Extinction Age Read online

  “Big Horn, you should take the girls to Building 1. Get settled in your new quarters,” Beckham said. He couldn’t mask the reluctance in his tone. Selfishly, he wanted them to stay. It felt too good to have them by his side. He wasn’t sure how long it would last, but for now they were a family again.

  “Nah, we’re staying here for a while,” Horn said.

  “Yeah,” Riley added. “Fu—I mean, the heck with that. I miss the barracks.”

  At the far end of the room, Chow stood staring out the window, chewing on a toothpick like he always did when deep in thought. Beckham made a note to talk to the man later. Jinx had been Chow’s best friend. They had fought together for years, weathering the toughest of times in remote locations around the world. And now he was gone, another victim to Colonel Gibson’s dream of saving young GIs. The irony continued to sicken Beckham.

  The double doors to the barracks swung open and Lieutenant Colonel Jensen strode inside, flanked by Major Smith.

  “We have a situation,” Jensen said. As he stood in the doorway, he seemed taller, his shoulders broader. The officer had earned Beckham’s trust and respect. He was no longer looking at Gibson’s shadow—he was looking at an ethical leader he wouldn’t hesitate to follow back into battle. Beckham had a feeling he would have the opportunity sooner rather than later.

  Beckham stood and rubbed his shoulder as Jensen approached. He bit back the urge to ask questions. Jensen was all military right now, clearly on a mission. Jensen stopped in the aisle separating the rows of bunks and looked at Beckham. They exchanged a short nod, and the look told Beckham that his feeling of respect was mutual.

  “As you know, the USS Truxtun shot by the island at 1400. Normally I wouldn’t care since it didn’t run aground here. But…” Jensen glanced at Major Smith, who took over.

  “The ship has crashed into the shore at Niantic, Connecticut,” he said, clapping his hands together. Tasha and Jenny giggled at that. Horn pulled them closer, wrapping his arms around their shoulders.

  “I sent Echo 1 out for recon. Weird thing is, doesn’t look like anyone’s home. We haven’t seen a single body, either. All attempts to hail the crew have failed.” Smith continued.

  “Not sure I understand the problem, sir,” Horn said. “What do we care?”

  Jensen’s nostrils flared so big Beckham could see inside his nose. “Supplies,” Jensen said, resting his hands on his hips and taking a deep breath. “We’re running low. Ammunition, food—it’s all dwindling. The survivors from Bragg—and the attack on the island last night—put a dent in both stockpiles. Unfortunately, Command is stretched just as thin and General Kennor denied my request this morning for a resupply.”

  Riley moved his chair, the wheels squeaking and drawing the attention of the entire team. “The attack also put a dent in the human supply count,” he said grimly.

  “You’re right,” Jensen replied. He took a step forward, crossed his arms, and shifted the chew in his mouth to the other side. “But that doesn’t change our current supply situation. And I’m not sure we can count on Command for much longer. I’m thinking long term here, gentlemen, and it’s time to start accepting the obvious. We’re going to be on our own eventually.”

  Jensen let the words hang in the air. Beckham could read the man like a book. He was doing what any leader would do in a crisis situation—he was preparing his men for the worst and hoping for the best. Beckham had done the same thing more times than he could count.

  “I’m considering a mission to see what we can salvage from the ship. It’s safer than an expedition into the cities,” Jensen said. “The ship has run aground next to a sparsely populated area, and recon flights haven’t seen a single Variant.”

  “I don’t like it,” Beckham said. He assumed the man had come to Ghost for volunteers. Beckham wasn’t going to hold back his opinion when his team’s lives were on the line.

  “Me either,” Horn added. “Even if there aren’t any Variants on shore, there could be some on board. Maybe an entire ship of ‘em.”

  “Or other hostiles,” Riley said.

  Jensen regarded each man in turn. “You’re absolutely right. I’ve considered this, but I think the reward is worth the risk. I’m not going to order anyone to come with me. This is a strictly volunteer mission, but I was hoping you’d be in. I need two others. Peters, Rodriguez, and Timbo have already agreed.”

