Team Omega (19 page)

“As long as it takes,” the man said.  He picked up a black briefcase from the floor and passed it to her.  “There’s a set of communications gear in the case that should be undetectable, even to one as...sensitive as Hope.  Use it when you have something for us; otherwise, do whatever he tells you and help to repair the battered country.  You may even discover that doing something actually helpful is good for the soul.”

Esmeralda took the briefcase.  “Very well,” she said, “but after it is over, no more.  I’m sure that blackmail wouldn't make you look very good either.”

“No,” the man agreed.  “Good luck.”

***

Chester watched the girl go, shaking his head at her strange combination of naivety and worldliness.  But then, she had had to grow up in a hurry.  Chester knew that most of the corporate backers were already cutting their losses, carefully severing all the links between themselves and the Young Stars.  It was surprising that the media hadn't started to wonder if something wasn't actually wrong, although few people inquired too closely into how superhero teams received their funding.  How long would it be before they had to start being careful of just what they spent on maintaining their image?

He pushed the thought aside as he picked up his briefcase and opened it, glancing down at the file the psychologists had produced for Sparky.  It was difficult to trust psych files when there were so many unexplored variables surrounding superhumans, but they did seem to have done a good job.  Someone with that kind of background would accept drug abuse as normal, even if she didn't participate herself.  Chester wouldn't have risked taking mood-altering drugs if
he
had the power to create a lightning storm that would be lethal to anyone within fifty meters, but young superhumans were rarely so careful.  The first breed of superheroes had been very careful with their powers.  Later generations seemed more inclined to show off than anything else.

Shutting the briefcase, he stood up and walked towards the second door.  The entire apartment block was owned and operated by the CIA, who also provided security for the real families living in the other blocks.  Their presence helped to disguise the CIA’s interest in the gated compound—and besides, they loved the professional security.  Chester was among the few who knew that Red River was a CIA front company that provided mercenaries to the rest of the world, among other things.  But they weren't suited to dealing with superhumans.

Using Sparky as a spy bothered him, even though most of his morality had faded in the years since he'd come to realise the problem superhumans presented to the entire planet.  She was young—and reasonably innocent for her age; he was doing her no favours by sending her to the Congo.  And Hope had one of the world’s most powerful telepaths on his side.  He might have been an idealist who disliked the idea of mental rape, but somehow Chester doubted that he would prevent the Redeemer from scanning all the new recruits.  They’d expect to see a spy, and they would find Sparky.

But that didn't matter.

He stepped into the next room and nodded to the single occupant.  “You heard all that?”

Mathew Tracker, Tracker to the SDI’s covert operations team, nodded.  “I don’t think she believed you,” he said.  Tracker’s abilities were a form of super-perception, giving him remarkable insight into the world around him even though he lacked more formidable superpowers.  It was next to impossible to lie to him, or beat him at poker.  “But she will do as you order.”

“And you’ll go in with her,” Chester said.  One of the other uses of Tracker’s power was a form of telepathic security net.  He could present a false front to the Redeemer and she wouldn't notice unless she got suspicious and dug too deep.  “While she draws their attention...”

Tracker had been involved with the near-disaster in New York.  “I do the mission,” he said.  “And God help us if Hope takes exception to it.”

Chester nodded.  “May God help us,” he agreed.  “Or else we would be screwed.”

Chapter Nineteen

There was a rap at the door. Lane looked up from his paperwork. It was Polly.  She didn’t look happy.

“What can I do for you, Polly?”

“Who would you say is your best gunslinger?”

Lane scrunched up his brow for a moment, before tapping a button on his desk. “You got a moment, Shrake?”

“Just a sec.”

A moment later, the Sergeant appeared in the doorway. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“Miss Polly would like to know… who is our best gunslinger?”

“Oh?”

Polly cleared her throat.  “Remember how I said several months ago that I might have opened Pandora's Box?”

Both men nodded sagely.
That
had been an unpleasant conversation. Even General Kratman had come out of the room pale as a ghost. Anything that scared that man meant it was truly bad.

"I've come up with a prototype,” Polly told them.  “And I need a tester.”  She set the case down on the desk, spun tumblers, lifted the lid carefully.

Lane whistled in appreciation.

Von Shrakenberg's eyes widened noticeably before he found his voice.  “Jackson. He’s the best with revolvers.”

He briefly related the incident at the range.  When he was finished, Lane was smiling.

“Make it so, Sergeant,” he ordered.  “Polly, the most, absolute most you are to tell Jackson at all, is that you need a tester for a new revolver. It can fire regular rounds, can't it?”

