Team Omega (2 page)

He shrugged and stood up, holding out a hand.  “Thank you for coming to see me,” he said, as if McDonald hadn't been ordered to attend.  “Should you decide to join us, your superiors will give you your final set of orders.”

***

One week after that first fateful meeting, Jackson found himself reporting to a small military building located within Andrews Air Force Base.  It looked rather more like one of the makeshift FOBs he'd staged patrols out of in Latin America instead of a proper office space, complete with bunkers sporting auto-cannons behind layers of concrete, earth barriers
and sand bags.  Security was tight, he noted with approval; the guards checked his ID at two separate checkpoints before they allowed him to drive into the parking lot.  The interior of the base was fenced, too, making it difficult for a body to move from section to section without the right ID. 

Someone was being careful. Very careful.

He pushed through the door to the admin building and stepped inside.  The secretary behind the desk smiled as she looked him over.  “ID and retina scan, please.”

The machine chirped as Jackson looked into it, and then she stood.

"Please follow me." She led him down the hall to an open hatch and called to someone inside.  "Sir, that Marine’s here."

"Have him report in," came a clipped voice.

Jackson pounded on the pine board nailed up beside the hatch frame.

"Enter."

Jackson stepped in, rapidly appraising the office's inhabitants. Eight men in black coveralls with the insignia of their service branch were seated on a long bench. He marched to the center of the room, heels coming together swiftly, right hand rising to the corner of his eyebrow in a salute.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen!"

"Good afternoon," the uniformed man replied. "Stand at ease."

Jackson spread his feet, hands dropping into the small of his back. He was on unfamiliar ground here, and it was best to stay stiff until he knew the terrain.

"Lance Corporal, you know why you're here," one of the men said in a colorless voice. "What you don't know is these gentlemen, and what their purpose is."

"Most units conduct initiation via a purpose-driven schoolhouse and training that forces people to fail. We don't need to test physical acumen. Every man in Omega is a graduate of those schools. Rather, we need to know your mental capacity and discipline. Between the eight of us here there's a combined 117 years military service. Delta, Seals, Recon, even Air Force PJs. Gentlemen, you may begin."

"Lance Corporal, it says here..."

Four hours after he entered the office, Jackson was dismissed. He’d passed, though it had not been without some reservation on the part of one or two officers. But he could live with that. He sat down in the anteroom, waiting. Presently a door opened, admitting a
dark-skinned man who had been one of his questioners, wearing a pair of plain black coveralls.

“I’m Lane,” the man said, holding out a hand.  “
Just
Lane.  Any jokes about my daughter marrying Clark Kent will not be appreciated.”

Jackson had to smile.  “Jackson McDonald, Marine Corps.”

“Not any longer,” Lane said.  “You’re Team Omega now, and don’t you forget it.  We’re a little bit more relaxed than most military organisations, but if I catch you giving me less than your all, you’ll regret it.  I’m Field Team Leader for Team One.  Any questions?”

“Yes, sir,” Jackson said, carefully.  “How many teams are there?”

“Four,” Lane said.  He turned and headed towards a door, leading Jackson into a long corridor decorated with photographs of famous superhumans.  “Four teams, plus the researchers who dig up most of the shit we use against the capes, the intelligence group who spy on the capes and the admin workers who do the paperwork.  All four teams are expected to be combat ready at all times; Team One and Two are based here, Team Three and Four over on the west coast somewhere.  Right now, Two is on QRA and One is standing down.”

He snorted.  “In the event of Two being scrambled, One will come to full alert and you—until you are cleared to work with us—will go to your room and stay there until we let you out.  Once you’ve been checked out on the equipment, you will be training with us until we decide that you’re fit to join officially.  We’ll probably still be a little leery of you until you actually see action, but don’t take it personally.”

“I’ve been a Nugget before sir,” Jackson said.  It happened in all military units; the new guy was regarded with some suspicion until he proved himself.  Smart commanders kept it firmly under control.  Less capable commanders sometimes let it get out of hand.  “I know the score.”

“Glad to hear it,” Lane said.  He pushed through a swing door and into a briefing room.  “As Chester probably explained to you, our mission is to identify, monitor and eliminate dangerous superhumans.  Principally, we deal with the psychopaths, the rogues and the dangerous criminals.  Some of the bastards are pretty much celebrities and we have to be careful about how we deal with them.  If you have any belief in the value of a fair fight, I suggest that you get it out of your system right now.”

“Yes, sir,” Jackson said.

