Extinction Edge

-13-

Echo 3 and the other Black Hawks raced toward the storm. Judging by their speed and the trajectory of the clouds, Beckham guessed they would meet in New York City. Balling his right hand into a fist, he flexed his forearm and felt the first sign of adrenaline pumping into his system. He reached for his vest pocket and pulled out the picture of his mom. More adrenaline rushed through him as he kissed it. Mentally, he was ready to go.

Snapping his NVG into position, he checked one last time to ensure they were working properly. Then he counted his ammo. Eight magazines protruded from his vest, two more than he normally carried. The extra weight was welcome if it saved him from the teeth of the Variants.

Next he checked his headset. “Testing.”

The word drew laughter from Horn. The man stared at the view of a clogged highway below. “Testing? What is this, high school?”

Beckham frowned. “New equipment means problems and—” The bird hit a patch of turbulence before he could finish his thought.

The shadows in the compartment shifted to reveal the stern faces of Ryan and Timbo. The two Army Rangers stood toward the back of the chopper, the muzzles of their MK11s aimed at the open doors. Timbo offered a nod when he saw Beckham’s gaze had fallen on him. The Ranger adjusted his headset and said, “Works.”

Grabbing a handhold, Beckham waited for the rough patch to pass. “Listen up,” he said in a voice just shy of a shout. “We’ll be on the ground in twenty. Do one final check of your gear and weapons. I don’t want any surprises.”

“LZ in fifteen,” the pilot said over the comm.

Beckham hunched to steal a glance out the cockpit windshield. A flash of lightning streaked across the horizon as the bird continued toward the New York skyline. They were close enough to see the extent of the destruction. Pockmarks peppered the skyscrapers where missiles had hit weeks before. Some of the structures had collapsed entirely, covering roads and crushing the smaller adjacent buildings. Most of the fires had fizzled out, the result of above average rainfall since the military firebombed parts of the city in the early days of the Hemorrhage Virus.

“Fucking-A, man,” Ryan said, pulling himself closer to the doorway. “This is insane. We did this?”

“Yup,” Horn replied.

“When I signed up for this mission, I thought I would be coming back home. But this…” Ryan shook his head. “The city is gone. There’s nothing worth saving down there.”

“There could be survivors,” Beckham replied. “And once the Variants are gone, we’ll rebuild. Just like we rebuilt the Twin Towers.”

Ryan kept his eyes on the destruction.

“Where you from?” Beckham asked. He had to keep the man engaged and focused before they landed. Losing him now would make him a liability.

“Queens,” said Ryan flatly.

“Hey, we found my daughters and rescued them. You can’t give up hope. You hear me?” Horn said. “Ryan,” he repeated when the man didn’t reply.

The Ranger turned slightly. “Yeah, man, I hear you. Don’t worry. You can count on me.” Ryan patted his helmet with his palm. “Good to go, good to go.”

The storm hit as soon as the Black Hawk crossed over Times Square. It started as a drizzle, hitting the bird from the side, but rapidly grew into a downpour. The rain pelted the metal sides of the craft as the pilot descended toward the LZ.

Pier 86 was already bustling with military activity. Several navy boats raced away from the dock, a powerful wake trailing them. The chopper banked to the left and hovered for several seconds as the pilot made contact with 1^st Platoon. He angled the bird toward the dock and put them down next to Echo 2.

Without hesitation Beckham jumped onto the concrete, his boots splattering in a puddle. Ducking, he ran for the Marines gathering around a makeshift camouflage tent set up next to a trio of Humvees, all mounted with .50 cals. Two Bradleys dwarfed the trucks. The sandy-brown armored vehicles were a sight for sore eyes.

The armor, the mounted TOW launchers and 25mm cannons prompted a moment of hope that made the situation seem less dire, even if they were grossly outnumbered. The display of firepower gave him the fuel he needed to kick it into gear.

Beckham spun to watch Echo 1 and Echo 4 land. The other teams from Plum Island piled out. Their arrival sealed the deal. There was no turning back. Operation Liberty was underway.

Beckham itched the wound above his eye and approached the main tent. Two Marines stood outside. “Master Sergeant Reed Beckham reporting from Plum Island.”

One of the men checked a sheet of paper in a waterproof case. “Says here you’re a Delta Force Operator,” the man on the right said. Beckham spotted his lance corporal’s rank. But the man was old, maybe fifty-five.

“That’s right,” Beckham replied, worried by the realization that the military was more than desperate for boots on the ground.

“Glad to have you here, Master Sergeant,” the man said. “Please proceed.”

Beckham offered a short nod and then ducked into the tent. Crates of equipment greeted him. Support staff worked quickly to unload the gear. He spied an officer hunched over a metal table positioned in the middle of the room. The man was drawing circles on a map with a red pen. Two other officers flanked him. They eyed Beckham as he walked toward them.