“Yes,” Polly said, “but I have no idea how bad the recoil …”

“Don’t worry about it,” Lane said.  “Jackson’s a big boy.  He’ll adapt.”

Polly nodded, then closed the case and walked out the door.

Von Shrakenberg closed the door behind her, then let out the breath he’d been holding.

“Take a seat, Sergeant,” Lane said, clinging to formality.

“I do believe I shall, sir,” Von Shrakenberg said, equally formally.

“I really hope she is kidding,” Lane said.

“She rarely is, sir.”

“I know,” Lane said.  “That’s what scares me.”

He leaned back in his chair, trying to relax.  “You think he’s ready for it?”

“Jackson looks like a troublemaker on paper, but that was the environment, sir,” Von Shrakenberg said.  “He’s a good troop.”

“Explain.”

“He takes himself and his work seriously,” Von Shrakenberg said.  “He has problems with anyone who doesn’t prove himself as dedicated as he is.  Every Article 15 he has involves someone who hasn’t been deployed like he has.  He’d have been promoted years ago if he managed to hold his temper.  As it was, he’s certainly pushed the limits of outright insubordination right to breaking point.”

Lane frowned.  “Remember the OPD General Kratman put his lieutenants through?”

“Vaguely, sir,” Von Shrakenberg said.

“Call Commander Sergeant Major Macintosh and tell him you need a copy of the program,” Lane said.  “He’ll give it to you.  Start implementing that with Jackson.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

“Learning curve is steep on this one, so stay focused,” Sergeant von Shrakenberg said, once the team had assembled in the briefing compartment.  “Jackson—you were in New York a week ago; how much local knowledge did you pick up?”

“Enough to decide that the last ten Mayors had to have been insane to invite so many superhumans to their city,” Jackson said, after a moment.  “And I memorised a couple of maps...”

The Sergeant snorted, then turned to face Lane.  “Sir?”

“Team One will be deploying to New York this afternoon,” Lane said.  He tapped a remote and a projector lit up.  “Some of you already know this, but it never hurts to go through it again.  We have an unregistered superpowered vigilante operating in New York.”

He clicked the switch and an image of a middle-aged black man appeared on the screen.  “This gentleman used to be a registered hero in New York and a national hero, formally a member of the SDI’s overt team,” he said.  “You won’t recognise him from the publicity shots because he always wore a mask.  After he retired from the SDI, he acted as protector of Hell’s Kitchen; by day, he tried to bring young kids out of the ghetto and by night, he stopped drug smugglers and gangsters from operating on his patch.  But he was murdered under mysterious circumstances two years ago.

“It wasn’t too long before the gangs started to push their way back into Hell’s Kitchen,” he continued.  “The school this guy had convinced the city to establish became a hellhole, while the gym he funded with his own money was burned to the ground.  Some of the smarter kids and their parents got out of the area, some by joining the military, but most of the rest never stood a chance.  The murder rate in Hell’s Kitchen quadrupled over the last two years, mostly junior gang members and prostitutes who tried to bargain with the wrong people.  In other words, Hell’s Kitchen reverted to type.

“The NYPD did nothing about the situation, for political reasons.  Someone
else
, however,
has
been doing something, as you can see.”

He tapped the remote. A set of mutilated bodies appeared on the screen.  They were used to horror, but this was extreme even when superhumans were involved.

“The NYPD were directed to this scene by a tipster and took the bodies back to the lab,” Lane said, ignoring the shocked reactions from some of his men.  “They confirmed that a single man inflicted those injuries with superhuman strength—arms were torn off, instead of being cut with a blade.  The NYPD were still flapping about it when they discovered the second set of bodies, and the third.  It seems that the killer started with minor criminals and worked his way up to the local drug lords.  And those were just the major incidents.

“It isn't anyone we already know,” he continued.  “None of the registered superheroes operate in that area—and even if they did, they’d know better than to kill humans who couldn't stop them.  No, what we’re dealing with is an unregistered superhuman who thinks that he can clean up Hell’s Kitchen by murdering all the scum in the area.”

Ron stuck up a hand.  “Maybe it’s just me,” he said, “but this guy seems to be killing people who thoroughly deserve it.  Shouldn't we be giving him a round of applause?”

Lane fixed him with a sharp glare.  “We don’t know
anything
about this guy’s personal life, or his stability, or anything else we would need to register an active superhero,” he said, flatly.  “We
do
know that he has no problems with killing people—how do we know what will happen the next time he feels like killing someone and there aren't any criminals around?”

