Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4) (5 page)

“You’re a hero,” Horn added.

Fitz shook his head. “I’m not a hero. I couldn’t save Lieutenant Colonel Jensen.”

Beckham’s eyes darted down to Apollo. The German Shepherd whined as if he could sense his handler’s pain.

“Neither could I,” Beckham said in a hushed voice.

A moment of silence embraced them, but Fitz pushed it away. He was starting to hate the quiet.

“I should get to my post,” he said.

“Right,” Beckham said, snapping from his trance. “Let’s get moving.”

“I’ll meet you on the beach, Boss. I need to stop by the medical ward and have Dr. Hill check my arm again,” Horn said. “You should have him check out your shoulder.”

Beckham shook his head. “Nah, I’m fine, man. Besides, you’re the one that got shot.”

“It’s nothing. Doesn’t even hurt. The bullet only clipped me. I’m good to go, Boss.”

Beckham eyed Horn’s bicep skeptically. “Let’s let the doc be the judge of that.”

“He’s just a physical therapist.”

“Then have Kate look at it,” Beckham said. “And let me know what she says.”

Horn snorted and walked away.

Beckham watched him go, then motioned for Chow and Fitz to follow him to the beach. Apollo ran ahead, sniffing the dirt path. The short walk was a powerful reminder of how low the island was on human resources. Each tower was manned, but Fitz didn’t see a single patrol.

“You’re really going to let Wood’s men fight with us?” Fitz asked. He still wasn’t keen on the idea of arming the Medical Corps. He also didn’t like questioning Beckham, but the absent troops gave Fitz a bad feeling. He felt exposed, naked. If the Variants...

“It’s a double-edged sword,” Beckham said. “Without them we’re at risk of another Variant attack, and I’m not sure we could stop it. But with them, we risk sabotage. For now they’re staying locked up until I make a decision.”

“Maybe Gallagher is right. Maybe whoever is in charge will send some pogues to arrest us,” Chow said. “Or worse.”

“I’m hoping they have bigger fish to fry, especially with the loss of Central Command,” Beckham replied. 

Chow pulled a tree branch back to let Fitz and Beckham past. “We should plan for the worst. Wood was in charge of Operation Extinction.”

Beckham drew in a long deep breath as they continued through the wooded terrain. He slowed his pace but didn’t reply. The men emerged from the thick underbrush in silence. They stopped on a ridgeline overlooking the western beach. The surf slurped beyond the electrical fences, and a breeze whistled through the canopy behind them. Fitz wasn’t deceived by the calm. He’d seen it before—and each time it had been shattered by the monsters.

Chow stepped to the edge of the bluff. “I still say we take our chances without Wood’s men. Maybe Major Smith can get us some fresh blood from another post.”

“Wouldn’t count on it,” Beckham said. “Unless Ringgold can pull some strings. We don’t know if General Johnson is one of the good guys. Judging from experience, he’s probably not.”

“That’s why we should hunker down and reevaluate our defenses. If Johnson sends his dirt bags to take the island, we need to be prepared,” Chow said.

“If they come,” Beckham said, gripping the stock of his rifle so hard his knuckles popped, “we stand down. I won’t risk the safety of the civilians here in another firefight.”

“But...” Chow began to say.

“That’s an order, Chow. I pray it doesn’t come to that, but if it does, our only hope lies with Ringgold. We saved her from Raven Rock, and she knows the truth about the VX-99 program now. Hopefully that’s enough to show her we’re the good guys.”

“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.”

A
n 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!”