  “I’m in,” came a determined voice.

  Beckham didn’t need to turn to see it was Chow. The operator had turned away from the windows. His rigid posture and puffed chest painted the picture of a man who wanted revenge. It was a bad sign. That kind of attitude got men killed. Beckham had seen it many times. The worst had been on a mission in Fallujah. An insurgent sniper had taken out a Marine walking alongside a Humvee. The poor kid had been dead before the medic could pull him off the road. Instead of taking cover, two of his buddies had run into the open, guns blazing, bloodlust taking over. Three Marines were dead a minute later. By the time it was all over, the sniper had picked off half a fucking platoon.

  He wasn’t going to let the same happen to Chow.

  “You sit this one out,” Beckham said.

  Chow flicked the toothpick to the other side of his mouth, glaring. “Hell no, man. I’m going.”

  “No. You sit this out,” Beckham repeated. “You too, Horn.” He rubbed his shoulder again and then cracked his neck from side to side. “I’ll go,” he said. “I’ll bring Fitz, too, if he’s game. We could use him on this one.”

  Beckham knew Jensen wanted another operator, but Fitz was good with a rifle. Damn good. He had saved Kate and countless others. He didn’t want to know what she would say about him leaving again, but this was a short mission. Hopefully, she would understand.

  “That good enough?” Beckham asked. He locked eyes with Jensen and the officer nodded in a way that only two leaders would understand.

  “Can I go?” Riley asked. His features were hard, and Beckham wondered if he was joking. Then he winked and cracked a half grin. Despite the kid’s good humor, the sight of Riley confined to the chair made Beckham want to punch a wall.

  “Thanks,” Jensen said. “You guys get some rest. Master Sergeant Beckham, report to command at 1700.”

  “Yes, sir,” Beckham replied.

  Jensen and Smith left Team Ghost and Horn’s daughters in a companionable silence. The quiet was broken a few moments later by a brittle voice.

  “You can’t save us all,” Chow said. “World doesn’t work like that, man. You don’t get to make decisions like this for me.” He hurried out of the room and slammed the door shut behind him.

  “Give him time,” Horn said. “He just lost his best friend.”

  Beckham nodded and took a seat on his bunk, the energy washing out of him. Chow was right. He couldn’t control a situation that had spiraled completely out of control. Panda, Tenor, Edwards, Jinx, Ryan, Valdez—Beckham hadn’t been able to save any of them. And by the time this war was over, Beckham had a feeling he was going to bury more of his brothers.

  Or maybe they’d be the ones burying him.

  Meg maneuvered her wheelchair through the doorway, using her palm to keep the door open. A soldier wheeling his own chair down the hall stopped to gawk at her. He ran a hand over his mop of wild hair as she struggled with the door.

  “What the hell are you staring at?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Wondering when you’d ask for some help.”

  She turned the wheel with her left hand and elbowed the door with her other arm. The metal swung open and then came back and hit her on the elbow before she could react. She bit back a whimper and glared at the soldier.

  “You going to help me or what?” she said.

  The man laughed and wheeled over. He held the door open so she could finally move into the hallway.

  “Thanks,” she said listlessly.

  He sat there, continuing to stare. Up close, she could see that his eyes were bright blue.

>   “Dude, what the fuck?” Meg asked. “Do I have something on my face, or what?”

  He shook his head, grinned, and held out his hand. “I’m Staff Sergeant Alex Riley, but you can call me Riley. Or ‘kid’ is fine, too. That’s what my brothers call me.”

  She regarded him with a raised brow, giving him a once over. His legs were both in casts, and his face was covered with the soft yellow of healing bruises.

  “Meg,” she said, grabbing his hand reluctantly.

  “Welcome to Plum Island. How’d you get here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Meg licked her dry lips. “Look, I’ve been bedridden all day. I’m tired, my legs are killing me, and I just want some fresh air. Can we skip my life story?”

  “Sure,” Riley said. His eyes darted away to the window in the room behind her. “I’m here for a check-up, just thought I’d say hi.” He started wheeling away and said, “Nice to meet you, Meg.”

