Extinction Horizon

-1-

The six-man team emerged onto the tarmac at dusk. The shadows they cast reflected men that moved with calculated precision. They passed under the idle blades of Blackhawk helicopters and crossed between the crates of supplies waiting to be shipped to hot spots around the world.

Any onlooker with even limited military knowledge would know the silhouettes did not belong to the average grunt. Their body armor was thinner and their muscles were sculpted in a way that reflected constant training and exercise. Further scrutiny would reveal that these men did not carry standard-issue weapons. There were no M4s or M249s amongst this group.

But no matter how well-trained the eye of an onlooker might have been, no one would have known the shadows belonged to the Delta Force Operator Team codenamed Ghost. Because technically, they did not exist—technically, they were ghosts that were activated only when the most critical situations emerged.

Today was one of those days.

It was April, but Master Sergeant Reed Beckham hardly noticed the budding trees and vibrant colors around him. He was still trying to figure out why Command had cancelled leave after a six-month tour of Afghanistan. He was supposed to be at a bar in Key West with his buddies, pounding beers and taking afternoon naps under the brilliant white sun. Instead of boarding a charter flight to the Keys, he found himself following his men into the belly of a V-22 Osprey at Fort Bragg.

When Colonel Clinton had told him the team would receive a full briefing on a flight to Edwards Air Force Base, Beckham hadn’t been concerned. That wasn’t unusual. On most missions they were briefed on the fly before dropping into a hot zone. This was a source of great pride amongst his men.

Drop. Take out target. Repeat.

They had the process down like a well-oiled machine. That machine never broke. The Delta Force Operators on Team Ghost were so well-trained they could prep for whatever bullshit the world had to throw at them in just minutes.

But that bullshit typically didn’t involve what Clinton had said next, that Beckham was to escort a CDC doctor to Edwards AFB, where they would rendezvous with two officers from the Medical Corps. From there they would receive more orders.

Beckham was team lead for a strike team composed of six men. They weren’t in the business of escorting doctors. They weren’t babysitters. They were operators that snuck in and out of places and took care of business the old-fashioned way. He led the type of missions the good old US of A loved to watch on the big screen.

Only Beckham wasn’t Chuck Norris, and his men weren’t actors. His men were composed of flesh, bone, and blood. When they were shot, they bled real blood. They didn’t get a second chance. He’d promised his team he would do everything in his power to keep them alive from day one—that he would die before they did. For the average person, it was a promise that couldn’t be kept. But for Beckham, it was sacred. It meant everything to him. He wore the phantom badge into every mission, right above the picture of his mom.

Patting his vest pocket, he stared into the troop hold and watched his men board. Each and every one of them was capable of completing a mission single-handedly, and they were all responsible for making the same life or death decisions Beckham did. But he was their leader. He’d never lost a man under his command. Everyone on Team Ghost had come home in one piece. They’d been shot, stabbed, and hit with shrapnel, but they’d always survived. He’d felt every one of their injuries like they were his own. Their pain was his pain.

The training bible had taught him that his men always came second to the mission, but in Beckham’s book, the men surrounding him were just as important. His first squad leader had said, “My mission, my men, myself.” Beckham had rearranged the order a bit.

This mission was no different, and the facts surrounding it gave him an uneasy feeling as he grabbed a handhold and climbed into the Osprey.

“Welcome aboard. I’m Chief Wright,” came a voice from inside the dimly lit space. Beckham focused on a stocky crew chief standing with his hands on his hips. “Holy shit,” the crewman muttered.

He took a moment to give Ghost Alpha and Bravo the reverse elevator eyes look: starting with their black helmets and then scanning their clear shooting glasses, headsets, tan fatigues, vests stuffed with extra magazines, body armor, and finally their boots. Then he moved to their customized weapons, stopping on Beckham’s own MP5 submachine gun.

The crew chief twisted his mouth to the side. “Damn, you all look like you’re about to drop into a war zone.”

“We just came from one,” Beckham replied. He wasn’t exactly in the mood for small talk. He was exhausted and had been looking forward to some R&R. On top of that, he was anxious to get moving. The sooner he knew what was going on, the sooner he could plan for the dangers and, ultimately, victory.

The chief’s features darkened. He narrowed his eyes and in a stern voice said, “We’re still waiting for the CDC doctor.”

