
“To talk with the president.”
Kate pulled Javier closer while Beckham made his way through the technicians, soldiers, and others occupying the troop hold between the leather seats. The helicopter was packed to the limit.
Standing between Beckham and the president was Doctor Jeff Carr and two lab technicians. The group was talking about the mastermind Variants and juveniles.
Beckham squeezed past them, more interested in what the president’s team was talking about. They huddled in seats near the cockpit. Chief of Staff James Soprano and National Security Advisor Ben Nelson shared reports with President Ringgold and Vice President Dan Lemke, while Chief of Staff Elizabeth Cortez spoke on a satellite phone.
Judging by their dour looks, the reports coming in were anything but good.
Once he made it directly behind Nelson, Beckham picked up a few things from the conversation. Cortez said something about the US Bank Stadium in Minneapolis being destroyed and the hordes being pushed back from the walls of Outpost Chicago.
“Our forces have repelled the attack at the White House, too,” said Lemke. “The area is being secured.”
“Thank God,” Ringgold said, breathing an audible sigh of relief.
“We dodged some bullets tonight, especially at Portland,” Cortez said.
Ringgold spotted Beckham and waved him over.
“Captain Beckham, join me,” she said. “How much of our situation did you overhear?”
“I heard the White House has been secured,” Beckham said.
Ringgold nodded. Her expression softened. “Team Ghost made it to Scott AFB, and they’ve helped hold back the Variant hordes, but I’m afraid I have bad news about Outpost Portland.”
Beckham’s stomach curdled.
“An assault started a few minutes ago,” Lemke said.
“Reports indicate the collaborators hit from the inside,” Nelson said.
Beckham’s mind raced with thoughts of Donna, Bo, Timothy, and everyone else.
He should never have left them.
He should have stayed to fight.
But once again, he had fled the fighting to protect his family.
“There must be a collaborator sleeper cell involved,” Nelson said. “These assholes made it into the outpost far too easily.”
“Based on what we’re seeing, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s true for many of the outposts,” Lemke said.
“That would explain how the first raiders on Peaks Island knew where the lab was,” Beckham said. No, he knew they weren’t simple raiders.
They were collaborators.
In his mind’s eye he saw the pair of would-be assassins back at the campaign rally. Before one had died, he had said, “Adios, Reed.” He couldn’t help wondering if there was something personal about this. Almost as i
f the collaborators and Variants held a grudge against him.
Couldn’t be, though. Could it?
He tried to shake the idea, turning his thoughts back to who might be working with the collaborators inside Outpost Portland.
Was someone he called a friend actually a traitor?
Chances were good the culprits hadn’t betrayed their neighbors purely out of evil. It was more likely the collaborators had threatened their family or held some kind of leverage over them. Maybe they had convinced them that a Variants victory was all but assured and the monsters would spare their lives if they cooperated.
Whatever they had done to seduce people within the outposts, Beckham knew one thing: It was all lies.
“How long until we land?” he asked.
Nelson peered at his watch. “About thirty minutes. Maybe a bit less.”
Beckham looked over his shoulder at his family. He saw Big Horn leaning over to talk with Tasha and Jenny, too. Horn had to have identical thoughts as him—that returning to fight risked condemning their kids to the same fate as Timothy Temper.
Fatherless.
Just like Timothy, Tasha and Jenny would become orphans.
Beckham wasn’t sure what to do. He couldn’t bear the thought of Kate raising all three kids on her own. But they couldn’t just abandon Bo, Donna, and Timothy to the monsters and collaborators. He would never be able to live with himself.
“Madam President, would you consider sending Marine One and Marine Two back to Portland to evacuate more people?” Beckham asked.
“Already planning on it,” Ringgold said. She narrowed her eyes, studying Beckham. “I hope you’re not thinking about going back with the helicopters though. We already have plenty of boots on the ground.”
Beckham gathered his thoughts for a second.
“Outpost Portland is my home,” Beckham said. “It wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t at least help manage the evacuation.”
“I wish you would reconsider your position,” Ringgold said. “There are others more than capable of helping your friends and neighbors.”
Cortez finished up another call, then turned to the others, interrupting the conversation.
“I just received an update on the outposts around the target cities,” Cortez said. “Our bombers are going back for another run.”
No one said a word as Marine One curved away from the shoreline and headed farther out to sea. The dark gray shapes cutting through the water confirmed the rest of the 1st Fleet had gathered around the USS George Johnson.
Nelson broke the silence. “You sure it’s safe out here?”
“Unless the collaborators have also commandeered a warship,” Lemke said.
“It wouldn’t be the first time one of our enemies have,” Ringgold said.
Beckham guessed she was thinking about Resistance of Tyranny (ROT), and how Lieutenant Andrew Wood had managed to gain control of Navy warships to launch a coup against Ringgold’s administration.
“Even if we think we’ve got control over all our ships,” Beckham began, “what if a collaborator has infiltrated our ranks and made it on one?”
“That is highly unlikely,” Lemke said. “Every sailor on the 1st Fleet has been thoroughly vetted.”
“Highly unlikely is what we would have said two weeks ago about the attacks around our country,” Ringgold said. “But Captain Beckham has a point. We underestimated the monsters and their collaborators. Now we’re paying the price.”
Lemke didn’t look pleased, his lips curving into a frown. Finally he said, “You’re right. I’ll have General Souza dedicate a team to investigating everyone on those ships.”
“I’d advise sending the USS George Johnson to a covert location, isolated from the other ships, until we can confirm there are no collaborators among the rest of the Fleet.” Beckham said.
