Because the base had indeed been ransacked before by the beasts, Detrick’s leadership had learned the hard way to stay vigilant and proactive.
In fact, when those infamous mercs, the Hunters, had been at the base consulting with Detrick’s science teams, the Skulls had breached the base’s defenses. O’Neil couldn’t help but wonder if there had been any connection between those guys’ presence and the base being slammed by monsters.
Whatever the case, Detrick had come into its own, looking more like an active and well-fortified base that would make the Green Zone in Baghdad pale in comparison to its security measures. As the war against the Skulls and the biological agent that caused them raged on, what was left of the US government clearly recognized the importance of the scientific resources behind the walls at Detrick.
The place had become the epicenter of much of the military’s efforts, including DEVGRU.
Ever since Naval Air Station Oceana in Virginia had been compromised early in the outbreak, SEAL Team Six’s home had shifted to Detrick to help protect USAMRIID and its army of researchers.
The Black Hawk hit the tarmac of the makeshift airfield outside one of the research buildings. A handful of Detrick personnel ran toward the chopper, ducking under the rotor wash as the crew chief flung open the side door. The soldiers escorted the research team out of the bird, ushering them into the research building, helping them carry their boxes and backpacks.
“Guess I was feeling sorry for myself for having to get back into action so quickly,” Tate said, “and look at these poor saps. They’re probably going straight into the labs, and they haven’t even had a chance to mourn the two of their friends turned to Skulls.”
“When the whole country is invaded by the enemy, everyone’s a soldier,” Van said.
“That from some book you read?” Tate asked.
Van shook his head.
Loeb started to stand as the rotors began to wind down, and Alpha team started hopping off the bird, carrying their weapons over their shoulders. “Sometimes, Van likes to think he can say something profound.”
“It’s true, though,” Van said. “We all do our part when our backs are against the wall. Even those people.”
“Well, time to do our part and get ready for Reynolds,” O’Neil said, getting off the chopper, the blades slowing. Already crew chiefs and other personnel were running out to the bird to refuel it and perform safety checks. A second pilot team raced to take the place of the ones who had flown O’Neil and his guys out of North Carolina.
Supplies and machinery were limited at Detrick. That bird was going right back up into the air within the hour, O’Neil figured.
The warmth of the morning sun only made O’Neil feel more exhausted.
He saw Van yawn.
“Keeping vampire hours isn’t easy,” O’Neil said as he led them toward the warehouse where their cages were.
“I don’t mind the whole living in the night and sleeping during the day thing,” Loeb said. “It’s just the racket around base that makes it hard to sleep.”
O’Neil might’ve suggested earplugs, but they all had them. Brass wanted to keep DEVGRU in tip-top shape, so they ensured they had certain creature comforts to keep them functioning properly.
After the missions they ran, even being in as good as shape they were, they always came back exhausted, every muscle sore, the faded adrenaline leaving them with nothing but a heavy weight tugging on their eyelids and a burning desire to hit the hay wherever they were.
Even a little hammering and shouting and rumbling truck engines wouldn’t wake them… if they could actually close their eyes.
Sleep was getting harder and harder to come by. O’Neil feared it had nothing to do with the commotion around base. Rather, it was those pictures he saw behind his eyelids when he was in his bunk.
The images of everything they had seen, from the Skulls to the burning towns and cities turned to rubble, made finding peace in sleep difficult.
But they didn’t usually talk about it.
Like Loeb had said, SEALs weren’t weak. Didn’t much like even insinuating that they might be feeling a tinge of pain, either physical or mental.
They reached the warehouse where their cages were. Each of them had a stall separated by chain-link fencing. Given the swelling numbers in personnel, equipment, and refugees at Detrick every day, their cages were less than a third the size of what they had been at NAS Oceana.
O’Neil usually kept a bag for each type of mission, whether it was direct action in an urban landscape or special recon with an aquatic element. He had neatly color-coded his equipment and had loadout lists to check over every time their troop commander gave them their missions. But in these cages, he could barely organize his equipment into their own individual sections and bags.
Everything was more of a neatly stacked pile, which made him cringe each time he saw it. Part of his job was to stay in control of his team and the conflict when he was out on a mission. To start a mission in control, he liked to have everything back home in control, including his organized loadouts. It almost pained him to see how his equipment had been reduced as their supplies had encountered shortages and his organizational methods had been compromised as a result.
But he had to work with what he had.
He cleaned his weapons and hung up his gear, putting them back as neatly as he could in the cramped space.
Loeb tapped him on the shoulder. “I’m going to go see the wife and my girls.”
O’Neil looked at his wristwatch. “You got fifteen minutes before AAR.”
“Quick hugs and hellos,” he said. “Nothing more.”
“Tell them I say ‘hi’, too.”
Loeb was already jogging out of the warehouse and mimed giving O’Neil a tip of his hat.
“Be on time,” O’Neil called to him.
“I’ll be early.”
Loeb disappeared out the warehouse door.
Amid the clicking and chatter of the rest of the troop unloading their gear, O’Neil headed toward the back of the warehouse where a stainless-steel coffee dispenser was. He picked up one of the communal mugs and poured himself a cup.
Took a sip and winced.
Lukewarm. He started brewing a new batch for the rest of the team as he choked down the coffee.
Tate and Loeb joined him. He warned Tate about the coffee when the operator reached for a mug.
“I like mine cold anyway,” Tate said.
“You’re a monster,” Van said. Then he started to look wistful. “You ever had Vietnamese coffee?”
“Do you serve it with banh mis?”
“The hell are you talking about?”
Tate shrugged and took a sip of his veritable mud-water. “I assume your parents served it at their shop.”
“They did,” he said. “You brew it strong in a metal cup over your mug. Some people like condensed milk with it. Always strong, always good.”
“You miss it,” Tate said.
“I do.”
Tate took another sip of his coffee. Seemed to think better of it, then dumped in a load of sugar.
“Told you the coffee wasn’t great,” O’Neil said. He indicated the pot he was brewing with his thumb. “If you’re patient, you don’t have to doctor that up so much.”
“Caffeine is caffeine.”
“That much sugar in coffee that bad will ruin your gut,” Van said.
“I’m not scared.”
“You should be.”
“Nah, I’m like this man,” Tate said, nodding at O’Neil. “No fear.”
“What do you mean?” O’Neil asked.
Tate tried his sugar-filled coffee. Paused as if he was considering it, then gulped it down. “Man, when you were dealing with that Skull in the church, you just walked right up to it like you were going to shake your pastor’s hand. No big deal.”