His gaze swept the room.  “The whole idea of superhero registration is to provide a framework for allowing superheroes to operate while upholding the rule of law,” he continued.  “This guy isn't bringing the crooks into the police station or anything else that might allow the police to charge them properly; he’s simply killing them.  If nothing else, it will be easy for the relatives to scream wrongful killing, if not outright murder.  Finally, perhaps most importantly, if we close our eyes to this, we will simply encourage others to do the same thing.

“This guy isn't going after supervillains, as far as we can tell; all of his victims have been normal humans.  There’s no legal grounds for extreme force, let alone killing the criminals rather than bringing them into the nearest police station.  And New York probably wouldn't hesitate to deputise another superhuman and allow him to work in Hell’s Kitchen.  Buying a gun is damn near impossible, but if you happen to be a dangerous superhuman New York will happily register you.  No, this guy is deliberately operating while refusing to register—and that makes him a criminal.  We have to take this guy down.”

Jackson nodded.  He’d skimmed through the superhuman laws in New York while waiting for Harrison to finish his second meeting and he'd been shocked at how lax they were.  Registry was supposed to be a federal responsibility, but New York handled it directly and rarely carried out any background checks.  Their status as the city of superheroes demanded that they attract as many superheroes to the city as possible and to hell with public safety.

“There's a second issue,” Lane added, grimly.  “For the moment, the media hasn't gotten wind of this guy’s existence, but someone will probably leak from the NYPD sooner or later.  Once that happens, the Mayor might have to ask one of his tame superheroes to deal with the problem, which might mean a superhuman battle in Hell’s Kitchen.  We need to put this guy in the bag before a large chunk of New York gets destroyed.”

He passed the remote to the Sergeant and smiled, humourlessly.  “Flight is at 1600, directly to our operating base outside New York,” he concluded.  “Until then, our tame eggheads have some gadgets for us.  Study them carefully; they might save your life.”

***

Jackson had seen Polly Hayworth from a distance, but he’d never had a chance to speak to the former CIA officer until now.  She was blonde and alarmingly bubbly—and a genius with technology.  From what he’d been told, she was one of the few technical experts who refused to allow the mysteries of superhuman biology to defeat her and worked constantly to devise new devices that allowed humans to stand up to superhumans.  Some of her work had produced the M-22, although no one would tell him what had happened to the first twenty-one designs.  He suspected that they had either not worked at all or hadn't worked outside the lab.

“From all the evidence, your target is probably a Level 3; he has strength, probably increased toughness if not outright invulnerability and maybe enhanced senses,” Polly said.  Team One was standing in front of a long worktable, with her on the other side smiling at them.  “We’ve always had some problems identifying the subtler forms of superpower, but this guy has good reason to be confident.  Pretty much everyone he’s killed has had a rap sheet as long as my arm.”

She smiled at them, brightly.  “So I think there’s a good case for him having super-hearing and probably super-sight,” she continued.  “Problem with that is he will probably be vaguely aware of anything even slightly wrong in Hell’s Kitchen, including a bunch of musky soldiers from out of state.  You pop up in the area, and he will either avoid you or assume that you’re assassins sent after him.  Either one isn't good.  There’s no sign that he can fly, or project energy, but he’s still deadly.”

Jackson nodded as she picked an armband off the table and held it up in front of them.  “The Whisper,” she said, as proudly as if she was showing off her newborn child.  “There’s a great deal of technobabble behind it, which you can read in the files if you like, but the idea is that they counteract your heartbeat and basically render you completely silent.  No superhero will be able to hear you coming as long as you’re careful—and quiet.  Use subvocal communicators only and hope that your target isn't sensitive to electromagnetic pulses.”

Ron frowned as he studied the device.  “What happens if we speak normally?”

“Your target will probably hear you,” Polly said.  She put the device down and leaned forward, still smiling.  “It doesn't compensate so well for anything trending towards normal hearing, so keep your utterances subvocal.  And if you decide to go out in the open, you may need to leave the devices switched off.  Someone might notice a man without a heartbeat.”

Jackson scowled.  “How do they process all that information?”

“Good question,” Polly said.  “Let me know if you ever find out the answer.”

She took one of the devices and passed it to him.  “More practically, it depends on the superhuman in question,” she added.  “Some have had real problems dealing with a torrent of noise as their ears suddenly became superhumanly sensitive.  Others...others seem to treat it as a subconscious processing problem, a little like 'woman’s intuition'.” 

She rolled her eyes as the men chuckled.  “I’m serious.  They put the information together without realising what they’re doing, let alone how they’re doing it.  All they get is the right answer, something they can’t justify to sceptical men.”