Team Omega (27 page)

He hesitated.  “And we’d probably need to use ground-bursts,” he added.  “Even with modern weapons, there would be a great deal of radioactive contamination in the air afterwards.  I don’t want to think about what it would do to the rest of Africa.”

The President looked sick.  “I cannot sanction the deaths of so many people,” he said.  “I saw the contingency plans, but...we can't do that.”

Chester knew exactly how he felt.  Team Omega wasn't the only brainchild of President Cheney, not by a long shot.  Some of the contingency plans called for using nuclear weapons in American cities, accepting the deaths of millions of Americans in exchange for bringing down a rogue superhuman.  The media had almost completely ignored that aspect of the planning, thankfully.  Others hadn't; the growing survivalist trend might just have been fuelled by the fact that cities could turn into war zones without warning. 

But what would history say about an American President who launched a nuclear attack on his own cities?  A madman, a traitor worse than Benedict Arnold...or a hard man making a hard choice?

“There are other possibilities,” Chester said, “but most of them are riskier.  If they exploded in our face, and they might, they’d make the Slaughter Incident seem like a damp firecracker.”

The President looked down at his fingers.  “What would happen to the Saviours if Hope were to die?”

The General smiled, thinly.  “The shrinks say that it’s Hope who provides the vision,” he said.  “The general theory is that they’d come apart if he died.  God knows there’s always one alpha dog holding superhuman teams together; if he died, there would probably be a struggle for leadership...they’d certainly not be able to hold on to the other superhumans who have joined their cause.”

Chester hesitated.  “And what if they’re wrong?”

“I think we have to accept the fact that Hope is out of control,” the General said, sharply.  “I know...all of those warlords deserved to die horribly.  But he’s become paranoid and is starting to threaten us, to add to the problems he’s causing for the rest of the world.  He’s a good person and he means well, but he’s turning into an absolute dictator.  We have to deal with him now.”

The President nodded, very slowly.  “You will determine a way to kill Hope and use it, without involving anyone outside your organisation,” he said.  Reaching into one of his drawers, he pulled out a sheet of paper and started to write.  “I will order you to do so directly, so no one else can be blamed if it goes wrong.  Even so, I want you to cover your tracks thoroughly.  If possible, whatever you do should not be linked to us.”

He finished writing and passed the General a sheet of paper.  Years ago, Congress had prohibited the President from ordering assassinations.  But after the problems in Mexico and Latin America had started to spread north, the law had been quietly relaxed.  The President could order someone killed if he took personal responsibility for it.  Chester understood why the President was doing it, and accepted the logic, but he couldn't help feeling that they were crossing a line.  Hope had far too many superhumans under his command...

...But what would happen if his frustration caused him to lash out at someone else?

“It might work in our favour if it did,” the General said.  “Letting the world know that we have a way to kill such a powerful superhuman without the collateral damage...”

The President nodded towards the windows, looking out over the White House lawn—and the protesters beyond the gates.  “Right now, large parts of this country believe that Hope is a hero for actually
doing something
about the suffering in the Third World,” he said.  “They are out there, demanding that Congress pull their thumbs out of their asses and vote to send humanitarian aid to Hope and the Saviours.  Hope seems like the golden guardian of good to them, a true hero who is actually doing good.”

“They used to cheer Ho Chi Minh and Castro,” the General said, dryly.  “They always swallowed the shit the Soviet Union pumped out and ignored the actual facts.  Even after Warsaw, they still believed in the Worker’s Paradise.  What does the opinion of such ignorant people matter to us?”

“They’re ignorant people with votes,” the President said.  “I know, I think, how Hope feels.  This office confers power, but it also confers limitations.  I could do so much short-term good if I abandoned the limits, yet in doing so I would wreck the office and drag it through the mud.  Hope doesn't have those concerns...”

“I’ve ordered nine assassinations since I took the oath of office,” he added.  “This one is the first one I regret ordering, even though it is the most significant.  General...don’t fuck up.”

“No, Mr. President,” the General said.  “I won’t let anything go wrong.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Parker Lewis,” Lane said.  A picture appeared on the display.  “Fourteen years old, born in Washington; father’s a soldier with the 3
rd
Infantry Division.  Parents are separated, but apparently the father does play a large role in his son’s life when not on deployment.  Or so we’ve been told.  I’d prefer not to inform the father until we have confirmation one way or the other.”

Jackson nodded.  Back on deployment, he’d seen a fellow Marine lose his edge through worrying about his wife, who had been injured by a drunken driver.  It sounded cruel, but if the kid could be found alive and well, the father wouldn’t go through hell worrying about him. 

“Earlier today, the kid went to a Dreamy Girl concert—the same concert that three of our own attended,” Lane continued.  He managed to sound disapproving even though he’d probably authorised their leave.  “Lucky bastard looks older than I did when I was his age, so he didn't have many problems getting in with a fake ID.  The FBI looked at the ones produced by his friends, and they confirm that they weren't bad fakes.  Someone is going to get into deep shit because of it.”

