Extinction Horizon

-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 shadows 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.

Spinoza chuckled. “Speaking of disappointment, kid, remember that chick from Thailand? I mean, you said she was a chick.”

Beckham laughed with his men and then grew serious. “All right, time to knock off the shit.” They all needed to focus. Get with the program. Comedy was always good to calm nerves before a mission, but this was different. He wasn’t sure what they were going to find in Building 8. And he didn’t trust Noble or Caster. Both men seemed to be withholding vital intel. Their story had already changed once.

Beckham reached for a handhold as the chopper hit a pocket of turbulence that felt like driving over a speed bump. Typically, they’d be riding on the side of an MH-6 Little Bird, but looking over at Dr. Ellis he could see why Brass had opted for something a bit more stable.

Beckham patted the vest pocket that contained a photograph of his mom. The thirty-year-old image had been snapped in Rocky Mountain National Park, not far from Estes Park where he’d grown up. He didn’t need to remove the picture to see her curly black hair blowing in the wind or her beautiful smile. He’d memorized it long ago and carried a copy on every mission.

The flood of memories always calmed his nerves, taking him back to a simpler time, when his biggest worry was making it home before dark. Closing his eyes, Beckham remembered. He remembered his father teaching him how to use a compass and how to rappel off cliffs. He remembered his mother coming home from work dressed in her scrubs after a twelve-hour shift at the local clinic. No matter what time it was, she’d always slip into his room and kiss his forehead.

Cancer took her when he was a senior in high school, and his career had started with her loss. When he first joined the Army he had felt invincible, naively believing that he would never get injured or watch his friends die. Now, fifteen years later, he’d seen too many of them arrive home in coffins draped with flags. For that reason he had chosen not to marry or have a family. The only people he had to worry about were the men next to him.

After the chopper straightened, he caught the full profile of his team. The curved outlines of their CBRN suits made them look more like robots than soldiers, but he knew better. They were the brothers he’d never had growing up and more, Horn especially. Over the past few years Horn and his wife had taken Beckham in when his father, too, had passed away from cancer. They’d weathered some tough times together, like a mini-family.

The rustling passed and Beckham said, “Once we land we will break into strike teams. Panda, Edwards, and Major Noble, you’re assigned to Bravo with Tenor as lead. Everyone else, including Major Caster, is with me. Dr. Ellis, you’re to be my shadow at all times. Got it?”

A short nod from the doctor, and then Beckham continued, “We will enter the facility with the aid of Majors Caster and Noble. Primary objective is to secure Dr. Medford’s research.”

Caster cut in. “I should have made this clear earlier, but this is not a rescue mission. If we do come across anyone infected that is still alive, we leave them behind.”

“Understood,” Beckham said with a hint of reservation. He didn’t like the idea, but then again he didn’t like the idea of the mission in the first place. He wanted to get his men in and out as quickly as possible.

“Prepare to drop in sixty seconds,” Chief Wright said.

Beckham lifted his helmet to see the pilot twist the cyclic hard inside the cockpit. The chopper jerked to the right. The Blackhawk rolled slightly onto its side, giving Beckham a quick view of dark waves crashing against the shoreline below.

The bird straightened out, hovering over the beach as the pilot rotated the cyclic to a neutral position.

“This is where you get out,” Chief Wright yelled over the whooshing of the blades.

Beckham flashed the pilots a thumbs-up and said, “Thanks for the ride.” He caught a glimpse of a flicker on the horizon. He knew that somewhere out there a squadron of F-22s waited with weapons systems hot, fully prepared to blow the Blackhawk out of the air if something went wrong.

Hazardous pay indeed, Beckham thought. Shoving the thought aside, he moved into position at the door. It was go time.

Beckham flashed a quick hand motion to Tenor, who was crouched by the door. The operator nodded and secured the fast rope to a clip with a loud click. A sea of sand waited for them below. The mixture of sediment churned into a cloud, swirling around the chopper and making it nearly impossible to see.

Grabbing the nylon rope, Tenor handed it to Spinoza. With a slap he said, “Go, Go!” The man sprang into the darkness with Horn close behind. Riley and Edwards went next. Then Caster and Noble. Ellis hesitated, glancing over at Beckham.

“Why can’t he just put us down on the tarmac?” the doctor yelled.

Tenor and Beckham laughed.

“Military protocol,” Beckham said. “Now jump!” He gave the doctor a soft push.

Screaming, Ellis grabbed the rope and disappeared into the cloud of dust.

Then it was just the two leads. They exchanged a glance for a brief moment. They’d made enough jumps to know this one was different. Neither of them knew what awaited them beneath the surface.

Beckham suppressed the moment of fear and uncertainty. Grabbing the fast rope, he rappelled into the night, hoping—praying—that there was some rational explanation for Building 8 going dark.