Beckham took a seat across from Sergeant Tenor. This was Tenor’s first mission at the helm of a strike team. He was a solid leader and quick thinker—the perfect pick to lead Bravo. Beckham scrutinized the man discreetly in the dimly lit section of the Osprey. The younger Delta operator held his helmet in his hand and cleaned the interior with a cloth. A pre-combat ritual. He didn’t give off any impressions of being nervous. His stern face was landlocked by a solid jaw and topped with a strip of hair perfectly groomed into a Mohawk. He flashed Beckham a confident smirk as if he knew he was being sized up. That was Tenor’s way of saying he was ready to go.

The other men wore the same confident looks, but Beckham scanned each one of them to ensure none had shown up with a hangover. He started with Staff Sergeant Carlos “Panda” Spinoza, the team’s demolitions expert. The thick man had a booming voice and the whitest teeth Beckham had ever seen. But he rarely smiled or spoke. Battle had hardened him years ago.

To his right sat Staff Sergeant Horn, the star college football player from Texas. He’d earned the name Big Horn at Texas Tech, where he’d crushed the school’s sack record. He was a staggering six feet two with a thick skull topped with strawberry blonde hair. Delta had made an exception by allowing him on the team. With a tumultuous background, history of a broken home, and arms covered in ink, Horn wasn’t the model recruit, but Beckham had vetted the man himself. He’d read his file. He knew how Horn worked under pressure when his life and those of his men were threatened. His valor in the early days of Operation Iraqi Freedom had earned him three Purple Hearts and a Bronze Star. Beckham knew instantly he wanted the man on Team Ghost, and he had never regretted the decision for a minute. Horn was one of the most talented operators he’d ever worked with.

Horn wasn’t the only one. All of the operators were talented. Each of them had scored ninety-five percent accuracy or better in shooting tests at a thousand yards. They’d all survived the grueling endurance tests that would have left other men dead. They were the best of the best. Beckham’s team was America’s first line of defense that no one knew existed. Unseen and unheard, they were truly ghosts. He could count on every single one of them when the shit hit the fan.

A flash of movement from the tarmac distracted Beckham before he could examine the youngest members of his team, Staff Sergeant Riley and Sergeant Edwards. Standing, Beckham watched a short man with an enthusiastic stride and slicked-back hair climb inside the compartment with the aid of a stern-looking African-American MP. The soldier had the eyes of a hawk. Beckham stifled a snort. He knew the type. They took their jobs very seriously—sometimes too seriously.

Holding out his hand Beckham said, “Welcome, doctor…”

“Ellis. Dr. Pat Ellis,” the man said, shaking Beckham’s hand vigorously and turning to the rest of the team with a smile. “Most people just call me, uh, Ellis.”

“Excuse me, sir,” the MP said. “We will have time for proper introductions later. We need to get moving immediately.” There was urgency in his voice.

“Just waiting on you guys,” Beckham replied firmly.

The MP didn’t look amused. He took a seat, and Chief Wright hit the button to close the cargo bay door. The crew chief gave a thumbs up and pounded the inside wall. “Good to go,” he said. Groaning, the metal door crunched shut behind them.

Beckham watched Dr. Ellis like a coach sizing up a recruit. The civilian moved quickly down the cargo hold, carrying a leather bag clutched against his chest. He searched the empty seats, stopping next to Horn. The operator ignored him, pulling his skull bandana up to his nose as if to say, This seat’s taken.

Ellis hugged the bag closer to his chest and moved to Tenor. The man dropped his gear bag into the open seat next to him. “Sorry, taken.”

Beckham chewed at the inside of his lip. Typically his men were better behaved, but they weren’t used to babysitting.

“You can sit here,” Beckham offered.

The doctor’s face lit up when he saw the open seat, and he rushed over to it, plopping down just as the V-22’s engines hummed to life.

“Thanks,” Ellis said.

The roar of the aircraft motors rippled through the walls. Ospreys were known for more than their speed and versatility; they were known for their noise. Beckham had always thought they sounded like a large lawn mower with too many ponies and a dire need for an oil change.

Beckham handed Ellis a pair of earplugs and said, “Better put these on.”

