Team Omega (8 page)

The scale of what they’d done staggered him.  They’d taken out a dozen factions—or at least their leadership—within minutes of jumping into action, scattering the various forces that might have continued the war.  Better yet, most of the foreign backers were now running for their lives, providing they’d survived the battle. 

Of course, there were still thousands of foot soldiers out there, but they’d be leaderless...and most of them hadn't wanted to be in the various armies in the first place.  What did it matter if they wanted to go home?  As long as they learned to live in peace with their neighbours, Hope found it impossible to care.

He found the Redeemer in Kinshasa, setting up their headquarters in what had once been a mansion belonging to the colony’s governor before Belgium had pulled out and abandoned the Congo to chaos.  It was something he intended to take up with their government, now that the factions had been scattered.  Belgium bore some responsibility for this mess, so they should help provide medical and humanitarian aid to ease the transition from a war zone to normality.  And then he could hold the remaining international aid agencies to account.  They could provide proper support now that there was a superhuman army keeping the peace. 

Hell, it wasn't as if the Congo couldn't support itself.  The only problem was the endless war—which was now over, thank goodness.

“Most of the reports are in,” the Redeemer told him.  She looked tired and drained; by now, surely they could switch back to their normal communicators.  “We have won, for now.  Every faction has been scattered and their leadership has been destroyed.  Some superhumans are currently unaccounted for, but I’ll find them eventually.”

“I’m sure you will,” Hope agreed.  South Africa hadn't been the only place to expel its superhumans to the Congo.  Quite a few had been sent from the North with orders never to come back.  “I think that you ought to get some rest.”

The Redeemer shook her head.  “Too much to do,” she said, as she looked over towards the early glimmers of dawn.  “This city is going to be waking up soon, and by then we have to have our people in place to ensure that it doesn't fall into chaos.  And then we have to start distributing the foodstuffs Gateway is going to be bringing in from America...”

“There are others to do that,” Hope told her.  She really did look tired.  “You need to rest.”

“Not until you face the media,” The Redeemer said.  “I should be with you—we should
all
be with you.”

Hope nodded, reluctantly.  “Everyone else is needed elsewhere,” he said.  Without the mutants, they probably wouldn't have had the superpower to deal with all of the major factions overnight.  It was odd to think of limits, but he had no choice.  “You can come with me.”

***

Bright sunlight shone on Kinshasa as the media gathered outside the mansion.  The city was surprisingly quiet, apart from the women going to find water and food for their families—a task that appeared to be reserved for females only.  Hope made a mental note to find the parents of the child he'd rescued and braced himself as the reporters set up their cameras and started filming.  Most of them were young or very old, including a couple of idealists who had been covering the war ever since it had begun.  One of them, if the reporters were to be believed, had been beaten and raped by the last faction to occupy the city—and even though she could have left, she’d stayed to witness the dawning of a bright new day. 

“Thank you all for coming,” Hope said.  The reporters stared at him.  They would have seen his golden outfit and cape on television, but he liked to think he looked more impressive in person.  “As you can see, there’s been a change in government in the Congo—
all
of the Congo.  We have taken out every faction and imposed peace.  It is our intention to put an end to the struggling in this country and allow its citizens to embrace democracy and freedom. 

“There will be those who argue that we have no right to intervene.  I say that we had the right because no one else could or would have acted without regard to national interests.  We are not beholden to anyone, and our operations here are only intended to benefit the locals...”

Chapter Eight

Chester Harrison had been hoping for a good night’s sleep.  He’d spent two days reassuring nervous old women at the DEA that Team Omega could handle any crisis and another day coordinating with the SDI in case he was wrong about the crisis being controllable before he’d staggered home to his Washington apartment and snuggled into bed with his wife.  Naturally, his cell phone had rung at three in the morning.

“This is Chester,” he growled.  At least his wife hadn't woken up.  “What’s happening?”

“We just received an emergency call from the White House,” his assistant said.  “You’re ordered to report to the President as quickly as possible.  There was no more information.”

“Fuck me,” Chester muttered.  A summons in the middle of the night was never good news.  “Are they sending a car?”

“Yes, sir,” his assistant said.  “It should be with you shortly.”

Chester pulled himself out of bed, dressed quickly and walked downstairs to pick up his emergency bag.  There should have been time to have a cup of strong coffee, but the car pulled up outside the house just as the kettle started to boil.  Chester cursed under his breath, took a can of cold coffee out of the fridge and walked to the car.  His wife would wake up to discover him gone.  As soon as he was inside the car, he flipped open his palmtop and wrote her a quick email.  She knew very little about what he did for a living, but she would know that if he was called, he had to respond.