Ringgold looked at Lemke, prompting him to speak first.
“That doesn’t sound like a half-bad idea,” he replied.
“Then let’s make it happen,” Ringgold said.
She gestured at Nelson who took the satellite phone from Cortez to call in the order.
“Prepare for landing,” said one of the pilots.
The bird dipped through the choppy air, preparing to touch down on the sternward helipad of the Zumwalt Class Destroyer. Beckham retreated to his family. Javier latched onto him as the chopper landed.
“It’s okay, bud,” Beckham said. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
A Marine opened the side door, and a cold wind blew inside. The passengers filtered out, starting with the president and vice president. Beckham glimpsed a scene of organized chaos on the decks of the ships flanking the stealth destroyer.
Groups of Marines and soldiers were gathered, waiting to board flights that would take them back to the land for missions around the country.
Several F-22 Raptors took off and rose into the sky from an aircraft carrier, their tails glowing as they tore across the horizon. They would join the bombers to pound the Variant hordes.
Beckham helped his family onto the deck and herded them toward a hatch where Marines were waving people inside.
“Civilians this way!” yelled one of the men.
“Science team follow me!” shouted another.
Kate and Beckham stopped inside the passage with Javier, letting others pass them.
“You have that look, Reed,” Kate said. “What are you thinking?”
Horn paused beside them, stepping out of the flow of people. Tasha and Jenny stood beside him as they held the collars of their German Shepherds, Ginger and Spark.
“Are you going to save Donna, Bo, and Timothy?” Javier asked.
“Please,” Tasha begged. “Please bring them here.”
Beckham and Kate exchanged a look.
“Mom, you’re going back to the lab to save people, right?” Javier asked. “Well, Dad’s a soldier and he’s got to go back to fight to save our friends.”
“Yes, he does.” Kate reached out and hugged Beckham. “I love you, Reed.”
“I love you, too.”
“You aren’t doing this without me, brother,” Horn said. “Plus, Tasha told me that she’ll kick my ass if I don’t get Timothy.”
“I didn’t say it like that.” Tasha’s face warmed, then looked sorrowful. “Please don’t let anything happen to him, Dad.”
“We won’t,” Horn said.
“You promise?”
“I promise.” Horn kissed Tasha on the forehead and bent down to Jenny. “I love you both. When you see me next, I’ll have Timothy, Donna, and Bo.”
The girls joined Kate and Javier while Beckham and Horn took off for the chopper. A team of Marines joined them. A crew chief closed the doors behind them, and Beckham grabbed a handhold with his prosthetic.
Looking out the window, Beckham saw their families in the open. Tasha, Jenny, and Javier waved at them. Kate looked sternly up at the helicopter, her hair dancing about in the wind and rotor wash.
“You ready for this shit, boss?” Horn asked.
Beckham nodded. “It’s about time we got back into this fight.”
***
A man crawled forward over the dirt in the dark chamber, dragging two shredded legs behind him. Blood streaked away from the strands of muscle and grit hanging from where his feet should be. He reached up with a trembling hand for S.M. Fischer.
“Help… me…” the man stuttered through quivering lips.
Fischer recognized the man’s face in the darkness. It was Aaron Galinsky, the former Israeli military soldier that he had hired to track down the Variants on his property.
A hulking Alpha emerged from the shadows beyond Galinsky.
Fischer raised his rifle and aimed.
He pulled the trigger, but the magazine was spent.
The beast grabbed Galinsky by the head and stabbed his eyeballs, popping them with a sickening squelch.
The scream that followed sounded inhuman. More animalistic than from a man.
/> Fischer pulled out a new magazine, his fingers shaking, and palmed it into the gun, pulling back on the charging handle. Then he aimed and pulled the trigger.
Another click.
The gun wouldn’t fire.
Fischer fumbled to replace the magazine again. But when he looked down, all his magazines were empty.
What in the Sam Hill?
The monstrous Alpha tossed Galinsky aside and reached for Fischer. Claws wrapped around his head, squeezing his skull, pain blinding him.
He woke up in a dark bedroom.
A moment of paralyzing terror gripped him as he tried to remember how he had gotten here. The events over the prior few days surfaced in his mind. Those nightmares weren’t just dreams. They were real. All those memories came crashing down over him: the attacks on his oil fields, the loss of his livestock, and the death of so many of his men.
He snatched his wristwatch off the bedside table. It was the morning after he had climbed out of those tunnels, and the events of the previous day still haunted his mind.
“Shit,” he muttered.
He pulled on a pair of pants, put on a shirt, and grabbed the .357 Magnum he had under his pillow. The M4 he had killed dozens of Variants with rested against the wall. He slung it over his back.
Descending the stairs, he entered the communications hub that had been set up in his living room. A group of soldiers worked at the tables with enough satellite phones and computers for a platoon of soldiers guarding his oilfields. The lieutenant in charge was following orders from General Cornelius to protect the oil fields.
He had effectively turned Fischer’s ranch into a forward operating base (FOB) overnight. All of the soldiers wore normal fatigues and gear but one thing set them apart from the military Fischer was used to working with—blue armbands with the insignia of an Orca whale.
It wasn’t surprising to Fischer that the General had picked the super intelligent predators to represent his army, and frankly, he was damn glad to have them on his property.
“Sir,” came a familiar voice.
Tran waved from a desk. Chase was also there. Both men had on fresh clothes, their faces clean from the blood that had soaked them last night, but neither appeared rested.
Extinction Cycle Dark Age (Book 2): Extinction Inferno Page 2