Nicholas Smith - Extinction Edge

“Tower 4, if bogey crosses into airspace, you shoot them down.”

Fitz ran a hand over his helmet. Now he knew why the FIM-92 Stinger was lying in a case on the ground. The impressive piece of machinery was designed as an anti-aircraft weapon. It would take out a Chinook with ease.

Fitz hit the comm. “Copy that.” He watched the chopper. Its trajectory hadn’t changed. The craft was on a crash course with Plum Island.

Fitz cursed. First night on the job, and he was dealing with a crisis. When Major Smith had handed him his assignment, he had been ecstatic, but shooting down a chopper—even if it had hostiles on board—sent a chill down his spine. He thought of his brother and the friendly fire that had taken his life.

Friendly goddamned fire , he thought. Fitz didn’t know if he could do it.

The bird swooped low and then pulled high like the pilot was trying to shake something. More gunfire tore through the side of the bird.

Fitz rested his M24 against the wall and then reached for the case to the Stinger with urgency. He’d only fired the weapon once, back in Iraq when a suspected insurgent vehicle was racing toward their post. The Honda had burst into a flaming heap of twisted metal. It was overkill, but it ended up saving countless American and Iraqi lives.

Fitz remembered the promise he’d made to Beckham. He had to protect the island. Grabbing the launcher, he hefted it onto his shoulder. He was running out of time. The Chinook flew low over the water, on a crash course with the island.

A missile streaked out of Tower 2. The shot arced across the night and went wide, narrowly missing the tail of the craft and curving out over the ocean.

The radio came to life a second later; Major Smith’s tone was panicked and angry. “All towers, take out that fucking bird!”

Fitz aimed and waited for the sight to line up. He said a mental prayer and then pulled the trigger. The missile joined a trio of other shots that roared through the night. Dropping the launcher, he watched as two of the missiles hit the Chinook. The bird shook violently, orange explosions bursting from the nose and side of the craft.

Shielding his eyes, he braced himself against the wall of his tower as the chopper spun out of control. The rotors whined in protest. Fire rained from the shaking craft. By some miracle the pilot was able to crash-land on the tarmac. The belly hit the concrete with a crunch and then rolled on its side, screeching across the concrete. The rotor blades came apart, boomeranging in all directions. One of the shards whizzed by Tower 4 just as Fitz dropped to the deck. The small box shook and rumbled as more explosions rocked the Chinook.

Fitz pulled himself up and watched in awe. The flaming mess of ruined metal skidded across the runway, sparks and fire trailing the bird, until it finally ground to a stop.

“Jesus,” Fitz said as he took in the destruction. Grabbing his rifle, he glassed the ruined aircraft. Fire streamed out of the cockpit. One of the missiles had peeled the roof back like the skin of an orange, exposing the smoldering interior.

He lined the crosshairs up with the back of the craft. The cargo door was wide open. Another explosion sent a fireball into the air.

Something moved at the rear of the craft.

No one could have survived the crash, Fitz thought, sweeping the gun over the craft. But something was definitely moving. Silhouettes. Three of them.

No, six. Fitz felt his heart racing. He zoomed in on the smoldering bodies piling out of the back of the Chinook.

And then he saw the others.

A dozen of the creatures galloped down the runway toward the aircraft. He hadn’t seen them before, but they must have jumped out of the back when the bird was going down.

Fitz swung his rifle back toward the wreckage. Two of the creatures were still on fire, rolling on the concrete.

The screaming noise of an emergency siren wailed. Major Smith’s voice spilled over the radio, barking orders. Fitz watched as the Variants formed a group and then took off in a mad dash toward the domed buildings. Their bodies jerked as they moved, flickering in the garish light of the burning chopper.

Three seconds passed before the shock wore off. And then Fitz did what he was best at. He raised his rifle and squeezed the trigger.

“Ten missing. Two confirmed KIA,” Lieutenant Gates said with a groan from the passenger seat. “And we’re only halfway to the coordinates for our main attack.”

Beckham and Jensen sat in the backseat of the lieutenant’s Humvee, tense and nervous. Both men wanted to be out on the street with their team, not sitting in the safety of the armored vehicle. But Gates had asked for a SITREP.

The longer Beckham sat inside the cramped, dark interior of the truck, the more he wondered if Gates was actually looking for reassurance. That was something Beckham couldn’t give him. He kept silent, keeping an eye on the street as Jensen and Gates spoke.

Jensen shifted in his seat. He made no attempt to conceal his irritation. “I told General Kennor myself that there were hundreds of thousands of those things unaccounted for. The man didn’t listen.”

The convoy was fucked. They were lucky to have survived the first Variant ambush. If Beckham were in charge, he would have ordered 1 stPlatoon to turn, run, and call in the Air Force to blow the shit out of the subways, sewers, and every other dark hole beneath New York.

There was a vast network of tunnels snaking for hundreds of miles beneath the city. Like Rome, New York was built on top of old buildings and foundations. There was no way to know exactly where the Variants were without deploying teams. The best thing—the only thing—was to burn it down and salt the earth.

A tremor rattled the Humvee and Beckham watched through the filthy windshield as the Bradleys tag-teamed a CNN Satellite truck. Steam Beast smashed the vehicle onto the sidewalk with grace and Beckham smiled, overcome by a small sense of pride. He still couldn’t believe the young track commander had made it by the tanker a few streets back.

Gates cleared his throat. “Are we sure the Variants are hiding underground?”

Jensen played with his mustache, plucking out pieces of dry blood and flicking them onto the floor. “What do you think, Master Sergeant?”

Beckham thought he wanted to smack Gates in the face. But no matter how hard he hit him, there was no knocking sense into an inexperienced commander. Battlefield smarts wasn’t something you could magically pull from a hat. Even worse were the fuck-ups behind Operation Liberty. General Kennor and his staff had jumped the gun. To make things even worse, the acting president was so desperate to take back the streets that he had gambled with what was left of the United States military and given General Kennor the green light to do whatever he wanted.

Gritting his teeth, Beckham said, “Sir, I have no doubts. Get Central on the horn. Request an extraction and an air strike. They need to drop bombs into every fucking hole in the city.”

Gates shook his head incredulously. “I already told General Kennor. He isn’t listening. He said the other platoons are working their way to their FOBs as we speak. Maybe the Variants are only using the tunnels in Manhattan.”

“That’s bullshit. Sir .” Grabbing the door handle, Beckham clicked it open and tapped the driver seat. “Hold up.”

The Humvee rolled to a stop.

Gates shot him a glare. “Where are you going?”

“If Kennor is going to get us all killed, then I’m going to die with my men, where I belong.”