Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4) by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

Stay frosty, Fitz,” Beckham said. “As you know, someone’s been casing the island.”
    Fitz raised his MK11 into the air. “Oorah.”
    Beckham smiled at that and patted Apollo on the head. “Stay, boy. Look after Fitz.”
    Apollo craned his head. The dog knew close to one hundred verbal commands and hand gestures. Stay wasn’t one he seemed to like, even if it was to protect Fitz. Beckham could feel Apollo watching him as he continued with Chow through the underbrush. The dog was as loyal as any soldier, and fought just as fiercely.
    Back at the base, Major Smith and Horn waited on the landing of Building 5. The Major had an anxious look on his face, but Beckham guessed it had more to do with the lieutenant colonel’s funeral.
    “Secretary Ringgold would like to speak to you three. She’s waiting inside,” Smith said. 
    Beckham eyed Horn’s bicep. A strawberry-sized stain had blossomed across the fresh white bandage wrapped around his muscular arm.
    “Did she say what about, sir?” Chow asked.
    Smith shook his head. “Nope, but Dr. Lovato and Dr. Ellis spoke with her this morning. She was asking about the VX-99 program. I’m guessing she’s trying to get to the bottom of things.”
    Beckham scrutinized Smith more closely as he approached the stairs. Swollen bags rimmed the major’s eyes. They weren’t from lack of sleep, either—they were from shedding tears. Beckham wasn’t the only one on the island who’d been close with Lieutenant Colonel Jensen. His death had hit Smith hard. It had hit everyone hard. And they hadn’t even had the time to mourn him. Hell, they hadn’t had time to mourn anyone. Beckham was just glad they’d been able to lay Jensen to rest. He deserved more than they had given him, but for now it was all they could do.
    Smith led them down the hallway to the Command Center. He stopped outside and glanced through the window cresting the door. Secretary Ringgold sat at the war table, sifting through a pile of files in front of her.
    An image of choppers descending on the island to arrest Team Ghost rose in Beckham’s mind. He reached for the door handle, anxious to give her their side of the story.
    “Be polite, Big Horn,” Beckham said.
    “Don’t worry, Boss. The blood loss won’t affect my judgment. I promise.”
    Beckham hesitated. “I thought you said you were fine.”
    Horn grinned. “I am, man. Doc said I’m good to go.”
    Twisting the handle, Beckham nodded. He strolled into the room and stopped a few feet inside to place his hands by his sides and straighten his spine, just like he’d learned when he was a grunt.
    “Madam Secretary,” he said.
    “Ah, Master Sergeant Beckham.” She looked at the men in turn and said, “No reason to be formal. Come sit down with me.”
    “Ma’am,” Beckham said, and reluctantly stepped forward to take a seat. Horn and Chow followed.
    Smith remained at the door, his arms crossed.
    Ringgold closed the file folder in front of her, pulled off her glasses, and set them neatly on the table. “I’m sorry about Lieutenant Colonel Jensen. I’m told he was a good man.”
    Beckham wanted to nod, but kept his features relaxed. She had done her homework, and he liked that about her. It meant she was objective and resourceful. She was looking for both sides of the story.
    “You’re probably wondering why I’ve asked you here,” Ringgold continued. She raised a brow and glanced at Beckham. “Then again, you already know, don’t you Master Sergeant?”
    Beckham had an idea and wanted to get right to it, but he thought he should play by the rules. He could see Horn and Chow getting impatient, too, so he let Ringgold keep the floor and sent a cautionary eye at his men.
    “I’d like to hear about Building 8 and your experiences with Colonel Gibson, Colonel Wood, and General Kennor,” Ringgold said. “I’ve been in contact with President Mitchell’s staff at Cheyenne Mountain. They know about the altercation that occurred here.