Nicholas Smith - Extinction Edge

Kate reached toward the glass. “Wait!”

“My apologies, but I really need to go.” Jensen nodded stiffly and stepped away from the glass.

Kate drifted back to her lab station, unable to decide if she should sit or stand or fall to the floor in tears. She came up against the lab table, bracing her gloved hands on the metal.

“You okay?” Ellis asked.

Kate slumped in her chair, staring at the lab notes on her monitor. The screen blurred, the text replaced by a mental image of Beckham’s broken body. She let out a sharp sob. No amount of work could save her from her thoughts this time.

Lieutenant Colonel Jensen walked into the mess hall, wondering if he was doing the right thing. The room was overflowing. Soldiers and support staff sat at metal tables, speaking in low voices. Others huddled in small groups, waiting patiently. He didn’t see a single open seat.

He faltered briefly, uncertainty amplifying in his chest. Smith was right; Plum Island was already operating at a maximum capacity. Bringing in more survivors would put a burden on their resources.

Seeing the faces of those who had taken a pledge to their country gave him a great sense of pride. He wanted to lead them in a fair and just way. That meant providing the same opportunities to everyone on the island.

The crowd quieted as Jensen and Smith marched to the center of the room, but not as quickly as they had silenced for Colonel Gibson weeks before. That meant one of two things. Either they had feared his predecessor, or Jensen had some work to do to gain their trust. Maybe both , he thought, clearing his throat and checking the mic with a double tap of his finger.

“Good morning, everyone.” Jensen worked the group with a quick sweep of his eyes. He’d seen other men master the gaze; they usually ended up as generals. He still needed some practice. “As many of you already know, General Kennor and Central Command have been organizing a mission designed to take back our cities from the Variants. Operation Liberty.”

Jensen ran a finger over his mustache and continued. “Command has asked us to provide multiple strike teams to support a mechanized platoon of Marines in Manhattan. This is part of a bigger mission to take back New York. There are four other platoons that will operate in the other boroughs. Each will set up a forward operating base as the first phase of Operation Liberty in New York. All will be mechanized, and all will have air support.”

“Only one company in New York?” a slender Marine asked from the front row. Jensen glanced over at him. He wasn’t taking questions—this was a briefing, not a Q and A—but the man’s eyes begged for reassurance.

“Truth is, we’re still trying to clean up the mess that was Operation Reaper. We lost a lot of men and equipment in the first few days of the outbreak. Most of what’s left comes from our navy vessels that returned from hotspots around the world. Every city west of the Mississippi is getting far less support than we are. Trust me. A company is a goddamn army in terms of the assets we have left.”

The Marine nodded.

“Your COs will meet with those of you selected for the mission after this briefing. But before they do so, I want to inform you of another development.”

Jensen sucked in a short breath through his nostrils, unsure of how the info would be received. He reminded himself that leadership required guts.

“Thirty hours ago, I authorized a mission to Fort Bragg. Two Delta Force Operators were inserted to look for survivors there. They found approximately fifty, including a small team of other Delta Force Operators and Army Rangers. As expected, the post had been overrun by Variants. I’m proud to report that we were able to evacuate all of the survivors, and they are currently en route to Plum Island via three Black Hawks.”

There were a few immediate protests. Support staff from the looks of it. Non-military. Jensen raised a hand. “Please!” he shouted. “Let me finish.”

Major Smith took a step toward the crowd.

Lowering his hand, Jensen said, “The moment I took command of this post, I promised to keep you all informed of the situation outside. I lifted the communication cloak so you could attempt to reach your families. But the hard truth is most of our families are gone. The man or woman next to you is your family now. We are all in this together and must remain vigilant. With that said, I hope you will all welcome the survivors from Fort Bragg with open arms. They will become a valuable part of our extended family.”

He waited for the crowd to transform into a mob like he’d seen days earlier. To his surprise the room remained still. A beat passed and then another before an unfamiliar noise finally broke the silence. In the back of the room a Marine stood, his hands coming together as he clapped. Jensen nodded at the man with gratitude. The man clapped louder and the entire table of Marines stood and joined in. Before Jensen could respond, the mess hall erupted with applause.

Jensen scanned each face, one by one, from the line cook with a filthy apron to the navy pilots in uniform. The men and women of Plum Island had pulled together, something he hadn’t been sure he would ever see after the truth about Colonel Gibson had emerged.

He glanced over at Smith, who smiled and joined in with the applause.

Maybe I’m getting closer to mastering that gaze after all , Jensen thought.

Echo 3 tilted slightly to the east and swooped low over the teal ocean waves. Beckham rested on his side next to the edge of the open chopper door. A female nurse whose name he didn’t know was hovering over him and treating his injuries.

He looked down at the reflection of the chopper flickering in the water. The thump of the blades drowned out her voice. When he didn’t respond, she leaned down next to his ear and said, “This is going to burn.”

He winced as she pressed an antiseptic pad against the cut over his left eye. The pain told him it was deep. Maybe even stitches deep.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

With a nod, she crouch-walked to another patient. Beckham scooted closer to the edge of the open door. Echo 3 was filled to the brim with passengers, some of them dangling their legs over the side next to him.

They were safe now—a miracle by anyone’s standards. But surviving was both a blessing and a curse. He caught the gaze of a child sitting in a soldier’s lap. It was the same boy he’d given his gas mask to. He looked six, maybe seven years old. Where Beckham saw an innocent child, the Variants saw food.

The monsters were the most ruthless enemy he’d ever faced. Children, women, the injured—they were all the same in the eyes of the creatures.

Beckham rested his helmet on the floor. The long flight back to Plum Island would give him plenty of time to replay the mission. He’d safely evacuated everyone from Fort Bragg, but what he’d seen during the escape had changed his opinion on the war. The Variant that had broken his face wasn’t some barbarian. He was the general of a demon army.

Rolling on his back, Beckham glanced up at the refugees. Faces blurred together as the morphine took hold.

“Almost there,” a man said.

The sunlight shifted into his eyes. Beckham blinked and saw the dirt-stained face of Fitz staring down at him.

“Nice shooting back there,” Beckham said.

Fitz smiled and then looked down. “I was the best in my unit when I was a Marine, before an IED took my legs. But I still got it!”

Beckham chuckled and said, "You’re still a Marine."