Extinction Age (7 page)

 
“Command, Tower 4. No hostiles. Please advise.
Over,” Fitz said.

The whoosh of helicopter blades pulled Fitz’s gaze to the
north. Strike teams raced across the tarmac and piled into the trio of grounded
Blackhawks. By the time he moved back to the other side of his tower, the birds
were airborne. The mechanical chatter of their rotors masked his labored
breaths. He watched them race across the sky toward the
Truxtun
.

“Tower 4, stand by for orders,” the operator finally replied.

Fitz brought the scope back to his eye. The ship plowed
through the water at full speed, whitecaps bursting around the bow. Echo 1
intercepted it first. The crew chief didn’t hesitate. They opened up with the
M240 and sprayed a line of projectiles across the ship’s path. Echo 2 and 3
flanked the destroyer as it shot by, circling and giving chase.

Fitz followed the ship’s progress with his scope. It looked
like it was going to hit the eastern peninsula of the island. “Come on,” he
murmured. “Stop, you son of a bitch.”

He watched, astonished, as the new threat continued barreling
toward the island. That was the thing about the apocalypse; you never knew what
would happen next.

The mechanical whine of gas-powered turbines pulled Fitz from
his thoughts. Echo 1 had opened up on the bow of the
Truxtun
. Whoever
was steering the ship didn’t change course. The destroyer charged right through
the hail of gunfire. Echo 2 and Echo 3 unleashed a barrage on the port and
starboard sides of the ship.

Why would a Navy ship ram the fucking island?

If they wanted resources, all they had to do was point their
Tomahawk missiles and Lieutenant Colonel Jensen would wave a white flag.

Nothing made sense… until the ship shot by the shoreline and
continued on a straight course toward the Connecticut shoreline. The Blackhawks
seemed just as surprised as Fitz. They hovered over the water like oversized
bees, their blades buzzing as they waited for orders.

Then Fitz understood. The ship had never been on a collision
course at all—there was no one at the helm. The
Truxtun
was truly just a
ghost ship.

Fitz watched the destroyer continue toward mainland as the
choppers returned to base. When the ship was only a speck on the horizon, he
collapsed on the stool, took in a long breath, and exhaled.

“Command, Tower 4. Anyone got any whiskey?”

-7-

K
ate held out her arms as Ellis zipped up the back
of her suit. Five minutes had passed since the alarms had stopped screaming,
but the sound was still reverberating in her ears.

“A destroyer?” Ellis asked. “With no one behind the wheel?
How the hell does that make any sense?”

Kate frowned. “Does anything make sense anymore?” Mentally,
she was beyond exhausted, but she needed her wits for what came next.

Kate was beginning to hate the lab. It was yet another
reminder of what she’d created here. The other labs beyond the glass windows
were dark. There were no scientists in CBR suits huddling around computer
monitors in the other levels or robotic arms retrieving samples in the
centrifuge. They’d lost most of their support staff in the attack, and the survivors
had been given time to regroup. Kate and Ellis were the only ones determined—or
crazy—enough to be here today.

“Not going to lie,” Ellis said, waving his badge over the
security terminal. “I’m excited to get back to it. I’ve been thinking about
another bioweapon and I have an idea.”

The glass doors whispered apart and Kate strolled past the
empty lab stations. Banks of LED lights clicked on simultaneously and the room
lit up with a clean, white glow. The absence of the other scientists chilled
her even further in her already freezing suit.

“I have an idea, too,” Kate said after a long pause.

“You first,” Ellis said. He pulled a stool across the floor
to her station.

Kate sat, keyed in her credentials, and moused over to a
research paper she’d read earlier.

“What do we know about the Variants’ weaknesses?” Kate asked.

Ellis glanced up at her, his brow furrowed. “Is that a
rhetorical question?”

“No. I’m being serious.”

He shrugged. “We know they’re sensitive to light. That’s
about it.”

“That’s why I’ve been reading about optogenetics,” Kate said.
She scooted her stool over and pointed at the PDF on screen. “Know anything
about it?”

“Only what Wikipedia taught me,” he chuckled. “One of my old
classmates worked in the field, and I didn’t want to sound like an idiot the
last time we had dinner. I used my phone to look up the details in the cab ride
across Manhattan.”

Kate would have laughed a month ago, but she didn’t feel much
like laughing now. She forced a smile he probably couldn’t even see.