“That’s
Lane
to you,” Lane said, firmly.  “We don’t stand on ceremony here—besides, I work for a living.  Luckily, I only have to use PowerPoint when a new guy comes along.”

He picked up a remote control and waved Jackson to a chair.  “Team One consists of nine active members, three support staff.  You’ll be pleased to know that we insist that our field support staff are riflemen first, a concept we shamelessly stole from the Marines.  There’s no such thing as a standard weapons' load for us, so you’ll be trained and checked out on everything.  We’ll also expect you to spend some of your spare time studying for additional MOS certificates, as we want as many disciplines as possible on the field teams.”

Jackson nodded.  It sounded as though he would be busy.  Good.

“You’ll get a proper briefing on the Rules of Engagement later, but suffice it to say that we exist somewhere in the grey area between police SWAT teams and the Delta Force guys who would back them up if they ran into trouble they couldn't handle.   Those who know a little about us think we’re a federal SWAT team linked to the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, so we attempt to abide by the same rules they do.  However, when dealing with a superhuman opponent, it is generally wiser to apply maximum force and worry about the legalities later.  We would prefer to avoid an incident that would cause embarrassing questions to be raised.

“
However
, I expect total professionalism from my people at all times,” he added.  “Use the vague ROE as an excuse to fuck up and you’ll wish the superhuman had killed you by the time I’m through with you.  Understand?”

“Yes, Lane,” Jackson said.  It felt strange referring to a superior officer by his first name.  “Don’t fuck up.”

Lane snorted.  “Team Omega’s overall director is Chester Harrison, the man who first interviewed you.  We have an agreement: I run Team One to suit myself in exchange for making sure that we win all of our encounters with capes, while he covers our political ass and reports directly to the President.  It was I who approved your provisional transfer to Team Omega.  Do you have a problem with that?”

“No,” Jackson said.  It seemed to make sense—and it was more rational than some of the other arrangements for military-civil relationships.  “We report directly to the President?”

“You report to me, I report to Chester, Chester reports to the President,” Lane said.  He looked down at the floor and then back up at Jackson.  “I won’t lie to you, son.  There’s a good chance that you will end up dead or crippled within five years.  And you will be held to a
very
high standard.  We fuck up—hundreds of lives can be lost.  If you want to back out...”

“Fuck that,” Jackson said.  “It sounds like a challenge.”

“You have no idea,” Lane said.  “If you’ll come along...it’s time to start putting you through your paces.”

Chapter Two

Team One’s barracks were strikingly large for such a small group of soldiers, although half of the space had been converted into a storage locker for weapons, first aid and a handful of devices that Jackson didn't recognise.  The centre of the barracks consisted of a handful of chairs, a computer projector and a stack of drink cans—all non-alcoholic, Jackson was pleased to note.  He’d been on overseas bases where the locals had been drunk or drugged up and felt safer out in bandit country.

“This is Sergeant Johannes von Shrakenberg,” Lane said, nodding to the largest man in the room.  “The Sergeant is second-in-command of Team One; he’d be a Chief like me by now if he hadn't refused to quit being an enlisted schmuck.”

Jackson felt his eyes widen as he looked at the Sergeant.  Von Shrakenberg’s physical appearance was freakish, almost inhuman.  Everything below his chest was normal, but his shoulders were massive, with muscles on top of muscles.  It took Jackson a moment to realise that he was looking at a Boerbel, one of the humans who had been modified by Dr. Death before the South African regime had collapsed into civil war.  He couldn't understand how the Sergeant’s legs could support his massive chest, or why his skin seemed to vary from white to black.

“You’re a Boerbel,” he said, shocked.  “I thought you were all gone.”

“Dr. Death never managed to get his experiments quite right,” the Sergeant explained as he shook Jackson’s hand.  His handshake was tightly controlled, suggesting an inhuman strength that was more than just the result of Special Forces exercises.  “I was nine when the bastard put me under the knife and spliced organs from some dead black superhuman into my chest.  As you can see”—he waved a hand at his face—“the experiments didn't work properly.  My skin changed colour and my shoulders just kept growing.”

He grinned, nastily.  “It wasn't until I was rescued by Delta that I came to the United States, and then they weren't sure what to do with me.  So I went into the Army, and eventually ended up riding herd on freaks like me.”

Jackson found himself unable to say anything.  He’d heard about the experiments, but he’d never seen any of the results, not in person. 