  She sighed and watched him go. When he was halfway down the hall, she said, “I was rescued from New York.”

  He twisted around and looked at her for a moment. “Beckham found you, didn’t he?”

  Meg remembered the name. “Yeah,” Meg said, wheeling after Riley. “Yeah, he did. Do you know him? I want to thank him.”

  Riley smiled so big his dimples nearly went all the way to his ears. “He’s my team leader.”

  “Can you take me to him?”

  “You aren’t going anywhere!” a female shouted.

  Meg looked over Riley’s shoulder to see the hospital’s only nurse running down the hall. Dr. Hill was right behind her.

  “What on earth are you doing?” the doctor asked.

  “I was about to get some fresh air…” Meg began to say.

  “You need to rest, Meg. Rest and heal,” Hill said.

  She glanced back at Riley and he winked at her.

  “You can’t see Beckham right now, anyway,” Riley said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s about to leave for another mission.”

  “He just got back,” Meg said, shocked.

  “He’s Delta Force—and even if he wasn’t, that’s just how he is,” Riley said. “He won’t rest until there are no more missions.”

  -8-

  The clouds vanished as afternoon turned into evening. A carpet of blue stretched across the seemingly infinite sky. Warm, radiant rays sparkled over the waves below. The view was hypnotizing, and Fitz had a hard time leaving his guard post when his shift was up. If it weren’t for Lieutenant Colonel Jensen’s sharp voice barking in his headset, he would have kept staring.

  “Fitz, report to command, ASAP,” Jensen said.

  “Roger that, sir,” Fitz replied. He scoped the north with his MK11 one last time, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Truxtun, but only saw the vast blue of calm waters.

  Fitz turned away from the view when he thought he heard a distant scream come from the sea. Imagined or real, it was time to get moving. He gritted his teeth and climbed the skeletal ladder to the beach. Each rung put pressure on his thighs, the muscles burning with every step. When he reached the bottom, he bent down to rub them and check his prosthetics. As he examined the carbon fiber blades, the voices of his fellow amputees back at Bragg came up from memory. They’d called each other Flex-Foot Cheetah and Blade Runner. Both were nicknames he’d never liked much. The legs didn’t define him; they only helped him get from point A to B, like a car. And he didn’t label his friends by what they drove.

  He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a swipe of his palm and crouched down for a better look. There was a small dent on the right blade just above the curve. He reckoned it was the result of his fall the night before. A dark streak of blood that he couldn’t seem to wash off had settled in the indentation.

  Fitz threw the strap of his rifle over his back. He stretched for several minutes by reaching down to his blades. When his muscles felt fresh, he took off running toward Building 1. Four soldiers were jogging across the concrete path ahead. He couldn’t help but wonder if Jensen was cooking something up. When he saw Beckham, Fitz knew the answer. Something was definitely happening.

  So much for a nap, shower, and a shit.

  “Master Sergeant!” he yelled.

  Beckham halted at the base of the stairway to the command building while the other men continued inside. The operator’s face lit up the moment he laid eyes on Fitz.

  “Fitz, good to see you,” Beckham said. He looked him up and down. “You look like hell, Marine.”

  “Clearly you haven’t looked in a mirror lately,” Fitz replied with a chuckle.

  They shook hands and fell quiet, the somber mood of the day taking over. Beckham looked away for a moment. Fitz could see the pain of a memory surfacing on Beckham’s mind. It was evident in his posture and critical stare.

  “Sorry to hear about Jinx,” Fitz said.

  “He was a good man,” Beckham replied.

  Fitz didn’t know what to say, so he simply nodded and tried to stand as tall as he could despite the pain in his thighs and knees.

  “Glad I caught you before going inside,” Beckham said. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you yet for saving the day here.”

  Fitz grimaced and shook his head. “Man, you don’t need to thank me. I did what anyone else would have done.”

  “No,” Beckham said sternly. “Most men would have run the other way in your situation.”