“Thanks,” Ellis remarked. He grabbed them and held them out in front of his face like he’d never seen them before and then slowly slipped them into his ears. Then, with the utmost precision, he reached for his harness and buckled in with a click.

The whoosh from the rotors filled the cabin, sending vibrations through the craft. The doctor’s eyes widened ever so slightly, but not from fear. He looked excited, like a kid riding on a roller coaster for the first time. The aircraft pulled to the right as the pilots maneuvered it onto the runway. The rumble of the engines intensified. Moments later they were ascending into the sky.

Beckham leaned over to look out his window. Below, the shadow of the aircraft glided across a vast green field. They were still low enough that he could make out the shapes of several horses running freely through a pasture. The rolling hills and crystal clear creeks snaking through the terrain were serene, but Beckham still felt anxious.

The view quickly vanished, and the horses faded into tiny black dots moving slowly across the distant landscape.

“Which one of you is Master Sergeant Beckham?” came a voice from the other end of the aircraft.

Beckham raised his knife hand. He craned his neck to see the MP pulling several tablets out of a bag.

“Take one of these, each of you,” the man said. He walked down the aisle and handed the devices out in turn. “Once you submit your electronic signature and fingerprint, you will have access to a classified briefing from Colonel Gibson, Commanding Officer of the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. Mission details will be provided at the end of the briefing.”

The MP stopped and handed Beckham his tablet.

“What about me?” Dr. Ellis asked, his voice more eager than before.

“I’m sorry, sir, but this briefing is for military personnel only. Master Sergeant Beckham will ensure you have all the information you need to help make this mission a success, but I should remind you that you are here only as a consultant.” The MP returned to his seat at the other end of the craft and melted into the shadows.

Ellis spoke louder. “How can I consult if I don’t know what’s going on?”

Beckham glanced over at the doctor and gave him a reassuring nod as if to say, Don’t worry, I’ll tell you everything I know. But that would have been a lie. He didn’t like the fact he had to drag a civilian along with them and neither did his men. Even if Ellis did bring a medical opinion to the mission, civilians typically ended up becoming liabilities and only slowed his team down.

Beckham looked out the window to catch a final glimpse of the sun. It made one last valiant effort before disappearing over the horizon. Darkness filled the aircraft until a bank of lights blinked on above them.

With a quick flick of the touch screen, Beckham activated his tablet. He linked his headset to the device with a small cord, and a message appeared immediately.

Beckham looked down the aisle at Horn and Carlos and then across the way at Edwards, Riley, and Tenor. Their faces were all illuminated by the same white glow radiating off their tablets. One by one they removed their gloves and signed the display.

It was odd being warned of the repercussions for sharing any classified information. In fact, it was downright patronizing, especially for a Delta Force Operator. Beckham had given his entire life to his country. Chosen Her over a wife and kids and spent time away from the small bit of family he had fighting in faraway lands. But there was something else about the message that went far beyond insult. Its very existence made him uneasy. Something didn’t feel right about this mission.

Whatever it was.

Beckham considered what he already knew. The facts were slowly coming together. Their leave had been cancelled only a few days after returning to Fort Bragg from Afghanistan. That told him Brass wanted a team that had been in the field recently and was sharp. The lack of a formal briefing from Command told him that someone higher up was in charge. The CIA instantly came to mind, but that didn’t explain Ellis and the involvement of the CDC. The clandestine air of the mission bled further through, filling Beckham with more anxiety.

Without further hesitation he signed the display and pressed his index finger over the scanner. He was anxious to know what they were dealing with.

A video image of an older officer popped onto the display. The man was sitting in a large leather chair with his light blue eyes narrowed at the screen. He swiped a single bead of sweat off his forehead.

“As you already know, I’m Colonel Rick Gibson, Commanding Officer of the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. I’ll make this briefing as quick as possible. Time is of the essence. At 1000 hours this morning, we lost contact with a Top Secret facility on San Nicholas Island off the coast of California. This installation, which is known simply as Building 8, is home to some of the most important medical research in the country. The scientists working inside deal with Level 4 biohazards, the most severe contagions and chemical toxins known to man. Officially this facility doesn’t exist.” He paused, throwing a glace over his shoulder like he didn’t want anyone to hear him.

Beckham felt his muscles tightening, an involuntary reaction he experienced whenever he felt nervous. He waited for the officer to continue.

