Nicholas Smith - Extinction Horizon

Chad listened to the annoying buzz echoing through the afternoon. The sound was not from an air-conditioner; it was from the flies and other bugs that dominated the area. A heat shimmer flickered in the distance, a reminder of the hell they had entered.

Howard paused outside one of the huts. Behind his visor Chad could see an intelligent set of eyes. This was a man used to working in extreme places. For him, this was just another day in the office—but for Chad, it was much more than that. He was getting his Ebola cherry popped, losing his v-card to yet another Level 4 virus.

“We have two infected patients inside. Both are in the late stages of the virus. They may or may not respond to your presence. Please make your observations, take your sample, and leave them as quickly as possible,” Howard said grimly.

Chad nodded. His job was simple. Get a sample for the CDC, take his field notes, and observe. He wasn’t there to provide medical support to any of the victims. He was there to see if this was a new strain and bring back a sample so the CDC could get started on a cure.

Ducking inside the building, he blinked rapidly. The single room hut was dimly lit by a few rays of sunlight bleeding through the wooden shades covering the only window. It took a few minutes for his eyes to focus, but when they did, he instantly saw a man and his wife curled up on straw beds in the center of the room. Blood and sweat-soaked blankets lay on the dusty floor next to them. Their skin was covered with blotches, bruises, and a thin layer of bloody sweat.

Flies buzzed over their skin, but both the man and his wife were too weak to shoo them away. Their glazed, detached eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.

The sound of muffled breathing reminded Chad that Debra was with him. He moved to the right and then inched closer to the man’s bedside. Placing a small box of supplies on the ground, he paused to scan the patient. Blood oozed from every visible orifice on the man’s body. It trickled from his bloodshot eyes, nose, ears, and even his nipples. There was no mistaking it. This man had Ebola. What strain of Ebola was the real question.

Blinking, Chad tried his best to remain calm. The sight was worse than he’d ever imagined. There was just so much blood. He looked to the man’s wife. She too was hemorrhaging. Both victims were bleeding out as they lay helplessly in the scorching hot hell. The bugs hummed inside the dark room like little engines, waiting to feed.

Chad remembered Howard’s orders and felt Debra looming over him. Reaching inside his case, he pulled out a syringe and cautiously took hold of the man’s limp right arm. He looked for a vein and found one hidden under a rash covering most of his forearm. Clenching his teeth, Chad inserted the needle and quickly removed a sample of blood.

The man suddenly twisted his head and narrowed in on Chad’s visor. Gasping for air, he choked out one word in broken English.

“Ha-llllp.”

Chad froze, his stomach climbing into his throat. His heart kicked violently as he gripped the syringe.

A strong hand on his shoulder snapped Chad’s gaze away from the dying man.

“Let’s go,” Debra said.

Chad nodded and placed the sample inside his secure box, closing the lid with a click. Rising to his feet, he glanced down one more time at the man. His infected, bloodshot eyes followed Chad for a second and then rolled back up into his head.

“I’m sorry,” Chad whispered as he rushed out into the blinding sunlight.

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 unusua l. 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.