Washington never really slept, but thankfully there was little traffic on the roads as the federal car raced towards the White House.  Chester still remembered one emergency call when he’d been trapped in traffic and a helicopter had been sent to pick him up.  At least the Washington Press Corps hadn't managed to work out who he was, not really.  Team Omega’s security could have been compromised if they’d asked why a lowly paper-pusher such as him had been summoned so urgently to meet with President MacDougal.  He finished swilling his coffee as the car entered the underground garage below the White House. Two Secret Service agents met him and hustled him inside.

The White House was the most secure building in the world that wasn't an outright fortress.  Chester had been in government service long enough to remember the debate about moving the seat of government to Cheyenne Mountain or somewhere else that might be able to resist a Level 5 superhuman for more than a few seconds, but the sitting President—Dole, if he recalled correctly—had vetoed it.  The President could not give the impression of cowering in a bunker while the rest of the world was exposed to superhuman threats.  Instead, they’d built new layers of security around the White House, including a force field, a handful of augmented agents—and a sensory.  Chester felt the slight touch as the sensory checked that he was who he claimed to be—an imposter was a very real threat in a world where some superhumans could shape-shift—and then withdraw.  Most people didn't realise that a sensory was part of the White House’s security, which wasn't a bad thing.  It would only have upset and alienated them.

“Mr. Harrison,” a voice said.  Monica, the President’s personal assistant, had been waiting for him on the other side of the security station.  “They’re meeting in the Situation Room; I’m to escort you there.”

Chester nodded.  Monica was old enough to be his mother and had been in government service since before there were
any
superhumans.  What she didn't know about getting things done wasn’t important—and she knew enough about the Washington denizens to give a handful of them sleepless nights.  Most people liked young and sexy assistants; the President was smart enough to know better.  But then, the First Lady was also a very tough woman.

The White House was linked to an underground network that very few people outside government even suspected existed, let alone the extent of the chambers under the city.  It had originally been devised as a defence against nuclear bombs and had naturally turned into a defence against superhumans when they first came into existence.  The President and his Cabinet had the private use of a number of chambers, including a Situation Room that was TEMPEST-level secure, immune to physical, electronic and mental probes.  Or so they all hoped.  One problem that had bedevilled security officers long before the first superhuman had appeared was that as security technology advanced, the technology to fool and defeat it advanced as well.

Visitors were not allowed aides in the Situation Room, which forced him to pour his own cup of black coffee and sit down beside General Kratman, the Director of the Superhuman Defence Initiative.  They were rivals in Washington, competing for scarce funds, but they managed to maintain a cordial working relationship, not too surprising considering they were generally called upon to help each other out.  Kratman hadn't seemed too approving of Chester’s role until he’d realised that Chester merely issued directives and provided political cover; the trained soldiers who led each operation team handled the actual deployments.  They knew what they were doing—and Chester didn't.  It had been a long time since he’d resented that simple fact.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Monica said, “the President of the United States.”

Chester rose to his feet as President MacDougal entered, followed by a handful of political and intelligence directors.  The President looked tired—someone had given the order to wake him up early—and worn.  Being President in a world where the most powerful men and women weren't accountable to anyone, even the SDI, was an unpleasant task.  There were days when Chester wondered why anyone wanted the job.

“Be seated,” the President said, curtly.  Monica passed him a cup of coffee and then took up a position at the corner of the room.  “Jasper?”

Jasper Stillwell, the National Security Advisor, stood up and walked to the head of the table, picking up the remote that would allow him to activate the room’s compartmentalised presentation system.  He was a tall man with a long history of involvement in covert operations and intelligence analysis, who knew where the bodies were buried.  There were times when Chester envied the man’s unflappable nature—and times when he wondered if Jasper wasn't a superhuman himself.  But then, he wasn't serving openly as a superhuman, so he wouldn't have needed to register.

“About one hour ago, we received an urgent broadcast from operatives within the Congo,” he said.  Chester lifted an eyebrow in surprise.  What could have happened in the blood-soaked country that could have summoned him—and the President—out of bed?  “Put bluntly, the Congo has been invaded by an outside force and most of the various political factions have been scattered or destroyed.”  He hesitated for a long moment.  “The outside force was a small army of superhumans.”

Chester stared at him.  Diplomats in the United Nations had been pushing for a large-scale intervention in the Congo long before superhumans fleeing South Africa had made it much worse, but none of the talks had ever gotten off the ground.  The UN might have done more than urge developed nations to intervene, yet none of them trusted their rivals not to take advantage of the opportunity to claim the Congo’s mineral wealth for themselves. 

Besides, the Congo simply wasn't important.  The closest superpower was Iraq, and they had their own problems with Iran.