Looking back to the camera, Gibson said, “So what does this have to do with your team? Protocol is to activate an emergency operations team, contact the CDC, and deploy a response. Along with Dr. Ellis from the CDC and the assistance of two men from my division, you gentleman are that response. I’m not taking any chances in this situation, and I’m told you can get the job done.”

A lump formed in Beckham’s throat. He didn’t know what the job was yet, but he had a feeling it would take him inside Building 8. Level 4 contagions were his worst fear as an operator. He’d much rather face a building full of insurgents than walk into a viral hot zone.

“These next videos will give you an idea of what we are dealing with,” Gibson continued, his image fading. “This was recorded on 24 March. Location is a WHO field hospital in remote Guinea. The patient tested positive for the Ebola virus.”

Beckham tightened his grip on the tablet as the image enlarged. The body of a frail African man lay coiled on a cot. A pair of nurses protected only by masks stood by his side, one of them bending over to wipe a trail of blood leaking out of his right eye. The thin blanket draped over his bony body looked like the apron of a butcher, speckled with dark red blood.

He had seen images of patients infected with Ebola before, but not this bad. This man hemorrhaged blood from every orifice. The nurses’ attempts to dry his forehead with a red-soaked sponge ended when he lurched forward, black vomit streaming out of his mouth.

Beckham blinked and then focused on the man’s ghostly stare. Something about his detached eyes reminded him that the enemy, in this case, wasn’t human. It was a microscopic contagion, one that he couldn’t simply shoot or blow up. The revelation scared the shit out of him.

“The second video was taken inside the isolation wing of a hospital in the Capital City of Conakry, Guinea. A hundred and four new cases were confirmed on 27 March. Of those cases, over ninety-eight have died since the recording.”

Beckham watched men in white biosuits approach a pair of guards holding AK-47s. After checking for clearance, they opened the glass doors. Inside, the videographer panned the camera across the room revealing dozens of beds, all of which contained the same scene: blood-soaked blankets and patients hemorrhaging out their insides. A doctor waved the camera away, yelling “Get that thing out of here!”

The video fizzled, and Gibson reappeared on the screen. “I’m sure many of you heard about this outbreak in recent news. The virus is thought be a stronger version of the Zaire Strain, the worst type known to man. It has spread to Sierra Leone, Liberia, and Mali. We have confirmed cases in Europe, the Middle East, and Asia. It’s just a matter of time before this strain hits US soil.”

Beckham’s eyes shot up. He scanned the faces of his men. They all wore the same bold looks, seemingly undeterred by the images.

Glancing back down at his tablet, Beckham saw Gibson’s features had changed. The man checked his wristwatch. Then, with a new sense of urgency painted across his face, Gibson looked up. The creases on his forehead solidified into deep crevices.

“As you can probably guess, the researchers at Building 8 were working on a cure. Dr. Isaac Medford, the team lead, contacted me two days ago to say he had made a breakthrough. He’d extracted chemical samples from a weapon called VX-99. Many of you may have heard rumors of its use in Vietnam. Some of them are probably true. Anyone injected with a single dose is transformed into something that makes the criminally insane look like Girl Scouts. The weapon was designed with one purpose—to make super-soldiers. It was used in 1968 on a platoon of Marines. They were to take a small but heavily defended village. Instead, the entire platoon turned on one another and bled the jungle red. They killed in the most barbaric ways known to man. Most of the Marines were found without their weapons, having used their bare hands to murder each other and the VCs that ambushed them. The chemical was discontinued after its use was found to have irreversible effects, as you are about to see.”

Beckham felt several eyes on him from across the aisle, but he did not look up. He focused on his tablet. The smiling image of a soldier dressed in uniform appeared. Gibson continued his narration. “This is Platoon Commander First Lieutenant Trevor Brett. He was awarded a posthumous Bronze Star for his actions in a classified mission in Vietnam. His family believed he died a hero. His file simply says KIA. But this is far from the truth. Ten years after his last mission, Lieutenant Brett showed up in a rural village outside Son La, over one hundred miles south of where his platoon had dropped in and injected VX-99.”

A map appeared with a red line leading from the upper mountain area to the city of Son La. Beckham recognized the area instantly. He’d spent several weeks of leave there when he first joined the military.

“Remember that red line,” Gibson said.

