Nicholas Smith - Extinction Horizon

Beckham fumbled with the helmet on his lap, staring intensely at the visor. If anyone had ever known, he would never have become an operator.

“Remember, those suits are state of the art, but they aren’t indestructible. The tiniest tear will expose you to any contagions in the lab,” Noble reminded the team.

Beckham looked down the aisle at Big Horn and Panda and then across the way at Edwards, the Kid, and Tenor. They slipped into their suits, and the well-rehearsed chorus of pre-combat rituals echoed off the metal walls as they broke in their new gear.

Pulling back a handful of his thick brown hair, Beckham stuffed the helmet over his head, feeling the narrow sides squeeze the shadow of a beard clinging to his face. He cringed as he pulled it over his nose and mouth. No matter how much the military tried, they couldn’t seem to acquire equipment that didn’t smell like cheap plastic. For a suit that was supposed to protect him from the nastiest contagions, he was surprised it was part of the design. He sucked in one last breath of fresh air before securing the helmet with a click and then he grabbed his night vision goggles. They were the most advanced optics on the market, with four 16mm image-intensifying tubes that earned them the nickname “four eyes.” He slipped the strap over the top of his helmet, positioning them over his visor.

Instead of a headset, the team was connected by a comm system built into their suits. Bumping his chin on a small pad, Beckham could open up a line to his men.

“Testing,” he said. His voice sounded remarkably clear. Satisfied, he continued, “Listen up. I know you’re all disappointed that we’re not taking shots of Bacardi at The Bing right now, but remember we have no idea what we are heading into. So stop feeling sorry for yourselves and suck it up. We need to bring our A game to this one, Ghost. The Bing’ll be waiting for us when we get back.”

“Don’t remind us of The Bing!” Riley laughed. “What’s that dancer’s name who said she wanted to marry you? She’s going to be very disappointed.”

The kid loved women. He loved them in all shapes and all sizes. And whenever they were granted leave, Riley made sure he experienced all the locals had to offer.

Spinoza chuckled. “Speaking of disappointment, kid, remember that chick from Thailand? I mean, you said she was a chick.”

Beckham laughed with his men and then grew serious. “All right, time to knock off the shit.” They all needed to focus. Get with the program. Comedy was always good to calm nerves before a mission, but this was different. He wasn’t sure what they were going to find in Building 8. And he didn’t trust Noble or Caster. Both men seemed to be withholding vital intel. Their story had already changed once.

Beckham reached for a handhold as the chopper hit a pocket of turbulence that felt like driving over a speed bump. Typically, they’d be riding on the side of an MH-6 Little Bird, but looking over at Dr. Ellis he could see why Brass had opted for something a bit more stable.

Beckham patted the vest pocket that contained a photograph of his mom. The thirty-year-old image had been snapped in Rocky Mountain National Park, not far from Estes Park where he’d grown up. He didn’t need to remove the picture to see her curly black hair blowing in the wind or her beautiful smile. He’d memorized it long ago and carried a copy on every mission.

The flood of memories always calmed his nerves, taking him back to a simpler time, when his biggest worry was making it home before dark. Closing his eyes, Beckham remembered. He remembered his father teaching him how to use a compass and how to rappel off cliffs. He remembered his mother coming home from work dressed in her scrubs after a twelve-hour shift at the local clinic. No matter what time it was, she’d always slip into his room and kiss his forehead.

Cancer took her when he was a senior in high school, and his career had started with her loss. When he first joined the Army he had felt invincible, naively believing that he would never get injured or watch his friends die. Now, fifteen years later, he’d seen too many of them arrive home in coffins draped with flags. For that reason he had chosen not to marry or have a family. The only people he had to worry about were the men next to him.

After the chopper straightened, he caught the full profile of his team. The curved outlines of their CBRN suits made them look more like robots than soldiers, but he knew better. They were the brothers he’d never had growing up and more, Horn especially. Over the past few years Horn and his wife had taken Beckham in when his father, too, had passed away from cancer. They’d weathered some tough times together, like a mini-family.

The rustling passed and Beckham said, “Once we land we will break into strike teams. Panda, Edwards, and Major Noble, you’re assigned to Bravo with Tenor as lead. Everyone else, including Major Caster, is with me. Dr. Ellis, you’re to be my shadow at all times. Got it?”

A short nod from the doctor, and then Beckham continued, “We will enter the facility with the aid of Majors Caster and Noble. Primary objective is to secure Dr. Medford’s research.”

Caster cut in. “I should have made this clear earlier, but this is not a rescue mission. If we do come across anyone infected that is still alive, we leave them behind.”

“Understood,” Beckham said with a hint of reservation. He didn’t like the idea, but then again he didn’t like the idea of the mission in the first place. He wanted to get his men in and out as quickly as possible.

“Prepare to drop in sixty seconds,” Chief Wright said.

Beckham lifted his helmet to see the pilot twist the cyclic hard inside the cockpit. The chopper jerked to the right. The Blackhawk rolled slightly onto its side, giving Beckham a quick view of dark waves crashing against the shoreline below.

The bird straightened out, hovering over the beach as the pilot rotated the cyclic to a neutral position.

“This is where you get out,” Chief Wright yelled over the whooshing of the blades.

Beckham flashed the pilots a thumbs-up and said, “Thanks for the ride.” He caught a glimpse of a flicker on the horizon. He knew that somewhere out there a squadron of F-22s waited with weapons systems hot, fully prepared to blow the Blackhawk out of the air if something went wrong.

Hazardous pay indeed , Beckham thought. Shoving the thought aside, he moved into position at the door. It was go time.

Beckham flashed a quick hand motion to Tenor, who was crouched by the door. The operator nodded and secured the fast rope to a clip with a loud click. A sea of sand waited for them below. The mixture of sediment churned into a cloud, swirling around the chopper and making it nearly impossible to see.

Grabbing the nylon rope, Tenor handed it to Spinoza. With a slap he said, “Go, Go!” The man sprang into the darkness with Horn close behind. Riley and Edwards went next. Then Caster and Noble. Ellis hesitated, glancing over at Beckham.

“Why can’t he just put us down on the tarmac?” the doctor yelled.

Tenor and Beckham laughed.

“Military protocol,” Beckham said. “Now jump!” He gave the doctor a soft push.

Screaming, Ellis grabbed the rope and disappeared into the cloud of dust.

Then it was just the two leads. They exchanged a glance for a brief moment. They’d made enough jumps to know this one was different. Neither of them knew what awaited them beneath the surface.

Beckham suppressed the moment of fear and uncertainty. Grabbing the fast rope, he rappelled into the night, hoping—praying—that there was some rational explanation for Building 8 going dark.

Luck was on their side this night. The full moon provided a carpet of light across the island, illuminating the landscape with a radiant white glow. The team moved briskly across the beach with Beckham at their helm. They fanned out as they pressed on. Their movements were premeditated. They’d done this a hundred times before. Waves slurped in the surf behind them, muffling the crunching sound of their stiff suits.