“How lucky for them,” Jackson said, dryly.  Two hours of sleep had left him feeling better, although he’d had weird dreams that he couldn't quite remember.  “I thought the lower age limit on these things was eighteen.”

“That's what the ID cards said,” Lane commented.  “It didn't help that most of the group he was with were actually genuinely eighteen or older...”

He shook his head.  “Not that that matters to us,” he added.  “Fake ID cards aren't our problem.  The real problem is that Parker’s disappearance isn't the first one connected to a Dreamy Girl concert.”

The screen changed at his command.  “Dylan King,” he said.  A young black man appeared on the display.  “Fourteen years old; attended a Dreamy Girl concert in Atlanta—and didn't come home that night.  Local police investigated, but found nothing—Dylan ended up marked as a runaway, one of the thousands of other kids who leave their homes every year and generally come to a bad end.  No history of drug abuse, incidentally; his mother was one of the ones who pulled herself out of the ghetto by her fingernails.  Dylan had great prospects and no reason to run from his home.

“Davy Wheat,” he said, changing the picture again.  “Fifteen years old; vanished at a Dreamy Girl concert in San Francisco.  Unlike the other two, Davy did have an arrest record; the cops picked him up twice for hotwiring cars and taking them out for a spin.  He also tested positive for drug use, but they didn’t use that against him.  The cops didn't take much interest in his disappearance as there was no evidence of foul play and Davy probably did have a motive for running away from home.  Mother is a drunken bitch, according to the police reports; father unknown, probably one of the men who fluttered around her when she was younger and prettier.

“And finally, Gavin Sato,” he concluded.  “He actually vanished two days
after
the concert in San Francisco, so he may not actually be connected to the case at all, but the cops dug up the reference and included it in their database.  Unlike Davy, he had a good home and a reasonably good family life; no clear reason for running away that anyone can see.”

He put down the remote and turned to face his team.  “Some of you have already had experience in criminal investigations, when our work blurs into theirs,” he said.  “Others of you are new to this, but it can be just as important as actually taking down rogue superhumans.  We’ll be working with the SDI on this one, but the person they would normally send to investigate is indisposed.”

His face twisted into a grin.  “Brainstorming time,” he said.  “What do all these kids have in common?”

“They’re young,” Ron said, thoughtfully.  “And they were all underage when they attended the concert.  Are we actually sure that they vanished there?”

“It's difficult to be completely certain, but witness testimonies and camera networks certainly suggest as much,” Lane said.  “The FBI wanted to pull the records from the stadium’s security network, only to be told that part of the agreement with Dreamy Girl and her agents stated that they weren't to operate
any
cameras within the building.  We do have some footage from outside the buildings, but it’s incomplete.”

“And one of them vanished two days later,” Jackson said.  He remembered one of the exercises he’d been given when he first joined Team Omega.  All he’d had to do was put together a jigsaw, but he had had no idea what the completed picture looked like—and some pieces didn't actually belong to the original jigsaw.  Criminal investigation wasn't too different; the fourth missing boy might be unconnected to the overall puzzle.

Something clicked in his mind.  “Three of the four were good boys, weren't they?”  He said.  “They didn't drink or smoke or do drugs—the fourth did take drugs and might have been still taking them, even after his arrest.”

“Very good,” Lane said.  “Now...what does it actually mean?”

Jackson shook his head.  “I don’t know,” he admitted.  “I don’t suppose...they were all handsome enough to attract her attention?”

“It would be career suicide if she started preying on her underage fans,” Chris countered.  “Besides, she wouldn't find it difficult to pull in perfectly legal eighteen-year-old kids with baby faces.  Most paedophiles go for preteen or early teen children.”

“If you call it preying,” Thomas said.  “I don’t know about you, but if Madonna had asked me into her private rooms when I was fifteen, I wouldn't have said no.”

“And Madonna would still have been in deep shit when it came out,” Lane said, sharply.  “I know...pop stars and superhumans do have the chance to seduce almost anyone they want from their fans, but
none
of these people have ever returned home.  Underage or not, they are gone and people want answers.  What happened to them and what, if anything, does Dreamy Girl have to do with it?”

Jackson hesitated, and then spoke up.  “She...put me into a trance, of sorts,” he admitted.  There were some sniggers from the rest of the team.  “Couldn’t she have done that to her younger fans and programmed them to wait behind when the rest of the audience had gone?”

“It’s possible,” Von Shrakenberg agreed.  “I suppose having so much blood rushing to your dick would help anyone hypnotise you.”

There were more chuckles as Jackson flushed angrily. 

“But so far the effect has been isolated to three, perhaps four teenage kids,” Lane added.  “A telepath could presumably pick them out of a crowd, but very few telepaths would want to go into the stadium anyway.  Nothing about this makes sense; what few patterns we have been able to see are too vague to be any actual use.”

He looked around the room, his gaze alighting on each and every one of the team.  “Dreamy Girl is scheduled to take two days of rest, then she will give another concert.  That one will presumably have a handful of underage kids, all of whom are at risk from whatever the fuck is going on.  The FBI has passed the buck to the SDI, and the SDI has passed it down to us.  We need to know what happens to those kids before the next concert—and another kid disappears.  Any questions?”

