Nicholas Smith - Extinction Horizon

Beckham glanced over at the doctor and gave him a reassuring nod as if to say, Don’t worry, I’ll tell you everything I know . But that would have been a lie. He didn’t like the fact he had to drag a civilian along with them and neither did his men. Even if Ellis did bring a medical opinion to the mission, civilians typically ended up becoming liabilities and only slowed his team down.

Beckham looked out the window to catch a final glimpse of the sun. It made one last valiant effort before disappearing over the horizon. Darkness filled the aircraft until a bank of lights blinked on above them.

With a quick flick of the touch screen, Beckham activated his tablet. He linked his headset to the device with a small cord, and a message appeared immediately.

Examination by unauthorized persons is an act of treason punishable by fines and imprisonment up to 15 years and $100,000.

If you are Master Sergeant Reed Beckham, born 13 March 1978 please enter your electronic signature and then hover your index finger over the display for acceptance.

Beckham looked down the aisle at Horn and Carlos and then across the way at Edwards, Riley, and Tenor. Their faces were all illuminated by the same white glow radiating off their tablets. One by one they removed their gloves and signed the display.

It was odd being warned of the repercussions for sharing any classified information. In fact, it was downright patronizing, especially for a Delta Force Operator. Beckham had given his entire life to his country. Chosen Her over a wife and kids and spent time away from the small bit of family he had fighting in faraway lands. But there was something else about the message that went far beyond insult. Its very existence made him uneasy. Something didn’t feel right about this mission.

Whatever it was.

Beckham considered what he already knew. The facts were slowly coming together. Their leave had been cancelled only a few days after returning to Fort Bragg from Afghanistan. That told him Brass wanted a team that had been in the field recently and was sharp. The lack of a formal briefing from Command told him that someone higher up was in charge. The CIA instantly came to mind, but that didn’t explain Ellis and the involvement of the CDC. The clandestine air of the mission bled further through, filling Beckham with more anxiety.

Without further hesitation he signed the display and pressed his index finger over the scanner. He was anxious to know what they were dealing with.

A video image of an older officer popped onto the display. The man was sitting in a large leather chair with his light blue eyes narrowed at the screen. He swiped a single bead of sweat off his forehead.

“As you already know, I’m Colonel Rick Gibson, Commanding Officer of the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. I’ll make this briefing as quick as possible. Time is of the essence. At 1000 hours this morning, we lost contact with a Top Secret facility on San Nicholas Island off the coast of California. This installation, which is known simply as Building 8, is home to some of the most important medical research in the country. The scientists working inside deal with Level 4 biohazards, the most severe contagions and chemical toxins known to man. Officially this facility doesn’t exist.” He paused, throwing a glace over his shoulder like he didn’t want anyone to hear him.

Beckham felt his muscles tightening, an involuntary reaction he experienced whenever he felt nervous. He waited for the officer to continue.

Looking back to the camera, Gibson said, “So what does this have to do with your team? Protocol is to activate an emergency operations team, contact the CDC, and deploy a response. Along with Dr. Ellis from the CDC and the assistance of two men from my division, you gentleman are that response. I’m not taking any chances in this situation, and I’m told you can get the job done.”

A lump formed in Beckham’s throat. He didn’t know what the job was yet, but he had a feeling it would take him inside Building 8. Level 4 contagions were his worst fear as an operator. He’d much rather face a building full of insurgents than walk into a viral hot zone.

“These next videos will give you an idea of what we are dealing with,” Gibson continued, his image fading. “This was recorded on 24 March. Location is a WHO field hospital in remote Guinea. The patient tested positive for the Ebola virus.”

Beckham tightened his grip on the tablet as the image enlarged. The body of a frail African man lay coiled on a cot. A pair of nurses protected only by masks stood by his side, one of them bending over to wipe a trail of blood leaking out of his right eye. The thin blanket draped over his bony body looked like the apron of a butcher, speckled with dark red blood.

He had seen images of patients infected with Ebola before, but not this bad. This man hemorrhaged blood from every orifice. The nurses’ attempts to dry his forehead with a red-soaked sponge ended when he lurched forward, black vomit streaming out of his mouth.

Beckham blinked and then focused on the man’s ghostly stare. Something about his detached eyes reminded him that the enemy, in this case, wasn’t human. It was a microscopic contagion, one that he couldn’t simply shoot or blow up. The revelation scared the shit out of him.

“The second video was taken inside the isolation wing of a hospital in the Capital City of Conakry, Guinea. A hundred and four new cases were confirmed on 27 March. Of those cases, over ninety-eight have died since the recording.”

Beckham watched men in white biosuits approach a pair of guards holding AK-47s. After checking for clearance, they opened the glass doors. Inside, the videographer panned the camera across the room revealing dozens of beds, all of which contained the same scene: blood-soaked blankets and patients hemorrhaging out their insides. A doctor waved the camera away, yelling “Get that thing out of here!”

The video fizzled, and Gibson reappeared on the screen. “I’m sure many of you heard about this outbreak in recent news. The virus is thought be a stronger version of the Zaire Strain, the worst type known to man. It has spread to Sierra Leone, Liberia, and Mali. We have confirmed cases in Europe, the Middle East, and Asia. It’s just a matter of time before this strain hits US soil.”

Beckham’s eyes shot up. He scanned the faces of his men. They all wore the same bold looks, seemingly undeterred by the images.

Glancing back down at his tablet, Beckham saw Gibson’s features had changed. The man checked his wristwatch. Then, with a new sense of urgency painted across his face, Gibson looked up. The creases on his forehead solidified into deep crevices.

“As you can probably guess, the researchers at Building 8 were working on a cure. Dr. Isaac Medford, the team lead, contacted me two days ago to say he had made a breakthrough. He’d extracted chemical samples from a weapon called VX-99. Many of you may have heard rumors of its use in Vietnam. Some of them are probably true. Anyone injected with a single dose is transformed into something that makes the criminally insane look like Girl Scouts. The weapon was designed with one purpose—to make super-soldiers. It was used in 1968 on a platoon of Marines. They were to take a small but heavily defended village. Instead, the entire platoon turned on one another and bled the jungle red. They killed in the most barbaric ways known to man. Most of the Marines were found without their weapons, having used their bare hands to murder each other and the VCs that ambushed them. The chemical was discontinued after its use was found to have irreversible effects, as you are about to see.”