General Kratman remained focused, somehow fresh and rested despite the early morning hour.  “Who carried out this operation?”

“According to media broadcasts, the operation was spearheaded by the Saviours,” Stillwell said.  Chester cursed.  He’d hoped that the Saviours would fall apart or abandon their idealistic dreams, not actually intervene in a foreign country.  “They were joined by over forty other superhumans and several dozen mutants.  Between them, they crushed the various factions with remarkable speed—none were capable of coping with a superhuman assault.  The sun rising over the Congo right now is a sun rising on a country ruled by superhumans.”

“Jesus,” someone muttered, from behind him.  “What are they
saying
about it?”

“Hope—their leader—broadcast to the world half an hour ago,” Stillwell said.  “It's still being rebroadcast on CNN and Fox News.  As you can see...”

He tapped the remote and the main screen came to life, replaying Hope’s message to the world.  Chester listened carefully as the superhuman—still clad in the golden outfit he’d worn when he’d been part of the SDI—spoke, outlining what they’d done in the Congo and what they intended to do in the future.  They wanted emergency shipments of food, medical supplies and equipment—and ordered all nearby nations to inter refugees from any of the factions who found themselves in their territory.  There were no threats attached to the message, but after what they’d done to the Congo he doubted that anyone would try to stand up to them.

“They’ve been allowing reporters to roam freely through the capital city,” Stillwell explained.  “They’ve taken pictures of everything, from the heads of the factions stuck up on poles where the palace used to be to the people thronging the streets and cheering the superhumans.  Most of the local police force has been eliminated or taken off somewhere; the mutants are providing the only real policing in the city.  I think they’re already running short of manpower.”

“You can count on it,” General Kratman said, flatly.  “Taking territory is one thing, holding it is quite another.  I think the remains of the factions will start to reform underground.”

“They have made a public offer to all mutants; they will be allowed to live freely in the Congo if they help keep the peace long enough for a new government to be formed,” Stillwell said.  “I suspect that they may also be able to convince other superhumans to join them...”

The President held up a hand.  “That isn't the issue at the moment,” he said, coldly.  “The issue is what—if anything—we do about it?”

Jack Marlowe, the Director of the CIA, had his own question.  “And why were we caught by surprise?”

Chester and General Kratman exchanged glances.  “Our intelligence within the Saviours has never been good,” Chester admitted.  Keeping an eye on the capes was a responsibility shared between Team Omega and the SDI.  At least they managed to work together better than the FBI and CIA.  “Unless we managed to turn one of the superhumans themselves, we would have to rely on second-hand information and innuendo.  Matters are more complicated with the Saviours as one of them—the Redeemer—is a Level X superhuman with telepathic powers.  She would sniff out any spy we sent before he could make his first report.

“We
do
have some allies within the mutant community, but as a rule they're generally not very willing to help us,” he added.  The Federal Government had been reluctant to uphold the civil rights of mutants when there was so much fear surrounding them.  It wasn't particularly fair—few mutants rated more than Level 2—but fear and hatred had never been fair, or logical.  Besides, it was safer to pick on mutants than superhumans like Hope.  “And again, any of them who had been summoned to join the operation would have been scanned.  They would have isolated or rejected any spy.”

“Telepaths make life so much harder,” Marlowe agreed, reluctantly.  The CIA was still reeling from losing a network of operatives in China after the Chinese had used telepaths to root them out and execute them on live television.  “So...what do we do about it?”

General Kratman spoke into the silence.  “You know as well as I do that superhumans have been developing a...racial identity of their own,” he said.  “They’ve moved from being government agents and operatives to actually operating as independent agents—superheroes, in other words.  And now they have stepped completely out of line and taken out an independent state.  We have to assume that this will lead to further acts against rogue states—or, worse, against the more developed states.”

Gayle Hepburn, the Secretary of State, leaned forward.  “But the Congo was a shithole before they arrived and slaughtered the oppressors,” she said, softly.  “You know as well as I do that the State Department compiled voluminous files on atrocities being committed in the Congo, an endless list of war crimes and offences committed against helpless civilians.  We did nothing to stop the warlords from continuing to struggle for supreme power and we did nothing to prevent their neighbours from keeping the fire going—we didn't even do anything to prevent the exodus of superhumans from South Africa into the Congo!  There are no moral grounds for opposing their invasion of the Congo, none whatsoever.  And I think that the vast bulk of the American population would agree with me.”

“I’m not saying that the Congo warlords didn't deserve to have their heads torn off and stuck on spikes,” General Kratman said.  Chester nodded beside him.  “The problem is that they might go on and overthrow another country’s government, and then another.  They have become a rogue force acting without
any
guidance from a national authority.”