“Lieutenant Gates, Sir?” Beckham asked.

The man glanced up from the table, removing a pair of glasses and positioning them high on his bald head.

“Yes, and you are?”

“Master Sergeant Reed Beckham reporting from Plum Island,” he repeated, standing at attention.

Gates slipped his pen in a vest pocket. He walked around the table and extended a hand. “Welcome to Operation Liberty.”

Beckham shook the man’s hand. “Happy to assist in the fight for New York.”

“How many of you are there?”

“There are four of us, sir, and two Army Rangers.”

Gate arched a brow. “Four? That’s it? Central assured me there would be more.”

“There are three other teams from Plum Island. We’re all that’s left of Delta Force, besides an injured man forced to remain behind.”

Gates shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear that, truly I am. This war has already taken so many lives. Most of 1^st Platoon and the others in this company were piecemealed together from surviving units on the East Coast. And the casualties continue to mount. That’s what makes Operation Liberty so important.”

“Lieutenant,” said a deep voice from behind Beckham. He stepped to the side to watch the muscular frame of Lieutenant Colonel Jensen walk into the room. Combat gear covered him from head to toe. He adjusted the strap of an M27 and bent under one of the support beams on his way to the table.

“Master Sergeant,” he said.

“Lieutenant Colonel,” Beckham replied with a nod.

Gates stiffened. “Sir, are you taking command of 1^st Platoon? I hadn’t heard from General Kennor.”

Jensen shook his head. “No, and General Kennor won’t be hearing from you that I’m here, either. You’re in command, Lieutenant. But I reserve the right to pull rank.” He paused and looked to Beckham. “I’m here to fight alongside my men.”

Gates hesitated and glanced over at his team.

Beckham felt a grin breaking across his face. He remembered something he’d learned in training. Years ago, a master sergeant had told him in order for a commander to earn respect from those under him he had to be their equal and their leader. Showing up to the fight had done just that. Beckham felt a growing respect for Jensen as a leader committed to his men.

“Is that a problem?” Jensen asked.

“No, sir,” Gates finally replied. He held out a hand and shook Jensen’s. “Happy to have you here, sir.”

Jensen nodded and pointed at Beckham. “I see you met our best. He looks pretty beat up, but trust me, the man can fight.”

Gates nodded. “Truthfully, I was hoping command would send more.”

Jensen twisted his mustache to the side. “I’m afraid there weren’t more to send.”

He followed Gates to the other side of the table and they crowded around the map. Two other drenched Marines walked into the tent a beat later. Beckham recognized them as the other team leads, Rodriguez and Peters.

“I’ll be leading a strike team, as will Beckham, Rodriguez and Peters,” Jensen said. He introduced the Marines.

“Welcome,” Gates said to the men. He pointed at a Marine with a nasty scar on his chin. “This is Platoon Sergeant Valdez.”

Valdez grunted a response Beckham couldn’t hear.

Gates looked back at Jensen. “Sir, when Central told me they were sending support, I figured it would be more than four teams. And I certainly wasn’t expecting the commander.”

“I couldn’t let my men do this alone,” Jensen said. Reaching into his pocket, he removed a bag of chewing tobacco. “Besides, I’ve been itching for some chew for weeks.” He jammed a wad into his bottom lip.

After the introductions, Gates uncapped his pen and leaned over the map. “All right. After the Air Force hits their targets, we’re rolling in with the armor. Take a left onto 12^th, then a right onto West 50^th. Satellite imagery shows this is the clearest route. Most of the other streets are covered in rubble from Operation Reaper. We’ve fitted the Bradleys with cow catchers to help clear the roads. It’s going to take us a while to get through some of these areas, but this is the best direct path to our target and the area where we will set up an FOB. That brings us to the bombing zones.”

Gates circled Rockefeller Center. “This is the primary target. Intel puts the largest numbers of Variants at this location. Our flyboys are going to level every building in the area. Then they’re going to firebomb from here to here,” he said, drawing a red line down several streets surrounding the buildings. “Any Variant that isn’t killed in the first attack will be cooked in the second.”

“Hell yeah,” Sergeant Valdez grunted.

“The wind is blowing to the northwest, which should keep smoke to a minimum,” Gates added. He glanced up and said, “We probably won’t be able to get much farther than the Avenue of the Americas. This is where I expect the most resistance. We’ll clear any surviving hostiles and then move south to the intersection at West 42^nd Street.”

Gates circled the New York Public Library. “We’ve seen a lot of Variant activity around this entire area. This is where we’ll set up our FOB. I want all strike teams to secure the Bank of America Tower and take up position there. It has the best vantage of the area. Command does not want the public library destroyed if at all possible. Something about some historic bullshit, but I guess when the world ends, you want to save whatever you can.”