Von Shrakenberg ignored his hesitation and bellowed for the remainder of Team One to stop slacking and come meet the fucking new guy.  Several ambled over from the direction of the firing range, carrying all sorts of weapons.  They all looked quietly competent.

Jackson couldn’t help feeling quietly relieved.  Some of the allied SF units he’d dealt with in the past had thought themselves kings of the world. 

“Welcome to the first day of hell,” von Shrakenberg informed him, as Team One studied him.  “We are going to test you right up to your limits—and if you pass, you will be welcomed into Team One.  If you fail, the rats will have your body.  The lads will be helping to test you, so don’t show them any weakness.”

He grinned.  Jackson winced.  SF training was deliberately made as hard as possible to sort out the operators from the wannabes. 

Team One looked at him, while Jackson fought to keep his face expressionless.  SF units rarely welcomed newcomers until they had proven themselves.  Jackson knew that Team One would put him through his paces until they were sure that they could depend upon him.  It wasn't exactly hazing, not like some recruits were hazed in boot camp, but something they needed to do in order to make sure Jackson was right for them.

“Isn't it lucky that we have some downtime?”  von Shrakenberg said to his men.  His expression changed from pleasant to furious with alarming speed.  “Why are you lollygagging around here?  Get in the Shooting House!”

He beckoned Jackson to follow him and marched down to the firing range.  It was larger than the one Jackson had used at Camp Pendleton, with a handful of holographic simulators to generate moving targets for the soldiers.  Military operations in urban terrain—street-fighting, in other words—had become more common even before the first superhumans had appeared to muddy the waters and make the global situation even more complicated than it had been before.  He shuddered as he remembered the superhuman who had struck Camp Pendleton, and realised, once again, just how capable Team Omega had to be.  They monitored and—if necessary—killed superhumans. 

“This is the M-22,” von Shrakenberg said as he pulled a gun off the rack.  He held it up in one hand, locking the bolt to the rear as he did so, running a finger into the feed chamber to ensure that it was empty before he handed it to Jackson.  “This is our primary weapon for use against caped freaks. It’s chambered in .375 Remington Ultra Magnum.”

Jackson looked up the spout before tapping the release and sending the bolt home.  The M-22 was heavier than its predecessor, he noted as he studied the weapon with professional interest.  It was larger than an M-16, with a complex-looking scope mounted on the top rail.  The weapon looked too complicated for the field—military tech was never as reliable as the manufacturers claimed—almost like it had come out of a science-fiction movie. 

The Sergeant tapped a recessed switch on the side and the gun’s magazine dropped out. 

“You will notice that the weapon’s great failing is that it cannot fire standard ammo from an M-16 or another assault rifle,” he informed Jackson.  “Instead, we fire a variety of different projectiles that are produced for our specific needs.” 

He reached behind the counter and produced a briefcase, which, when opened, revealed a number of colour-coded magazines.  “Green shells are basically comparable to normal ammunition, except they carry a heavier punch when they hit a body; try not to use them if you have to snipe someone standing in the middle of a crowd of human shields.  We modified the rounds developed by Delta if we do have to snipe at someone like that, but with superhumans you cannot assume that standard ammunition will do the trick.”

Jackson nodded.  The intruder at Camp Pendleton had shrugged off bullets.  If he hadn't needed to breathe, Jackson would have ended up dead.  

“Yellow shells are...well, we call them rocket shells, but you’ll get a briefing on the science later,” the Sergeant continued.  “Suffice it to say that they move at terrifying speed and over an astonishing distance.  We’ve sometimes had to use them to take down speedsters and believe me, they work. 

“Red shells are penetrator rounds, intended to blast through the toughest of skin.  I’ve seen them punch through the armour on a tank, so don’t take these babies lightly.  Some Level 4 freaks have been taken down with penetrator rounds.”  He grinned.  “I don’t think I need to warn you that using them in a crowded room can be disastrous.  Much of what we do requires careful planning beforehand.”  He looked up at Jackson, as if he was inviting comment.

“Yes, Sergeant,” Jackson said, feeling a little overwhelmed and trying not to show it.  “What happens if the plans go wrong?”

“Then we have to improvise,” von Shrakenberg said.  “You should be good at that, after what you did at Camp Pendleton.”

Jackson cursed himself mentally. 
Of course
von Shrakenberg would know what he'd done at Camp Pendleton; he would have been fully briefed long before Jackson ever made it to Team One’s barracks.  A SF unit’s internal structure was flatter than the regular army’s hierarchy and von Shrakenberg had probably played a role in the discussions that had resulted in Jackson being invited to try out for Team One.

