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  The Osprey began its overwatch flight pattern, and the drum of the engines became a low drone in the otherwise quiet metropolis.

  Shader remained still. He gave himself almost three minutes to let the V-22 do a circle around their position before receiving a report that the area was quiet. Given the noise they’d just made, it was a miracle they hadn’t been overrun already.

  This a good sign, he said to himself. Maybe the intel guys finally got it right. That thought gave him some peace.

  Another craft landed several hundred yards away, bringing the rest of their unit up to strength. Shader’s Osprey brought in twenty-four fighters but only fifteen of them had been put under his command. He was one of three squad leaders, the other two having arrived in the other craft. A second lieutenant was also on that Osprey.

  Their platoon leader, a Marine butter bar named Landry, raised his hand and spun it in the air. It was the signal for his squad leaders to gather at his location.

  “All right, Fireteam One, take the left flank and use that black Tahoe to set up your SAW,” Shader barked and pointed to an abandoned SUV. “Team Two, use the red Honda and Team Three, set up at the white Explorer.”

  Shader looked at the remaining three men. “You’re my QRF. Hold here, keep an eye on the arena behind us, and stay frosty. The rest of you are on my six.”

  Shader started to trot toward the other Osprey along with eight Marines who were members of the other squads. He suddenly held up his hand and stopped, then turned back to his own fireteams.

  “Keep your muzzle discipline,” he yelled. “If I see anyone pointing their weapon our way, I’ll shove my foot so high up your ass you’ll be polishing my boot with your tongue.”

  Several chuckles followed Shader as he turned and trotted toward the young lieutenant.

  “Glad you could join us,” Landry said sarcastically as the SEAL joined the three men.

  The second lieutenant’s offhand comment irked Shader. The kid looked like he wasn’t even old enough to rent a car, let alone give a career petty officer some undeserved grief.

  Recognizing that any attempt to put the young LT in his place would be counterproductive to the mission, Shader swallowed his anger and nodded.

  “Aye aye, sir,” Shader simply replied.

  The other two non-commission officers, both Marine staff sergeants, gave Shader a knowing and appreciative nod. Obviously, the kid was a problem for them as well.

  The lieutenant had moved the group to the back of an abandoned pickup truck. He dropped the tailgate of the GMC and laid out a map of the area.

  They had been inserted at the northeast corner of the Forum’s parking lot. To their north sat a massive graveyard. That morbid fact was not lost on the men, but it did provide almost half a mile of open space that would be a useful buffer in case of a massed attack. The same situation stood to the south, where the Forum’s extended parking lot spread out over tens of thousands of square feet.

  Because of the concentration of buildings to the east and west, the Navy had sent waves of F-18 Hornets on bombing runs as well as lobbing hundreds of shells from the fleet’s destroyers onto the two densely built-up areas. Each shell generated an explosive radius of nearly thirty yards. Even now, nearly twenty-four hours since the last of the bombs had fallen, wisps of smoke and the acrid smell of burning plastic hung thickly in the air.

  The only structure unaffected was the massive indoor arena. It was hoped that the country could be resurrected once the creatures had been eliminated, so any significant infrastructure was spared to facilitate the recovery. This was why the Forum stood untouched while its surroundings had been turned into Iwo Jima beach.

  The purpose of the shelling was to create a wide zone around the LZ, giving the Marines a buffer and clear field of fire. The Navy had done their job, leaving behind craters and destruction where there once had been zero-lot houses and multi-level apartment buildings. It was a breathtaking sight.

  “I want fireteams positioned in these spots,” the lieutenant said, pointing at ten different locations.

  Shader immediately noticed that the positioning of the fireteams surrounded the untouched Forum without any plans to clear the building. Shader had pointed that little detail out while helping to plan the mission. He had been shut down by the fleet’s N2.

  “We’ve been scanning the building for days including IR and night vision. We haven’t seen a thing,” the intelligence officer said.

  “But, without eyes on the inside, there’s no way to know—”

  “Your concerns are noted,” the N2 barked, effectively ending the conversation.

  Now, Shader’s fears were amplified by his proximity to the red-and-grey arena. The entrance to the structure was a wide set of stairs that led down under the asphalt. The top of the large downward ramp had once been covered by a white polyurethane canopy. That had been lost some time ago. Only shredded tags of the heavy-duty awning remained, hanging listlessly from the skeletal steel frame that had given it form. At the bottom of the stairwell, the front glass doors had been shattered. Even from a distance, Shader could see pools of dried, blackish-maroon-colored blood.

  The dark interior was unaffected by the morning sun, which was still low enough on the horizon to cast its rays down into the opening. The building’s entrance seemed to absorb the photons, which created the illusion of monstrous jaws, spread wide open, as if waiting for its next meal. All these thoughts passed through Shader’s mind as he cast his eyes on the structure.

  Lieutenant Landry, sensing his petty officer’s concerns, slapped the tailgate with his open hand.

  “Spit it out, Shader!” he commanded.

  Shader hesitated, knowing the LT had fully bought into the battle plan. He remained quiet. As far as the lieutenant was concerned, arguing about the dangers of the Forum was settled intel. Challenging that N2 report would only bring Shader grief.

