Extinction Horizon

-13-

Colonel Gibson choked back a cough before taking another drag. His hand shook as he brought the cigarette to his lips.

Closing his eyes, he sucked in the smoke, holding it before exhaling through his nostrils. He pressed the glowing red end into an ashtray on his desk and then leaned forward to his keyboard.

He’d listened to the audio message Dr. Medford had sent shortly before Building 8 went dark more than a dozen times now. Memorizing the words. Five of which stuck in his mind.

Viral weapon is too contagious.

Gibson dug inside his chest pocket for his smokes and wedged another cigarette into his mouth. He leaned closer to his computer and keyed in his security credentials so he could play Medford’s encrypted message again. The doctor’s soft voice spilled out of the speakers a moment later.

“Colonel Gibson, it’s Isaac Medford. Got an update for you. I’ve finally made a breakthrough. After months of work, I was able to successfully bond VX-99 with the Ebola virus. My only fear is that the viral weapon is too contagious. I doubt anyone will be able to link it back to the United States. I’ve used a highly synthesized protocol designed to make the virus look like it was formed in nature, but a good scientist will probably be able to determine it was lab-engineered. I’m sending Jim Pinkman to Fort Detrick to brief you personally.”

Gibson let the cigarette sag from his lips. “My God,” he muttered, remembering the call he’d made to Medford days before. The call that required a series of codes—the call that he’d waited on for nearly an hour before he realized no one was going to pick up at Building 8.

Now the country he loved, the country he’d fought so hard to protect over a lifetime career with the Medical Corps, was collapsing right in front of him. And no matter how anyone sold the story, he was the one to blame. He had kept the secret chemical and biological weapons program going at Building 8 and several other locations.

He’d done so to protect America against her enemies. He wasn’t one of the ignorant fools that believed Russia and China had stopped developing chemical weapons back in the ‘90s. They had massive stockpiles of the nastiest shit known to man—stuff that could melt eyeballs and make you cough out a lung.

Gibson watched the smoke drift around his monitor. He knew people would call him a monster, but they would never understand why he’d continued the VX-99 program. His vision was simple: Create a bioweapon that could be deployed discreetly in hot spots abroad.

Jihadist groups such as Al Qaeda, the Taliban, and ISIS instantly came to mind. VX-99 was supposed to reduce the need to send U.S. soldiers abroad. The program he’d developed over the years was built around that vision. He’d dreamed of a weapon that could be used on foreign soil to kill enemy targets and then fizzle out with minimal civilian casualties. It would be untraceable.

As the facts slowly surfaced, Gibson realized that Medford’s creation was far more deadly and contagious than any he could have imagined. Building 8 was supposed to be a vault within a vault, a maximum-security prison for the worse contagions known to man. In the end, all it had taken was a hundred and eighty pound scientist named Jim Pinkman to carry the virus like a Christmas present out of that vault halfway across the country to one of America’s most populated cities.

Gibson flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette and cursed. He’d only wanted to protect his beloved country. He’d never meant for any of this to happen.

But there was still hope. Gibson always left himself outs. The facility he’d had constructed at Plum Island over the past two years was that out.

Taking up his phone, he called Lieutenant Colonel Ray Jensen. The man had taken Caster’s place after the massacre at Building 8.

“This is Jensen,” came a rough voice on the other end of the line.

“You got a SITREP for me on Red Ice?”

“Yes, sir. Red Ice is depleted.”

With his lungs full of smoke, Gibson resisted the urge to sigh from relief. The task was finally done. All correspondence between him and Dr. Medford was destroyed. No one could prove he had known what Medford was up to. No one could prove that it was Gibson that had ordered him to experiment with VX-99. And no one could prove that it was Gibson who had told Dr. Medford to develop the perfect bioweapon—a combination of the worst of Mother Nature and the worst of man.

“Good,” Gibson replied. “And the facilities at Plum Island?”

“Finished, Colonel.”

Gibson nodded. Two years of hard work and planning, and it had been finished at just the right time. He’d requested the appropriations under the cover of research. It was the same card every commander before him had played to get competitive congressional earmarks. And in reality, it wasn’t that far from the truth. Plum Island was a research center built to carry out the mission of the VX-99 program. The facility was meant to develop the weapon, test it on live specimens, and then manufacture the final product. Now it would serve in a different capacity—now the government would use it as a research center to find a cure to whatever Medford had created, and in the end, manufacture that cure.

“Sir, are you there?” Jensen said.

“Yeah. Just checking an email,” Gibson lied. “Are you en route to Plum Island yet?”

“No, sir. Chopper’s late.”

“Understood. See you there,” Gibson said, clicking off the phone before Jensen had a chance to reply. He plucked the picture of his wife and son from his desk. The image had been taken eight years ago. Before his wife had died of a stroke and before his son had been killed by an IED in Iraq. It was a snapshot of happier times—times that he had only meant to protect. His motivation behind the bioweapon was to prevent more American soldiers from bleeding on foreign soil. Young men like Specialist Nick Gibson, his son. The loss had only inspired him to work harder on a bioweapon that could be used overseas—a weapon that was untraceable, deadly, and quick—a weapon that would kill and turn the insurgents and terrorists on one another and then fade away like a ghost in the night.

