Nicholas Smith - Extinction Horizon

He took a moment to give Ghost Alpha and Bravo the reverse elevator eyes look: starting with their black helmets and then scanning their clear shooting glasses, headsets, tan fatigues, vests stuffed with extra magazines, body armor, and finally their boots. Then he moved to their customized weapons, stopping on Beckham’s own MP5 submachine gun.

The crew chief twisted his mouth to the side. “Damn, you all look like you’re about to drop into a war zone.”

“We just came from one,” Beckham replied. He wasn’t exactly in the mood for small talk. He was exhausted and had been looking forward to some R&R. On top of that, he was anxious to get moving. The sooner he knew what was going on, the sooner he could plan for the dangers and, ultimately, victory.

The chief’s features darkened. He narrowed his eyes and in a stern voice said, “We’re still waiting for the CDC doctor.”

Beckham took a seat across from Sergeant Tenor. This was Tenor’s first mission at the helm of a strike team. He was a solid leader and quick thinker—the perfect pick to lead Bravo. Beckham scrutinized the man discreetly in the dimly lit section of the Osprey. The younger Delta operator held his helmet in his hand and cleaned the interior with a cloth. A pre-combat ritual. He didn’t give off any impressions of being nervous. His stern face was landlocked by a solid jaw and topped with a strip of hair perfectly groomed into a Mohawk. He flashed Beckham a confident smirk as if he knew he was being sized up. That was Tenor’s way of saying he was ready to go.

The other men wore the same confident looks, but Beckham scanned each one of them to ensure none had shown up with a hangover. He started with Staff Sergeant Carlos “Panda” Spinoza, the team’s demolitions expert. The thick man had a booming voice and the whitest teeth Beckham had ever seen. But he rarely smiled or spoke. Battle had hardened him years ago.

To his right sat Staff Sergeant Horn, the star college football player from Texas. He’d earned the name Big Horn at Texas Tech, where he’d crushed the school’s sack record. He was a staggering six feet two with a thick skull topped with strawberry blonde hair. Delta had made an exception by allowing him on the team. With a tumultuous background, history of a broken home, and arms covered in ink, Horn wasn’t the model recruit, but Beckham had vetted the man himself. He’d read his file. He knew how Horn worked under pressure when his life and those of his men were threatened. His valor in the early days of Operation Iraqi Freedom had earned him three Purple Hearts and a Bronze Star. Beckham knew instantly he wanted the man on Team Ghost, and he had never regretted the decision for a minute. Horn was one of the most talented operators he’d ever worked with.

Horn wasn’t the only one. All of the operators were talented. Each of them had scored ninety-five percent accuracy or better in shooting tests at a thousand yards. They’d all survived the grueling endurance tests that would have left other men dead. They were the best of the best. Beckham’s team was America’s first line of defense that no one knew existed. Unseen and unheard, they were truly ghosts. He could count on every single one of them when the shit hit the fan.

A flash of movement from the tarmac distracted Beckham before he could examine the youngest members of his team, Staff Sergeant Riley and Sergeant Edwards. Standing, Beckham watched a short man with an enthusiastic stride and slicked-back hair climb inside the compartment with the aid of a stern-looking African-American MP. The soldier had the eyes of a hawk. Beckham stifled a snort. He knew the type. They took their jobs very seriously—sometimes too seriously.

Holding out his hand Beckham said, “Welcome, doctor…”

“Ellis. Dr. Pat Ellis,” the man said, shaking Beckham’s hand vigorously and turning to the rest of the team with a smile. “Most people just call me, uh, Ellis.”

“Excuse me, sir,” the MP said. “We will have time for proper introductions later. We need to get moving immediately.” There was urgency in his voice.

“Just waiting on you guys,” Beckham replied firmly.

The MP didn’t look amused. He took a seat, and Chief Wright hit the button to close the cargo bay door. The crew chief gave a thumbs up and pounded the inside wall. “Good to go,” he said. Groaning, the metal door crunched shut behind them.

Beckham watched Dr. Ellis like a coach sizing up a recruit. The civilian moved quickly down the cargo hold, carrying a leather bag clutched against his chest. He searched the empty seats, stopping next to Horn. The operator ignored him, pulling his skull bandana up to his nose as if to say, This seat’s taken.

Ellis hugged the bag closer to his chest and moved to Tenor. The man dropped his gear bag into the open seat next to him. “Sorry, taken.”

Beckham chewed at the inside of his lip. Typically his men were better behaved, but they weren’t used to babysitting.

“You can sit here,” Beckham offered.

The doctor’s face lit up when he saw the open seat, and he rushed over to it, plopping down just as the V-22’s engines hummed to life.

“Thanks,” Ellis said.

The roar of the aircraft motors rippled through the walls. Ospreys were known for more than their speed and versatility; they were known for their noise. Beckham had always thought they sounded like a large lawn mower with too many ponies and a dire need for an oil change.

Beckham handed Ellis a pair of earplugs and said, “Better put these on.”

“Thanks,” Ellis remarked. He grabbed them and held them out in front of his face like he’d never seen them before and then slowly slipped them into his ears. Then, with the utmost precision, he reached for his harness and buckled in with a click.

The whoosh from the rotors filled the cabin, sending vibrations through the craft. The doctor’s eyes widened ever so slightly, but not from fear. He looked excited, like a kid riding on a roller coaster for the first time. The aircraft pulled to the right as the pilots maneuvered it onto the runway. The rumble of the engines intensified. Moments later they were ascending into the sky.

Beckham leaned over to look out his window. Below, the shadow of the aircraft glided across a vast green field. They were still low enough that he could make out the shapes of several horses running freely through a pasture. The rolling hills and crystal clear creeks snaking through the terrain were serene, but Beckham still felt anxious.

The view quickly vanished, and the horses faded into tiny black dots moving slowly across the distant landscape.

“Which one of you is Master Sergeant Beckham?” came a voice from the other end of the aircraft.

Beckham raised his knife hand. He craned his neck to see the MP pulling several tablets out of a bag.

“Take one of these, each of you,” the man said. He walked down the aisle and handed the devices out in turn. “Once you submit your electronic signature and fingerprint, you will have access to a classified briefing from Colonel Gibson, Commanding Officer of the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. Mission details will be provided at the end of the briefing.”

The MP stopped and handed Beckham his tablet.

“What about me?” Dr. Ellis asked, his voice more eager than before.

“I’m sorry, sir, but this briefing is for military personnel only. Master Sergeant Beckham will ensure you have all the information you need to help make this mission a success, but I should remind you that you are here only as a consultant.” The MP returned to his seat at the other end of the craft and melted into the shadows.

Ellis spoke louder. “How can I consult if I don’t know what’s going on?”