Luck was on their side this night. The full moon provided a carpet of light across the island, illuminating the landscape with a radiant white glow. The team moved briskly across the beach with Beckham at their helm. They fanned out as they pressed on. Their movements were premeditated. They’d done this a hundred times before. Waves slurped in the surf behind them, muffling the crunching sound of their stiff suits.

“So where is this place?” Horn asked. “How far?”

A condescending laugh crackled over the comm. “Do you really think the government would have built a secret facility out in the open?” Riley said. “Haven’t you ever heard of the Greenbrier Hotel in West Virginia?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” replied Horn.

“The government built a massive bunker under the resort there. Kept it a secret for years. It wasn’t until they declassified it that the public knew. If people were fucking in suites above a bunker built to house the President in a time of war, I’m pretty sure they can hide a small facility out here from the public.”

“Radio silence,” Beckham said harshly, embarrassed his men had not acted with more discipline. He trotted over to Caster, who had retrieved a GPS locator from his pack. The coordinates blinked on the display. Judging by their location, it looked like they had about a quarter-mile to trek. Beckham had been slightly surprised to learn neither of the men had been to the facility, but Riley’s description of the Greenbrier reminded him the government had many secrets. Team Ghost was the perfect example.

Beckham moved first, climbing up the sandy hill. Over the ridgeline, a lightly traveled frontage road ran along the length of the beach. A loose power line whipped back and forth in the slight breeze. Besides the crashing of the waves, the island was eerily quiet.

With a few quick hand signals, Beckham broke the group into strike teams. Bravo fanned out across the road and into the ditch on the right, while Alpha trekked toward a series of sand dunes to the left. The landscape was stark and empty; nothing but underbrush and a few sporadic palm trees juxtaposed with the mostly barren terrain.

Overhead, the moon disappeared under sudden dense cloud cover, and the teams halted to switch on their NVGs. Beckham had hoped they wouldn’t have to use them until they entered Building 8, but with the moonlight gone, they had no choice.

With the optics active, he now had a hundred-degree horizontal view and a forty-degree vertical field of view. The sight revealed a landscape devoid of life. He slowly swept the optics to the right and then back to the left.

Nothing.

Did the animals know something he didn’t? There had to be a reasonable explanation.

The more he scanned the area, the more he wondered. The optics normally picked up even the slightest movement, down to a single critter the size of a mouse.

Beckham tried to convince himself that they were hibernating or hiding. It wasn’t that cold and surely a few nocturnal creatures would be out scavenging for their next meal. Tightening his grip on his MP5, he shrugged the question away and started up the loose sand of the closest dune. At the top, he had the first good vantage of the entire island.

To the north, just beyond another cluster of hills, he could make out the airstrip and a collection of buildings. Bringing his MP5 to his visor, he scoped the area below, stopping on a sign at the bottom of the dune.

Balling his fist, he took a knee and waved Caster forward. The man scrambled up the dune and pulled his GPS locator out, studying the screen intensely.

“We’re close. Within five hundred feet of the facility,” Caster said.

Beckham looked out over the landscape and saw nothing except for an empty road that looked like it led to a dumping ground.

Chinning his comm pad, he said, “Tenor, you see anything?”

“Negative, just a large embankment,” Tenor said. “I have a bad taste in my mouth. There’s nothing out here.”

Beckham listened to the sound of hissing sand. It was freakishly quiet, the kind of quiet that gave him the chills. He used the moment to think. There was simply no way they had the wrong coordinates. He was missing something.

“Regroup and show me this embankment,” Beckham said. He stood and waved Riley and Horn forward. After a quick peek over his shoulder to check their six, Beckham followed them. They made their way past another series of sand dunes and came to a paved road. Littered in the ditch were mounds of trash. The wind had blown some of it across the area. Plastic bottles crunched beneath the weight of the team’s boots. The sound didn’t bother him. The sight of the trash did. It looked like no one had used the street in days.

There was no sign of vehicles, no sign of Building 8, and no sign of animals of any kind. What the fuck is going on? Beckham thought. He was used to training Afghani forces or fighting insurgents that he could zoom in on with a red dot sight. This mysterious shit pissed him off.

Grunting, he followed the curved road through a mass of dirt embankments. The brown hills ended at the bottom of what looked like a landfill.

“Over there,” Caster said. He held up the GPS device and pointed to a single metal building aged with rust in the middle of the lot. There were no windows, just a single steel door that had the same NO TRESPASSING sign.

Bravo had already taken up position on the west side of the building. All three men hid in the underbrush, the pointed outlines of their rifles aimed on the steel door.

“Tenor, get in there and see what the hell we’re dealing with,” Beckham ordered.

The four men were moving before the sound of Beckham’s voice faded over the net. Spinoza pressed his back up against the building next to Tenor, while Edwards shouldered his tactical shotgun.

Noble approached the door and twisted the knob. It clicked. Hesitating, the major slowly inched it open and slipped inside the darkness. Tenor waved Bravo inside.

Beckham checked his watch before motioning his team to follow.

0435 hours.

19 April, 2015.

His gut told him it would be a date he would never forget.