“What have I done, Connie?” Gibson asked, holding the picture under the dim lighting. “What on earth have I done?”

He set the frame carefully on the desk. That photo was the last time his family had been together. He could hardly remember that day now or how happy he’d been then. He hadn’t felt anything that remotely mirrored the emotion after their deaths. Since their funerals, he’d focused all of his effort and work on the VX-99 program.

A chirp from his watch pulled him from the painful thoughts. He turned back to his computer to reread an email he never thought he’d see. The Air Force had been given the green light to bomb American cities. They were taking to the skies all around the country and firebombing strategic locations to stop the outbreak. Gibson knew better than anyone that no matter how many bombs were dropped, the fires had little hope of stopping the viral storm that was tearing through the world—the storm he had created.

Beckham flexed his right bicep and rubbed at a knot. Glancing up, he caught Doctor Lovato staring at him with swollen eyes. She hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left a burning Atlanta, and that was over six hours ago. He’d lost track of time during the journey.

Beckham continued massaging his arm, curious now about the new doctor. She looked young for a scientist, and he guessed she was in her thirties. With dark brown hair and blue eyes, she was definitely not the stereotypical virologist he imagined working for the CDC. Ellis fit the description better with his slicked-back hair and glasses.

Kate was obviously important, especially now that her boss had just been torn to shreds. Just how important she was, Beckham wasn’t sure, but he knew Colonel Clinton wouldn’t have authorized the mission if her team didn’t possess significant value.

The pilot’s voice flicked into Beckham’s earpiece and he looked away from Kate.

“New York City visual imminent. Flyby in thirty seconds.”

“Copy,” Beckham replied. He adjusted the strap around his MP5 and repositioned himself so he could get a better look. The dazzling lights of the city glowed along the skyline. All looked calm. No visuals of smoke or fire that he could see. He decided to break the silence that had plagued the long flight.

“Heard anything about other cities getting bombed?” Beckham asked the pilot.

“Chicago, Minneapolis, Saint Louis, Kansas City. The list goes on.”

Beckham watched Riley fidgeting in his seat. “What about Des Moines?”

“Negative. No word on Des Moines,” the pilot replied.

Horn reached over and patted Riley’s leg. “I’m sure your folks got out.”

The kid nodded and looked out the window.

Beckham could see the city vividly now. Skyscrapers lined the horizon, their bright lights dimming out the view of the stars in the clear night sky.

A slow and distant roar rumbled through the helicopter. Beckham’s heart skipped a beat. He knew the familiar sound and scanned the sky for the jets.

There, heading south into the city, were six tiny black dots, a faint blue tail of exhaust trailing the planes. F-22 Raptors. There were others too. Larger planes. A fucking flight wing of other aircraft.

He scrambled to his feet and duck-walked across the metal floor for a better look. The Raptors suddenly changed course, fanning out across the city.

“Get us out of here!” Beckham yelled, realizing they were in the flight path.

“Hold on,” the pilot replied.

The chopper jerked to the east and Beckham reached out to brace his hand against the window. Ellis and Kate both let out startled cries.

In the split second it took Beckham to blink, the lead Raptor swooped low. He watched in shock as missiles streaked away from the jet and zigzagged around skyscrapers. Another blink and the weapons found their targets, exploding into massive fireballs. The second wave of aircraft dropped firebombs. Flames lit up the streets, extending like a river of lava through the city.

“Oh my God!” Ellis yelled, pointing out the window.

The thump of more detonations vibrated through the chopper as more planes released their arsenals. Beckham flinched with every blast, thinking of all the innocent civilians that were dying in the inferno below.

He knew better than anyone that it was likely a seventy-year-old general with a chestful of ribbons ordering the attacks, impervious to the ripple effect that came with the decision. At that point, commanders were so far removed from war they didn’t really think about the average grunt or civilian. The endgame was all that mattered and in this case, it was to stop a microscopic enemy. Total annihilation was the only course of action for these men who had lost touch with what it meant to be human.

Another series of concussions shook the craft as the skyline lit up with orange flames.

There has to be another way, Beckham thought. His headset crackled again, and the pilot said, “I’m hearing a lot of chatter over the net here. Apparently, the President has ordered air strikes in every major city. Strategic locations only. Mostly hospitals and clinics.”

Kate spoke for the first time in several hours. Cupping her headset, she yelled, “They’re going to try to stop the spread before it blossoms out of control. That will buy us time to find a cure.”

Beckham regarded her with a cocked eyebrow. “How do you know that, doctor?”

“Because that’s what I would do if I was in charge,” she replied.

“This is fucking insane,” Riley said.

Horn took off his helmet and tossed it across the chopper. “They can’t fucking do this! Those are innocent people down there!”

“They have to stop the spread,” Kate said. Her voice was reserved but strong.