  But then Staff Sergeant Russ spoke up.

  “Sir. I must agree with Shader. We’re relying on some drone jockey to tell us whether our LZ is safe.”

  “I concur,” the other staff sergeant added. “Those guys are wrong as much as they are right.”

  “Well. We have three men that disagree with the collective intelligence of the United States Navy. I can’t tell you how privileged that makes me feel.”

  The cocky lieutenant stared at his subordinates, daring someone to challenge his decision. The men stood silently as each NCO debated whether to say anything.

  “Well, I guess that settles it,” Landry said. “Nothing to say? Then do your jobs.”

  The two Marines gave a half-hearted salute and grunted, “Aye aye.” But Shader stood his ground. He’d been a special operator for almost thirty years, definitely before the LT had even been born. He hadn’t stayed alive this long being a wallflower, and he wasn’t about to give in to a snot-nosed punk who hadn’t fired his weapon anywhere other than a square range.

  “It’s not settled,” Shader said confidently. “We don’t have intel on that building, and pretending we do could be fatal.”

  “Well, Shader. I’m impressed you had the balls to speak up.” The lieutenant walked up to the SEAL and jabbed his chest. “If you think the building needs to be cleared, then you clear it.”

  The young officer turned back to the truck and folded the map. “You can use your QRF after we set up our perimeter.”

  “Just four men?” Shader asked.

  “Why? Is that a problem? Anyone who knows more than the Navy should be able to clear a building with a single fireteam. In fact, you could just go by yourself if you wanted to. But I think you’d be smart to take your QRF. That way, you won’t get lost.”

  Landry smiled at Shader and turned away. The two Marine sergeants quietly followed their officer, leaving Shader to curse himself for opening his mouth.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he grunted before jogging back to his men. “When in the hell will I learn to just shut up?”

  — 2 —
/>   Inglewood Forum

  Inglewood, California

  Never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy.

  WINSTON CHURCHILL – 1941

  The morning flew by. Creating fighting positions was far simpler when the enemy wouldn’t be shooting back. The problem was that the Variants were likely going to attack at night, when they were most active, and they would probably rush the defenses en masse. What made things worse was that the creatures reacted to bullets as if they were a nuisance—unless one of the rounds found their brain.

  After dropping off the Marines, one of the Ospreys stayed on station, running a racing track pattern around the LZ while the other craft went back to the Roosevelt to refuel and pick up more supplies. Then, after dropping off supplies, that bird would take up overwatch while the first Osprey went back to the ship to duplicate the process. By the time midday arrived, the LZ represented a budding FOB (Forward Operating Base). There were two GAU-19 Gatling guns bolted to the asphalt while abandoned vehicles had been shoved and pushed together in spots, creating fortifications for the fireteams.

  “At least we didn’t have to scrape out any defensive fighting positions,” Shader said to SSgt. Russ as he wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  “Don’t put it by Landry to have us try and dig foxholes in the parking lot. I don’t think he’s got an ounce of common sense.”

  “Hmmph,” Shader replied. “Nothing common about common sense anymore, is there? I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  The mid-May temperature was pushing ninety degrees, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Russ handed Shader some water and took a long draw from his own one-liter plastic bottle. After finishing it, he threw it to the ground and let out a loud burp.

  “Littering, SSgt. Russ? I hope the UN climate change committee doesn’t get hold of you,” Shader joked.

  “Wait till I fart. CO2 emissions never smelled so good.”

  Shader grinned. He liked this guy, even though the man hadn’t defended him earlier. Shader understood his reluctance to confront the stubborn lieutenant.

  Sensing Porky’s thoughts, Russ nudged the SEAL and confessed. “Hey, sorry I didn’t stick up for you more. I just didn’t see him changing his mind.”

  Shader nodded. He’d been under the command of too many PowerPoint Rangers himself. It never worked well when you challenged them directly.

  With the midday sun beating down, Shader decided to grab a bite to eat with the other men in his QRF (Quick Reaction Force). Nothing was worse than going on patrol or clearing a building with low blood sugar. Then after that, it was into the Forum. Hopefully for a quick and easy search of an abandoned arena.

  — 3 —

  USS Theodore Roosevelt

  Off the Coast of California

  Combat Directions Center (CDC)

  The tactical displays in the carrier’s operations room were in perpetual flux. The banks of computer LCDs cast a goblin-green light that bathed the gloomy, cave-like space. Operations specialists, each responsible for one of the many prongs of the group’s assets, sat in front of their assigned terminal. Each screen flashed with updated information, and with the remaining Pacific fleet moving close by, the OpSpecs had a lot to monitor.

  Some maintained a tactical picture of the surrounding seas, plotting a visual representation of ships, submarines, and aircraft in the area. There needed to be an accounting of the fleet’s own massive flotilla to prevent things from running into each other.

  Another monitored communication between ships while a third specialist coordinated radio signals with assault forces being inserted on the mainland. There were dozens of them working in the CDC. They all reported their information to the ship’s Tactical Actions Officer (TAO), who was the ship commander’s eyes and ears. It was a massive and complicated job.

