Nicholas Smith - Extinction Horizon

The video fizzled out, and Beckham looked up to meet the intense stares from his team. Their eyes pleaded for reassurance, for Beckham to say something inspirational.

He sat there trying to think of something, but his mind raced. Suddenly, a single image froze there. He could see the black, detached eyes of Lieutenant Brett as vividly as if he was staring right at the man. He finally understood why they’d been activated. They were protecting Gibson’s men from a possible Brett.

A distant voice snapped Beckham from his thoughts. The youngest and smallest team member, Sergeant Riley, stared from across the aisle. An overhead light illuminated his youthful features, reminding Beckham why the man had earned the name Kid. With light blue eyes and an enthusiastic and contagious laugh, Riley was the team’s little brother. He wore a constant cheerful grin.

“Guess we aren’t going to the Keys after all?”

“No,” Beckham replied grimly.

Riley pulled the bandana with the illustration of a smiling Joker over his mouth and let out a deep laugh. “Good, I didn’t want to go anyways.”

Several of the other men chuckled. Big Horn reached over and smacked the kid’s armored knee. “Think of this like a game of football. That’s what I do,” he said, crossing his arms. “War is easier when you compare it to something you’re good at.”

Riley fidgeted with the bandana. The kid was still new and he was probably nervous as all hell.

Beckham didn’t blame him. Shit, he was nervous too. He considered telling Riley that everything would be fine, that the mission was just a routine recovery, but that would be a lie. Beckham had never lied to his men and wasn’t about to start now.

Stiffening his back, he locked eyes with Tenor, his co-lead. “We’re gonna get in, grab the sample, and get out.” Turning to Riley, he said, “And hopefully we will have some leave left when this is all over.”

Riley let out his infamous and reassuring chuckle. It reminded Beckham of the time Riley had climbed on stage at The Bing and danced in his underwear, which had actually been closer to a thong. At least they had the kid to lighten up the mood when it grew dark.

“So do you guys want to tell me what the hell is going on?” Ellis asked. He squirmed under his harness and craned his neck toward Beckham.

The other men grew quiet, and the noise from the motors reclaimed the troop hold. They would let Beckham respond.

Closing his eyes, he took in a short, silent breath and rested his helmet on the metal wall behind him. Need to know info only , Beckham thought as he blinked and started at the bank of LEDs above.

“You’re on a reclamation mission, doctor. Target is a sample of work that the Medical Corps was working on at a secret location.”

“What kind of sample?”

“Classified,” Beckham replied.

“That’s just great,” Ellis huffed, settling back into his seat.

Satisfied with his cryptic answer, Beckham closed his eyes again. With any luck he would snag a nap before they landed. And if he was really lucky he wouldn’t dream of any hemorrhaging Ebola patients—or worse, images of the monster that Lieutenant Brett had transformed into.

Beckham woke up suddenly, his neck straining as he lurched forward. The dim cabin lighting revealed the silhouettes of his team. Their heads bobbed up and down in the slight turbulence. Glancing down at his wristwatch he saw he’d slept for half an hour. Not bad, considering , he thought.

“Catch some sleep?” an eager voice said.

He nodded and made brief eye contact with Dr. Ellis. He knew the doctor wanted to discuss the mission, but Beckham had no such plans. He reached for his bag and pretended to do a gear check, hoping the man would get the picture.

It didn’t work.

“This is all pretty exciting. I’ve never been attached to a military unit before,” Ellis said, leaning over in his seat as if he didn’t want anyone to overhear their one-sided conversation.

Beckham pulled the magazine out of his MP5 with a metallic snap. The sound echoed in the compartment. Helmets shot up instantly at the noise.

“Never seen one of those before. I prefer a shotgun myself. You don’t have to be as good a shot.” Ellis paused and scrutinized Beckham, “I guess you don’t really have to worry about aiming. You look like you could hit a target from a mile away.”

Beckham caught a glimpse of the MP peeking his head around Horn at the far end of the aircraft to get a better look at the doctor.

“Listen. Dr. Ellis,” Beckham began to say.

“Ellis, call me Ellis.”

“Okay. Ellis. I’m not big on conversation. And even if I were, I wouldn’t tell you anything I haven’t already. Orders are orders. Nothin’ personal,” he said, jamming the magazine back into his weapon with a loud click.

“I understand, sir,” the man said.

“Master Sergeant, or just Sergeant. But not sir . I’m an NCO. I work for my rank,” Beckham said. Through his peripheral vision he watched Ellis nod and run a hand through his jet black hair, slicking it back.

They endured the rest of the flight in silence, the Osprey rocking back and forth as they traveled through a rainstorm. It gave Beckham time to contemplate the mission in more detail. He knew little of chemical and biological weapons besides the fact that their development had been banned decades ago. He knew even less about viruses such as Ebola or Marburg Fever. Most of what he had picked up over the years had come from his training. If one thing was clear, it was that the average American civilian lived under the constant threat of a chemical or biological attack. Even with the strides the government had made over the past two decades with organizing first responder teams, they were all just one accident or attack away from Armageddon.

If Gibson had his way, the public would remain in the dark. That’s why Beckham was sitting with a team of ‘ghosts’ in an Osprey. They existed for the sole purpose of making sure the average civilian had no idea just how close they were to the apocalypse.

Ignorance is bliss , he mused. He shook his head, cursing his luck just as the pilot said, “Prepare for landing. ETA fifteen minutes.”

The sound of gear rustling filled the aircraft, and Beckham didn’t hear the rap of the footfalls from the MP.

“Master Sergeant,” the soldier said, stopping in front of Beckham. “This is where I get off. Major Caster and Major Noble will brief your team further.” He shot Ellis a glare and then said, “Good luck.”

Beckham nodded. He didn’t like the MP. There was just something about the man’s two-dimensional personality. The feeling added to the sour sensation growing in the pit of his stomach. He’d learned a long time ago never to trust someone without a sense of humor. Over the years Beckham had grown to know many men in his career that lacked this trait. He’d found it was a good way to judge character.

The Osprey lurched forward and then began to sway side to side as they descended. With an audible thud the tires connected with the tarmac, the chopper shaking before it settled.

As soon as they were stopped, Chief Wright stood and punched the button to the cargo bay door. It groaned open, and the MP disappeared into the darkness.

“Good riddance,” Ellis said under his breath. “Now can you tell me what’s going on?”

“No, but I can,” a new voice said.

Standing in the shadows of the aircraft were two men, both officers. The larger man on the right filled his uniform out with a thick set of arms and broad shoulders. The other officer took off a pair of black-rimmed glasses and said, “Welcome to Edwards Air Force Base. I’m Major Noble, and this is Major Caster. We’re here on orders from Colonel Gibson. If you would please come with us, time is of the essence.”