“Just one,” Ron said.  “What authority do we have to go poking around?”

“The FBI waved their case under a tame judge’s nose and got a warrant to search the stadium and Dreamy Girl’s vehicles,” Lane said.  “I suggest that any of you who don’t feel that you can be completely professional about this let me know, and I’ll leave you behind on kitchen duty.  Dreamy Girl’s agents will probably make a fuss, but luckily the FBI will take the heat.  Special Agent Anderson will be attached to us and she will deal with the agents.”

“Great,” Chris muttered.  “The ball-crusher herself.”

“She’ll be busting their balls while we try to dig up evidence one way or the other,” Lane said.  “We leave in thirty minutes, so grab your weapons and equipment and assemble outside the barracks.  Move.”

***

Special Agent Dana Anderson was a strikingly tall woman with short red hair, wearing a suit that had been professionally tailored to show off her assets to best advantage.  She reminded Jackson of his mother, a woman who never took any shit from anyone.  A brief glance into the files had informed him that the Special Agent had an impressive conviction rate, mainly investigating international and corporate espionage in the United States.  The link to intelligence work probably explained why the FBI had chosen her as the link between them and Team Omega.

“Rumour has it that she’s a lesbian,” Chris muttered, as Lane and Dana talked just out of earshot.  “She doesn't have any time for men—or for the whinging feminists who think that they’re owed an easy ride just because they have tits instead of dicks.  Don’t try to make a pass, or the medics will have to stitch your balls back on.”

“Alpha Team will accompany me,” Lane said, raising his voice so they could hear him.  “Beta Team will search the public areas of the stadium; Gamma Team will remain on backup duty.  If someone calls, break out the heavy weapons and come to our aid.”

“Understood, sir,” the Sergeant said. 

He led Beta Team off towards the public entrance, leaving Lane and Dana to walk towards the private section.  It was on the other side of the building to the executive entrance they’d used when they’d been simple tourists, but Jackson supposed that that wasn't a surprise.  The stars had a reputation for being difficult, forcing their managers to provide every luxury item they felt they’d earned.  Some of the stories Jackson had heard suggested that managers had been forced to hire prostitutes for their stars, as well as everything else.  Dreamy Girl probably wasn't any different, even if she
was
a superhuman.  The Young Stars had had their own obsession with sex and illegal drugs, after all. 

A single man met them at the entrance, wearing a slicked-down suit and too much oil in his hair.  He started to speak, but Dana cut in and overrode him effortlessly. 

“I have authority to search this stadium and your property for Parker Lewis, who has been missing since this afternoon after entering this building,” she said, bluntly.  She held up the warrant and waved it under his nose.  “While you are at liberty to file a complaint with the FBI, you are not at liberty to prevent us from entering and searching the building.  I must warn you that any attempt to do so will result in your arrest, followed by charges of interfering with a federal investigation.  The charges will stand even if the search reveals no trace of Parker Lewis.”

The man smiled, too brightly.  “We have absolutely nothing to hide,” he said, after a moment.  “I must just ask you to keep the noise down.  Miss Reynar is currently resting after being seen by so many people.  It puts quite a strain on her body and soul.”

“I’m sure it does,” Dana said, “but I’m afraid I cannot allow such concerns to impede my search.  There is a missing child at stake here.”

“I must also inform you that we will seek recompense from the FBI for any damage to our properly caused by your searchers,” the man added, “and...”

“Thank you,” Dana said, cutting him off and walking past him into the stadium.  “I understand from the plans that this front office is empty when there isn't a game on?”

“Why...yes, that’s correct,” the man said.  “Why do you want to know?”

“I want you to call everyone in the building here, so they can wait in this room until the search is completed,” Dana said, glancing into the empty room.  Jackson couldn't see anything worth noticing apart from a pair of baseball posters someone had stuck on the bare walls.  “And
everyone
includes Miss Reynar.”

“My client has special permission from the SDI to remain secluded apart from when she is on the stage,” the manager blustered.  “I think...”

“That doesn't cover criminal investigation,” Dana said, coldly.  “Call them all in, or we’ll be forced to arrest everyone in the building to prevent them from impeding an investigation.”

They locked eyes for a long moment, and then the manager looked away.  “Very well,” he said.  “I’ll call them.”

Jackson had been taught that maintaining a single soldier in the front lines required at least three or four people in the rear areas, but it seemed that maintaining a celebrity required at least forty people.  Apart from the manager and a pair of bodyguards, who eyed the soldiers as if they wanted to start a fight, they were all women, ranging from a personal trainer to a woman who was described as Dreamy Girl’s close personal friend.  The look she gave some of Alpha Team suggested that she wasn't really interested in women.  Jackson followed orders, took a list of names for Dana to cross-check against the files, and kept his eyes on their faces.  Quite a few of their training simulations had involved the use of nude women as a distraction.