  Chief Warrant Officer Kyle Solomon, one of the Roosevelt’s three TAOs, stood to the side as the admiral paced slowly behind the seated operations specialists. Solomon knew Admiral Abernathy looked anything but comfortable. The TAO was more correct than he could have known.

  Against his better judgement, Abernathy committed his Marines and Naval forces to retaking the mainland. Operation Liberty had been initiated on the orders of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, without the input of any of the country’s remaining “on-the-ground” generals or admirals. In Abernathy’s mind, there were two types of officers—the self-promoters and the performers. It was the former, and not the latter, who had created the mission.

  Aside from the paper-pushers planning the op, his discomfort arose from many other sources. The first and most important strike against the whole thing was the lack of preparation and forethought. Half-assed intelligence and almost wishful projections of the Variants’ strength haunted Abernathy. There was too much reliance on aerial surveillance because there had been no on-the-ground reports.

  Every mission to insert men to gather intel had failed, including the loss of three pairs of Marine scout snipers. That, right there, should have been a warning to take a step back and reassess their assumptions. Marine scout snipers were the crème de la crème of the nation’s finest fighting force. If they had failed, the enemy was far deadlier or numerous than was being reported.

  The second black mark had more to do with the attitude of the intelligence community. Their almost religious dependence on the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases (USAMRIID) for scientific information on the virus was obsessive. Granted, the rapid spread of the epidemic decimated every city on the continent, but there had been additional medical research personnel who survived. Even the Center for Disease Control (CDC) and the National Institute of Allergies and Infectious Diseases had become uncomfortably quiet. NIAID had taken the lead in the initial fight against the spread of the virus, but their voice abruptly disappeared about a week into the infection and was replaced by USAMRIID. Watching the civilian arm of the government shut down so abruptly, then supplanted by its military counterpart, was disconcerting. He now had no counterbalance for the Army medical corps’ opinions. Something wasn’t right.

  The third, and most damning indictment against the plan was their target. Why a major city with no military value? San Diego or Long Beach made far more sense, given their strategic significance. Both had deep water ports where the fleet could service their ships, and there was infrastructure in place to house their personnel.

  His arguments fell on deaf ears when he had raised that point with the Joint Chiefs.

  “Hell, we still control Coronado Island,” Abernathy had stated to the four-star idiots who were now running the show. “Why aren’t we using that as a base of operations? We don’t even need to fight a battle to take the damn place.”

  Of course, logic failed to prevail. So here they were, inserting valuable men into an infected city that wouldn’t even provide a place for the Navy to park their ships.

  “What’s our status?” Abernathy asked.

  “All teams report minimal contact with the Variants. All five FOBs are on schedule to be completed by the end of the day. Major Jack and his men are inserting into FOB LAX as we speak,” Solomon reported.

  “Enemy contacts?” Abernathy asked.

  “So far, only a few infected individuals have been encountered.”

  Major Poole then chimed in. “And no losses on our side?”

  The Naval intelligence officer already knew the answer to his question.

  “No sir,” one of the operations specialists replied from his station. “We’re green so far. No casualties.”

  Poole gave Abernathy a smug grin, knowing the admiral’s dislike for the entire operation.

  “Looks like our intel is correct, after all,” Poole said, earning an angry glare from Solomon.

  Abernathy, for his part, remained stoic. “It’s still early, Major.”

  “It’s been several hours, sir,” Poole responded.

  “All we’ve done so far is occupy land that had the shit bombed out of it
. Unless you expected the Variants to survive thousands of pounds of ordinance? I’d hold judgement until our men move into the rest of the city.”

  “The rest of the city is quiet. Nothing significant in two days.”

  “You mean since we started the bombing campaign?” Abernathy shot back. “You don’t think that could have sent them to cover?”

  “They aren’t that smart. Every computer model of the Variants’ behavior, metabolism, and existing food supply shows the same thing. They’re dying out unless they find more food. There just aren’t any significant numbers of Variants left to cause you problems… sir.”

  “I’m glad you’re so confident,” Abernathy said absently as he scanned several of the tactical displays. “I don’t have that luxury.”

  To a casual observer, Abernathy remained stoic. But his internal alarms were blaring as he watched the operation play out on the green-hued screens surrounding him. Right or wrong, they were committed. In the end, all he had left was to do his duty to the best of his ability.

  And prayer. He had that as well. He sighed and accepted his job and the fate that would soon unfold before him.

  — 4 —

  FOB LAX

  Los Angeles International Airport

  Major Auburn Jack, USMC

  “Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway.”

  JOHN WAYNE

  “What a cluster,” Major Jack mumbled as he watched twenty-four more Marines slog out of the back of yet another Osprey. To the major, it felt like he was trying to fill a bathtub using a soup spoon. His entire company was reliant on squad-sized V-22s to move them from the ship. That would be fine if they were just the leading edge of a normal landing force. But the plan was to create platoon-sized units and push out to FOB Forum. From there, they’d be linking up with FOB Hawthorne, then move downtown. FOB Santa Monica and FOB Compton were to move on their flanks, providing cover as they retook the city.