Shaking his head, Beckham stared at the destruction. They were flying over the ocean now, the light from a bright moon glimmering over the water below them. The juxtaposition of the burning city and the calm ocean seemed odd. The sight of the new World Trade Center tower put everything into perspective. A wave of crimson flames surrounded the building. New York had been hit once again. This time by a different type of enemy—an enemy Beckham wasn’t sure they could stop.

The small data drive that Michael had downloaded their research onto burned a hole in Kate’s vest. She dug inside the pocket, searching for the small metallic drive to make sure it was still there. She felt a sigh of relief when her fingers wrapped around the tiny device. The man hadn’t died in vain.

Kate was at her breaking point. She’d been close before. Sudan 2009 came to mind. A shortage of medical supplies had prevented her team from stopping a deadly Malaria outbreak that claimed the lives of nearly every child in a remote village.

Those weeks had nearly pushed her over the edge, but this—this was the end of modern civilization. She’d lost Javier, she’d lost Michael, and the entire world was crashing down around her.

After the Blackhawk touched down at Plum Island, Riley quickly slid open the door. Bright white light spilled into the chopper, revealing a circular formation of white domed buildings in the distance. The industrial lights showed an island transformed. The hum of generators and cough of diesel engines from construction equipment and military vehicles filled the night.

“Looks like they were ready for this,” Horn said. He pulled his skull mask away from his mouth and spat onto the concrete.

The sight of the domed facilities pulled Kate to her feet. She hurried to the door and wedged her body between the two men for a better look.

The buildings weren’t the transportable Level 4 facilities used in hot zones, and at first glance she wasn’t sure what to make of them. Kate didn’t know much about Plum Island, but from what she could see these buildings looked brand new.

A spotlight sweeping the dusty ground illuminated the nearest structure. She recognized the symbol above the double doors immediately. It was the insignia of the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases, but that didn’t make any sense. For decades the Department of Agriculture had operated on the land, and in 2003 the Department of Homeland Security took ownership.

Shoving her way past Beckham and Horn, she pushed her way out the door, jumping down to the concrete.

“Wait up,” Beckham called out.

Hesitating, she waited for the others, the blades of the Blackhawk making a final rotation above her before slowing to a stop. She used the moment to study the buildings surrounding the tarmac. She counted a total of six of the white domed structures. All of them had the mark of the USAMRIID.

The screech of tires pulled her back to the tarmac, where two Humvees had stopped in front of them. The doors clicked open, and four men in CRBN suits jumped onto the concrete. Each of them held a rifle.

“It’s all right,” Beckham said. “Just follow their orders.”

Kate nodded slowly, trying to control her breathing. She couldn’t see the faces of the men behind their visors, which made her feel even worse.

One of them stepped out of the group and took five steps toward the chopper, where he stopped and raised a hand. “Everyone stay put.” He swept a flashlight over Beckham’s blood-soaked uniform. “Why aren’t you wearing suits?”

“Command—” Beckham started to reply when the lead soldier angled his light into the operator’s eyes.

“Stay put,” he said in a deliberately low and calm voice. “I’m Major Sean Smith. Everyone remain calm and we will get you through the decontamination procedures as quickly as possible. Before we start, will Dr. Michael Allen please come forward?”

Beckham shot Kate a cursory glance, locking eyes with her for a second before turning back to the officer.

“He didn’t make it out of Atlanta,” Beckham said grimly.

The response made no visible impact on Smith. After a short pause he said, “Please form a single file line and don’t touch one another.”

Another Humvee tore across the tarmac, skidding to a stop somewhere behind the chopper. Kate assumed their job was to make sure the Blackhawk was decontaminated.

Smith asked a series of questions about how she and the others were feeling and if they were experiencing any hallucinations or pain.

“I’m fine,” Beckham replied. “We are all fine. None of us are experiencing any symptoms. None of us are infected.”

“I’m asking everyone, Sergeant. Not just you,” Smith replied.

Beckham held up a hand. “Okay, sir.”

After they had all replied with satisfactory responses, he led them toward the first of the dome-shaped buildings.

Two armed guards stood outside, their machine guns at the ready. Above them a small floodlight illuminated a USAMRIID sign.

“This is the decon facility,” Smith said. “Inside you will go through a rigorous process to ensure you are not infected.”

Kate raised her hand. “Where’s the rest of the CDC been relocated?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have access to that information, Doctor…?”

“Lovato. Dr. Kate Lovato,” she replied.

“I don’t understand. Who’s in charge of this island?” Ellis said.

“The United States Army,” Smith responded without hesitating. “There’s plenty of time to explain later, but for now the most important thing is ensuring you aren’t infected. Please,” he said, gesturing toward the building with a hand. “Doctors Lovato and Ellis will go first. Team Ghost will follow.”

A cool breeze blew a strand of hair into Kate’s eyes. She brushed it away and looked for Beckham’s approval. He’d saved her and Ellis, and he’d done his best to save Michael and Kurt.

The man offered her a nod and then looked away. Beckham seemed skeptical. His gaze scrutinized their surroundings. Was he thinking the same thing she was? That there was more to the facility than met the eye?

She followed Major Smith toward the decon chambers, but paused at the entrance. A chill ran through her when she saw flames licking the horizon behind them. New York City was burning.