Next, an image of a man in torn clothing emerged. Even though the picture was blurry, Beckham could tell there was no humanity left in him. He’d seen others like him in the slums of Mogadishu, the remote villages of the northern tribal areas of Afghanistan, and the filthy alleys in Fallujah. War zones tended to produce the look quite often.

“This was a photograph of the lieutenant taken by a British journalist in 1980. Take note of his appearance. His lips, eyes, skin.”

Using his fingers to pinch the screen together, Beckham enlarged the image. Brett had transformed into a monster with hair clinging to his head in clumps. His skin was almost translucent with blue veins crisscrossing his exposed flesh. His eyes had developed some sort of second layer or membrane that was reminiscent of a reptilian eye, and the pupil had morphed into a yellowish slit. But the most striking change were the man’s lips. They bulged into a grotesque sucker that reminded Beckham of a leech.

“And his necklace,” Gibson continued.

A new image filled the display. Some sort of cord lay across the surface of a metal desk. Beckham thought he saw dried pieces of flesh. But was that possible?

As the image magnified further, his stomach lurched. He’d never seen anything like this. He’d heard of men keeping ears and other trophies, but there were more than just ears on the lieutenant’s necklace. There were other things—unspeakable things. Now Beckham knew why Dr. Ellis wasn’t allowed to watch the briefing. If anything got out about this chemical weapon, the military would not only be paying out large settlements to families, but politicians would be hosting a barbeque on the Hill by grilling anyone connected to VX-99. Gibson would likely be the pig slow-roasted with an apple in his mouth.

“What you saw are the results of VX-99. Like I said earlier, the idea behind the serum was to create a super-soldier. What we got was Lieutenant Brett.” Gibson paused again and then said, “That red line on the map of Vietnam I told you to remember? That was the path Brett followed for ten years. Murdering and eating anyone he came across. VX-99 didn’t simply transform him into a monstrosity; it transformed him into a criminally insane soldier, one that stayed alive all of those years with a single goal—to kill.”

Once again Gibson’s tired face faded, replaced by a video feed of the ocean. Beckham found himself wondering what Brett’s fate had been. There was no way the Marine ever saw the light of day again. He’d likely died a long time ago after enduring the countless tests by the Medical Corps.

What a fucking way for a soldier to go out, Beckham thought as the camera panned to a beach.

“Your target is a sample of Dr. Medford’s research. My men will know exactly what they are looking for.” Gibson crinkled his nose. “I know what you’re thinking. Why not just bomb the place? We would if we could, believe me, but I need to know what Medford created. It could be invaluable for future Ebola research. I need that sample.”

Beckham mastered his anger with a deep breath, tuning Gibson out for a moment to think. This mission meant Team Ghost was cannon fodder. That wasn’t new or unexpected. He’d signed the papers. He knew from the beginning what he was getting himself into. But this? His team was being sent into a potential hot zone with no real intel besides some shitty briefing about events that had happened nearly fifty years ago.

Ghost had dropped into remote locations with less information than they had now, but those missions had never dealt with Level 4 contagions. This was a different type of enemy.

The tension in the troop hold lingered like a thick fog of humidity. Beckham didn’t need to scan his men again to know they all felt it. Never once had he questioned a mission before. Orders were always orders. And no matter how bad things were at Building 8, he still had a duty to his country.

Breathing deeply through his nose, he quelled another surge of anger.

“As I stated before,” Gibson continued, “The target is on San Nicholas Island. Everyone working outside Building 8 have been evacuated. When you arrive, the only personnel left within a twenty-mile radius will be the scientists locked beneath the surface.”

Beckham studied the screen. Sapphire waves crashed onto the shores under the moonlight. The video, taken by a low-flying chopper, gave a full view of the island. Snaking across a background of brown sand was a landing strip with a cluster of buildings nestled around the perimeter.

Gibson continued, his voice growing more anxious. “My men will have a GPS locator with them. They will guide you to Building 8. It’s off the beaten path, away from the rest of the facilities. They have never been there, and neither have I, due to the sensitive nature of the research,” he said with a slight pause. “It’s one of our smaller labs with a staff of only fifteen. Navy personnel on the island do not even know Building 8 exists. They’ve been told they were evacuated due to a toxic spill.”