“I see,” he said.  “How often do we have to improvise?”

“As often as necessary,” von Shrakenberg said.  “I’m afraid we get very little actual downtime in this organisation.  None of the lads are married or have social attachments outside the group.  You can probably imagine why we stick to that policy, even if the headshrinkers do claim that married men are more grounded in reality.”

Jackson nodded.  They dealt with superhumans, who could be dangerously unpredictable and immune to conventional weapons.  Each mission could leave one—or all—of the team crippled, or dead.  A single mischance could doom the entire operation.  It was better that Team One’s members left no one behind when they died, even if it did isolate them from the world.

The Sergeant pulled a fourth and fifth magazine out of the case.  “Black rounds are designed to explode within the target’s body,” he told Jackson.  “They are technically illegal across the world, but with superhumans you need to inflict a shitload of trauma very quickly and most SF units have quietly agreed to let that rule fall by the wayside.  Try not to use them too close to the media as the President would have to answer questions if anyone figured out what we were doing.  Luckily, the media’s collective ignorance is so great that they think a person’s head exploding is natural when they get shot.”

He chuckled.  “White rounds...they’re chancy, so the lads prefer not to use them if possible.  They’re designed to inject a powerful sedative into a target’s body, knocking him out very quickly. 
Do not
rely on them.  Superhumans can have quick-healing as well as other powers, particularly the Level 4 and 5 freaks.  We only really use them if we need the target alive and we always have other snipers standing by with black or red rounds, just in case the sedative fails.”

Carefully, he pulled another M-22 off the rack and slotted one of the magazines into the gun, which came to life in his hands.  “You have one of the finest sniper scopes developed by Uncle Sam in your hands,” he said, as he activated the firing range and pointed the rifle towards the targets in the distance.  Most of them, Jackson noted, were human figures wearing capes.  “In theory”—he grinned; practice rarely worked out as well as theory said it should—“you can hit a flying target in absolute darkness.  Switching to auto will have the gun firing the moment
it
sees a target—again, don’t use it without direct orders from the boss.  It’s not totally reliable.”

Jackson winced.  The thought of a gun that picked its own targets and fired without any input from its wielder was chilling.  “Now,” von Shrakenberg said, as he took aim.  “Let’s see how good you are with a rifle.”

***

Jackson was exhausted when the Sergeant brought him to a small room and motioned for him to go inside, on his own.  Apart from the shooting exercises, where the Sergeant had taken a sinister delight in pointing out all of his failings while trying to shoot an unfamiliar weapon, they’d gone for a run and a scramble through an assault course that had clearly been designed by a sadist.  Jackson was no stranger to danger—he’d seen combat, after all—but the assault course had been completely unsafe.  A fall would probably have broken bones as well as disqualifying him for inclusion in Team Omega.

“Go,” the Sergeant said.  He hadn't dropped any hints about this part of the qualification process.  “I’ll wait outside.”

Don’t you have something better to do
?  Jackson thought.  He wasn't stupid enough to ask out loud.  Drill Instructors were a fact of life in boot camp, but he couldn't ever remember a sergeant who also served as second-in-command being an instructor.  But then, von Shrakenberg probably had absolute confidence in his men not to goof off while they were practicing in the Shooting House.  Soldiers didn't make the transition to SF unless they were dedicated and disciplined. That and the average rank in the squad was E-6, which meant most of the stupidity had already been knocked out of them.

He pushed at the door and it swung open, revealing a lighted room.  There was a desk, two chairs and little else, apart from a water dispenser on one side of the room.  Behind the desk, a man sat with his fingertips pressed together, watching Jackson with an expression of cool disapproval.  He didn't
look
military, but looks could be deceiving.

“Be seated,” he said, shortly.  He had a fussy voice that reminded Jackson of the counsellor he’d had to see in High School.  The bastard had been totally unable to realise that the only way to deal with bullies was to turn on them and break their noses.  “My name is Grimes.  You may call me
sir
.”

Jackson swallowed the response that came to mind.  “Yes, sir,” he said, and waited.

Grimes made a show of shuffling a sheaf of papers he produced from his briefcase.  “You are tasked to take out”—he made a face at the words—“a Level X superhuman who resides in the Beverly Hills Apartment Complex, San Francisco.  The man generally lives alone, but is known to have enthralled women and brought them to his apartment from time to time.  For various reasons, notably his connection to other superhumans, you must leave no trail—assume that the FBI will be hunting you and act accordingly.