  Fitz considered that as he glanced at the blue sky. He was a Marine, which meant he was trained to run toward a fight, not away from it. But Beckham was still right; Fitz had known men who had cowered in the face of evil. The Variants were more awful than any enemy he’d faced in Iraq—that was for damn sure.

  “Just doing my duty,” Fitz finally said. He bowed his head slightly like he was tipping his hat. Beckham grinned and patted him on the shoulder.

  “Anyway, thanks. Your reward is a new mission that I volunteered you for. Hope you don’t mind,” Beckham said. His grin faded away and his features hardened like a light switch had been flipped.

  Fitz adjusted the strap of his rifle on his shoulder. “Depends on what it is,” he said.

  “We’re about to find out.”

  Fitz looked up at the double doors and then back at Beckham. “Let’s get on with it then.”

  The command center was packed by the time they got there. Jensen and Smith stood at the head of the war table. Rodriguez, a short Hispanic Marine, sat across the other side, his wide shoulders bent over a map. To his right was Timbo, his dark muscular arms crossed as he waited. Peters, another Marine with the build of a long distance runner, sat across from Timbo. The thin man was staring out the window with an absent look on his face. Peters was a bit of a space cadet, and Fitz wasn’t sure if he liked him or not.

  Jensen looked up from the maps when the door closed behind Fitz.

  “Beckham, Fitz, take a seat,” he said.

  Fitz plopped down on one of the cushioned chairs. His body greedily accepted the rest. He worked a knot in his thigh with the tip of his thumb, keeping one eye on Jensen.

  “Gentleman, I know you’re all tired from New York. I’d love to let you sleep for a few days. Problem is, I spoke with General Kennor this morning and our request for a re-supply was denied. We lost more than bodies last night. We lost precious ammunition, and our food reserves are dangerously low. Fortunately, the biggest treasure chest of food, gasoline, ammo, and gear just showed up practically on our doorstep,” Jensen said. He paused to let the words sink in.

  Fitz wanted to shake his head when he saw where the conversation was going.

  “As of 1600, the shoreline and adjacent area was Variant free. I’m not sure how long we can count on that,” Jensen continued. “If we’re going to make a move, we need to do it tonight.”

  “We haven’t even buried our dead yet,” Timbo said.

  “Unfortunately, we don’t have time to mourn right now…or rest,” Smith said. “We need to think of the li
ving.”

  “He’s right,” Beckham added. “We’ve all seen how bad things are in NYC. The cities have fallen. Outposts like this island are the end of the line. We need to build something here. Something sustainable. And that’s going to require taking risks.”

  “Boarding that destroyer is one hell of a risk,” Fitz said. “We don’t know anything about it. Have we heard anything from them at all?”

  Major Smith frowned and tapped his pen on the table. “We’ve been flying recon for several hours. They haven’t seen any movement. All hails have gone unanswered. Doesn’t look like anyone’s on board. I checked with Central, and the ship went dark several days ago.”

  “And it just happened to shoot right by the island?” Timbo grumbled.

  “Do you know how many ships are drifting out there?” Jensen said, his tone growing frustrated. “Thousands.”

  Fitz raised a brow. “I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. There could be a hundred Variants below decks.”

  “That’s why I’m sending in our best,” Jensen said. “We’ll proceed with caution. We see any sign of the creatures, we get the hell out of Dodge.”

  Fitz shook his head this time. Jensen ignored him and said, “I’ll take strike team Alpha with Timbo and Rodriguez. Beckham, you got Bravo with Fitz and Peters.”

  “I’m going!” shouted a voice from the doorway.

  The soldiers all spun. Chow was standing in the door, decked out with a flak jacket bulging with extra magazines. He cupped a helmet with ‘four-eye’ night vision optics under his left arm. Strands of jet-black hair hung over his forehead, partially covering his right eye. Jensen was pitching the mission as a salvage op, but Chow looked like he was heading to war.

  “Give us a moment,” Beckham said to Jensen.

  Beckham jogged over to Chow and they exchanged a few hushed words that Fitz couldn’t make out. Chow took a step back, glared at Beckham like he was about to punch him, and then finally nodded. They walked back to the table in silence.