“I’m not an expert on it either, but I know that light has
been used to control neural activity through genetic targeting. Before
everything that’s happened, researchers made breakthroughs in controlling the
behavior of animals—”

Ellis interrupted her by shaking his helmet. “You’re not
thinking what I think you’re thinking, are you? You were the one who said the
Variants aren’t animals we can control.”

“I’m not talking about controlling them. I’m talking about
killing them,” Kate said, her voice cutting. She shifted her gaze from the
computer to his eyes. “You don’t need to remind me what I’ve said in the past.”

He shied away, slouching half a degree in his chair. “Sorry.”

Kate was silent for a moment. There was so much going on in
her head she was having a hard time keeping it straight. She pawed her visor in
a futile attempt to rub her tired eyes, forgetting she even had her helmet on.

“The main problem is weaponizing it. Most of the applications
require light-sensitive probes to be implanted in the brains of subjects,” she
said.

“That’s not exactly an option.”

“No, but what if we could use the same concept to kill them?
To exploit their weakness to light.”

Ellis frowned and said, “What’s the difference between
shooting them with bullets or shooting them with some sort of light gun? Both
require soldiers, and last I checked the world was running very short on
those.”

Kate thought of Beckham. No matter what she designed, someone
would have to test the weapon in the field. The idea of him risking his life
out there again made her heart flutter.

“What’s your idea?” Kate asked. She turned away from her
monitor, crossed her arms and waited.

“I’ve been so focused on the epigenetic changes the Variants
are going through, I’ve neglected the obvious,” Ellis said, talking quickly and
waving his hands. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this weeks ago. I was just
so stuck on the—”

“Slow down,” Kate said.

 “Right, sorry,” he replied after a pause. “Remember how
the stem cells are proliferating at a rapid rate?”

“I do. They’re responsible for their healing capabilities,
immune system health, and rapid transformation.” Kate tried to guess where he
was going with this, but she was too exhausted to speculate. He didn’t wait for
her questions anyway.

“Well, what if we isolate a sample of bone marrow stems cells
from one of the Variants? We could run it through the HTS system and look for a
protein that’s only expressed in the infected. Then we could develop antibodies
that would target their stem cells and deliver something to knock them out,” he
said. His voice carried a sense of awe. “It would only work on Variants, since
the protein would be specific to them.”

Kate considered the idea. It wasn’t much different from what
she had created with VX9H9. The bioweapon had worked on only those infected
with the Hemorrhage virus. But this time whatever they ended up developing
would need to kill every one of the creatures. There was no margin for error.

Ellis studied Kate for a reaction, his eyes bright behind his
visor.

“So you think we should use a technology like targeted drug
delivery?” Kate asked.

“Precisely,” Ellis said, nodding. “Think it might work?”
 

“Not sure,” Kate said. “But I like the idea.”

A childish grin broke across Ellis’s face that reminded Kate
of her brother, Javier. It was the same smile he’d used to get out of countless
scrapes when they were growing up. “First things first,” she said, forcing
herself to focus on the present. “We need to start with the bone marrow stem
cells.”

Kate turned to the exit of the lab.

“Where are you going?”

“To take a sample from a Variant,” she said. “Are you just
going to sit there, or are you coming with me?”

Beckham awoke with a violent jerk.
His breathing was heavy, his back drenched with sweat. The distant memory of a
nightmare clung to his mind. He had been in the tunnels, plastered to a wall,
unable to shoot the Variants crawling toward him. For a moment he was paralyzed
by the shock of the powerful dream.  

“Jesus, boss. Are you okay?” Horn sat on the adjacent bunk,
his daughters on each side. Riley was in his wheelchair at the end of his bed.

“‘Bout time you got your ass up,” Riley said with the hint of
a grin.

Beckham ran a hand through hair that needed trimming and
looked at his watch. The slight movement of his shoulder sent pain racing
across his battered chest.

“Fuck, I’ve been out a while,” he said, trying to hide the
pain.

“Hey, little ears on deck here,” Horn said with a pointed
look toward his daughters.

“Right. Sorry, Big Horn. And sorry, Tasha and Jenny,” Beckham
said, nodding at each girl in turn.

“You’ve been out five hours,” Riley said. “If you don’t count
the weirdness with the boat and the alarms. That woke us all up, but you fell
right back asleep.”

Beckham scooted to the edge of his bed and scanned the mostly
empty room. The other soldiers were on patrol, and the majority of the
civilians had been issued rooms in Building 1. Horn and his girls had one of
those, but they’d stuck around to sit with Beckham. Kate had offered him her
bed, but he wanted to be with his men for now.

“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.