“So we won’t have air support?” Beckham asked.

Gates looked up from the map and said, “Only if absolutely necessary. I’m putting my men before books, so don’t worry too much about that.”

Several chuckles followed the lieutenant’s words, but Beckham didn’t miss the man’s eyes flicking to meet Jensen’s as if asking for approval. The commander’s face remained set, his jaw chomping on the wad of tobacco. Beckham didn’t so much as crack a smile either. If he was in charge, he would level the library and every other location where the Variants were spotted. He was happy to see Jensen seemed to be thinking the same thing.

“What kind of numbers are we expecting?” Jensen asked. He rolled up his sleeves and crossed his arms.

“Central put the numbers at around a couple thousand but told us that there might be more,” Gates replied, again studying Jensen for a reaction.

He didn’t reply. Instead he bent over the table, pretending to be deep in thought. “That’s odd,” he said. “Our projections put them much higher.”

Gates removed his glasses again and placed them on the map. “Sir?”

Jensen stepped away from the table and cleared his throat. “Dr. Lovato, the scientist that designed VariantX9H9. Heard of her?”

Gates nodded. “Of course, sir.”

“Well, she claims there should be up to two million Variants throughout the five boroughs and beyond.”

“Impossible,” Gates said, shaking his head.

Jensen shrugged. “Maybe. But everyone thought the spread of the Hemorrhage Virus was impossible too.”

Beckham hung back as Jensen worked his magic. He knew exactly what the man was doing.

“If that’s true, then Central is sending us to our graves,” Gates stated, his eyes hardening.

“If it’s true, of course,” Jensen replied. “How many men did you say 1^st Platoon has?”

“Thirty-two. Plus your men, which puts us just shy of sixty.”

“I can see why you’re glad to have us here, then,” Jensen said. “If Dr. Lovato is right—and she has been about most everything so far—then you’re going to need every single one of us.”

Gates’ shoulders sagged and he reached up to massage his temples. It was a look Beckham had seen before, the look of a commander who had shoddy intel. Outside, the diesel engine of one of the Bradleys snorted. Beckham’s blood tingled at the sound of the 600-horsepower engine. It was the most reassuring noise he’d heard all morning.

Gates checked his watch as another noise replaced the Bradley. The tent shook and trembled. “Right on time,” he said, moving away from the table. “Follow me. I think you’ll want to see this.”

Beckham and the others filed out of the tent just in time to watch a squadron of F-22 Raptors screaming over the ocean. He counted six of the black dots as they roared through the storm clouds and vanished. A second later the jets reappeared. Every man and woman on Pier 86 stopped what they were doing and followed the planes as they swooped through the city and released their payloads.

The ground rumbled as the bombs and missiles found their targets, a deafening explosion draining out the cheers and shouts from the Marines standing on the dock. Beckham’s ears popped. The vacuum from the blasts sucked away the air at ground zero. Rain beat down on his helmet, and he squinted to see the explosions.

“Incoming!” yelled a Marine on top of one of the Bradleys.

Everyone dropped to the ground and covered their eyes to prepare for the shockwave. The gust broke across the pier. The heat from the explosions burned Beckham’s exposed skin, the wind so powerful it swept up the tent and sent it sailing.

Even from blocks away, the aftershock was enough to disorient the most experienced soldier, including Beckham. Shaking his head, he rose to his feet. Flames licked the sky, forming crimson skyscrapers. He pulled his scarf over his mouth and nose, in preparation for the incoming smell of burning rubber, charred metal, and the awful stench of burnt corpses, mixed in with the sour scent of rotting fruit.

“We start moving in fifteen,” Gates yelled. He walked back to the now exposed command post, barking orders at staff scrambling to collect equipment toppled by the shockwave.

Beckham checked the deck for Horn and the others. His team waited at a crate of ammunition.

“Need some grenades?” Horn asked. He reached in and grabbed several, clipping them to the only real estate left on his vest.

Another detonation in the distance rocked the concrete.

Beckham reached into the box and pulled out two grenades. “Chow, you’re going to be on point. Jinx, you got rear guard. Timbo, Ryan, you make sure nothing sneaks up on us from above and to the left. Horn, you’re with me on right.”

The rain let up, now just a drizzle. Beckham clipped both grenades to his vest and considered a few words to get the team riled up for action, but the stone-cold looks they all wore told him they were ready. Gripping his MP5, he eyed the swirling smoke one more time and wondered exactly what the hell they were about to walk into. He didn’t trust Command’s long-term strategy, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it now.

Eyeing his team, he said, “You all heard the man. We move in fifteen.”