The video transitioned into a building layout. Beckham assumed the prints were of Building 8, but with the dim lighting in the cargo hold he had to focus to get a better look.

Gibson continued to narrate. “My men will give you access to the facility. Your mission is to protect them and retrieve the sample of Medford’s work.”

Protect his men, Beckham thought. From what?

Gibson coughed deeply into his hand and very politely said, “Excuse me. There are three levels in the lab. Your target will be somewhere on the last level where Dr. Medford would have stored the samples. Level One is decontamination. You won’t need to worry about activating these chambers because you will be equipped with CBRN suits, but keep in mind that if there is a loose contagion, you are only safe inside your suit. A single tear will compromise you.”

Level Two popped onto the screen. “These are the personnel quarters. Navigate your way to the far end where a final hallway will take you to Level Three. There are four labs on the final level. Each is color-coded and represents a different toxic level. You are looking for the red one. That is where Medford would have been performing his tests.”

Gibson’s profile reappeared. “Make no mistake gentlemen, the likelihood of anyone inside being alive is slim to none. You may be walking into a morgue.” He paused briefly and then added, “In approximately one hour from this briefing you will land at Edwards Air Force Base. From there you will rendezvous with two men from our Emergency Operations Center: Major Caster and Major Noble. Noble is a virologist and a damn good one. You will then be fitted to your protective suits and further briefed. After securing your equipment, you will proceed to San Nicholas Island by helicopter. By this time tomorrow I hope to be congratulating you all via conference call after you acquire the sample. Good luck.”

The video fizzled out, and Beckham looked up to meet the intense stares from his team. Their eyes pleaded for reassurance, for Beckham to say something inspirational.

He sat there trying to think of something, but his mind raced. Suddenly, a single image froze there. He could see the black, detached eyes of Lieutenant Brett as vividly as if he was staring right at the man. He finally understood why they’d been activated. They were protecting Gibson’s men from a possible Brett.

A distant voice snapped Beckham from his thoughts. The youngest and smallest team member, Sergeant Riley, stared from across the aisle. An overhead light illuminated his youthful features, reminding Beckham why the man had earned the name Kid. With light blue eyes and an enthusiastic and contagious laugh, Riley was the team’s little brother. He wore a constant cheerful grin.

“Guess we aren’t going to the Keys after all?”

“No,” Beckham replied grimly.

Riley pulled the bandana with the illustration of a smiling Joker over his mouth and let out a deep laugh. “Good, I didn’t want to go anyways.”

Several of the other men chuckled. Big Horn reached over and smacked the kid’s armored knee. “Think of this like a game of football. That’s what I do,” he said, crossing his arms. “War is easier when you compare it to something you’re good at.”

Riley fidgeted with the bandana. The kid was still new and he was probably nervous as all hell.

Beckham didn’t blame him. Shit, he was nervous too. He considered telling Riley that everything would be fine, that the mission was just a routine recovery, but that would be a lie. Beckham had never lied to his men and wasn’t about to start now.

Stiffening his back, he locked eyes with Tenor, his co-lead. “We’re gonna get in, grab the sample, and get out.” Turning to Riley, he said, “And hopefully we will have some leave left when this is all over.”

Riley let out his infamous and reassuring chuckle. It reminded Beckham of the time Riley had climbed on stage at The Bing and danced in his underwear, which had actually been closer to a thong. At least they had the kid to lighten up the mood when it grew dark.

“So do you guys want to tell me what the hell is going on?” Ellis asked. He squirmed under his harness and craned his neck toward Beckham.

The other men grew quiet, and the noise from the motors reclaimed the troop hold. They would let Beckham respond.

Closing his eyes, he took in a short, silent breath and rested his helmet on the metal wall behind him. Need to know info only, Beckham thought as he blinked and started at the bank of LEDs above.

“You’re on a reclamation mission, doctor. Target is a sample of work that the Medical Corps was working on at a secret location.”

“What kind of sample?”

“Classified,” Beckham replied.

“That’s just great,” Ellis huffed, settling back into his seat.

Satisfied with his cryptic answer, Beckham closed his eyes again. With any luck he would snag a nap before they landed. And if he was really lucky he wouldn’t dream of any hemorrhaging Ebola patients—or worse, images of the monster that Lieutenant Brett had transformed into.