Team Omega (25 page)

The cold dispassionate part of his mind didn't care how they felt.  Anyone who needed to beat on his wife to feel like a man was a monster, plain and simple.  Hope was right; there
was
no justification for such criminal acts, and the only way to get the message across to people so set in their ways was to make it clear that there would be disastrous consequences. 

But at the same time, the sullenness infecting Kinshasa would make it harder for Hope to galvanise the population into reclaiming their country and their pride in themselves.  Perhaps it would come to an end in a year, once it was clear that the country was feeding itself and that the warlords would never be allowed to return, but it was equally possible that the Congo would fragment.  Who would take over once the foreigners returned home?

He kept walking, absorbing as much as he could from the surroundings.  Some were planning a revolution, although Matt doubted that they would do more than hurt a few people before Hope and the Saviours took them apart.  Unlike him, they couldn't hide their thoughts from a telepath.  But it would add to Hope’s frustration as he failed to produce the quick change he wanted—needed—to prove that he was right.  Matt wasn't so convinced.   The world was a more complex place than most superhumans realised, if only because most humans didn't have superhuman powers.  Fixing what was wrong with the world would take decades—and the Saviours didn't have the time to make it work.

His walk eventually took him to the prison camp, established at the edge of the city.  Some watchdogs had questioned the living conditions of the men who were held in the camp, something they’d rarely done for the prisoners of the warlords in the Congo, but Matt couldn't see anything particularly wrong with their treatment.  They might have been prisoners, fed on limited rations, but they weren't being tortured to death.  Some had even volunteered to help work on recovery projects aimed at rebuilding the country.  But then, the worst of the prisoners had long since been removed and executed.  Matt knew that the rest of the world was still reeling over the invasion, let alone the executions.  What government could consider itself secure if a handful of rogue superhumans could overthrow a foreign government and make it stick?

The reporters had been housed in one of the safer skyscrapers rather than being allowed to bring their trailers and living supplies through the portals.  This had probably accounted for a number of the angrier stories in the media; Matt had yet to meet a reporter who didn't consider himself a very important person.  Still, it was something he approved of; it would do them good to have a taste of what life in Kinshasa had been like for the average person, before Hope had brought a taste of a better life to the local population.  But how many of them would accept it?

His laptop had been left where he’d placed it, untouched by anyone.  There were no bugs in the room, nothing to keep an eye on the reporters—but then, Hope was a true idealist.  He wouldn't spy on the reporters, merely trust them to report the news without fear or favour.  Others in his team would know better, yet what could they do?  Hope was the driving heart of their team.

Flipping open the laptop, he started to write his report—and the story for the blog.  Most of the story would praise Hope, but he doubted that anyone would be pleased to read the report.  Hope was sitting on top of an unexploded bomb...and when it exploded, his frustration would rise to dangerously high levels.  Matt had seen the chaos caused by one Level 5 superhuman in the past and didn't want to see it again.  It might be time to deal with Hope before it was too late. 

In the distance, he heard an explosion, followed by gunshots.  It was easy to tell that someone had been experimenting with bombs—and IEDs.  What else would they do, given time?

And how would Hope react?

Chapter Twenty-Five

“You ready to go?” Ron called, as he rapped on the panelling beside Jackson’s bunk.  “Chris is already in the car.”

“Just coming,” Jackson said.  He’d donned civilian clothes after the AAR and concealed his pistol under his shirt.  “I thought we were going to the Operator.  Why the big hurry?”

“I managed to get us something better than the Operator,” Ron said, with a cheerful leer.  “Just you wait and see.”

Jackson rolled his eyes.  Ron seemed to have appointed himself as Jackson’s mentor, a relationship that wasn't too uncommon in the world of special operations.  The new guy entered a unit that had traditions and habits that had existed ever since it was formed, something that new guys had to learn to accept and understand as quickly as possible.  But there were times when it was irritating as hell. 

Picking up his bag, he strolled out of the barracks and down to the car Chris had drawn from the motor pool.  Just like the others, it had been worked over by federal technicians before being released to Team Omega; it was armoured, effectively bullet-proof and capable of outracing a Lamborghini.  It might not be able to outrun a superhuman with speed powers, but it would give him a run for his money.

“Come on,” Chris called, as soon as he saw him.  “Time’s running out.”

“Might have to use the siren,” Ron suggested, as Jackson climbed into the rear seat.  The upgrades hadn't included the seats, which were more uncomfortable than the civilian design, although they’d probably cost more.  “Do you think the CO would be pissed if the Washington PD asked a number of harsh questions?”

Jackson shrugged as Chris drove the car out of the gate and headed towards Washington, DC.  The streets were already full of traffic, with a number of cars heading in the same direction as themselves.  Ron and Chris seemed to take it as a given.  There were only a limited number of ways to drive into Washington, after all.  It wasn't as if they could just fly over the city and land wherever they were going.

“All right,” he said, as Ron placed the emergency light on the roof and activated the siren, “where the hell are we going?”

Chris looked over at Ron.  “You didn't tell him?”

Ron activated the siren and it began to howl.  Mercifully, the car was soundproof.  “I meant to tell him,” Ron countered, as Chris took them onto the emergency lane and gunned the engine.  “But, you know...I wanted to keep it as a surprise.”

“Fuck that,” Chris said.  “You do realise that the Sergeant will kill all three of us if the cops make a complaint?”

“You know as well as I do that we have federal plates on this thing,” Ron said, mischievously.  “What the fuck are they going to do?  Say
boo
to the FBI?  Or the ATF?  Or the DEA?  They won’t know about us.”

Chris snorted.  “I think you watched too many of the wrong films when you were a kid.” He sneered.  “Tell him where we’re going while I try to get us there in time for the first act.”

Ron twisted around until he was looking at Jackson.  “Do you have any clues where we’re going?”

Jackson shook his head in some irritation.  “A baseball game?”

“Better even than that,” Ron said.  He paused, meditatively.  “Do you remember the superhuman we caught playing football?  Bastard was completely invulnerable; he just kept going no matter how many others tried to drag him to a stop.  He would probably have gotten away with it if it wasn't for us meddling kids.”

Jackson gave him a sharp look.  After stunning the young girl in New York, he didn't want jokes about meddling kids.  It was bad enough knowing that the girl would probably have killed him if he hadn't improvised a counter to her powers—and her brother would have killed him if he hadn't been covered in sticky glue.  No wonder Team Omega existed with so few questions from their political superiors.  They had to deal with kids who could take a person’s head off with a single blow. 

“Get to the point,” Chris ordered.  “We don’t have all day.”

Ron grinned, and then pasted a fake leer on his face.  “Have you ever heard of Dreamy Girl?”

The name did ring a bell in Jackson’s mind.  One of his fellow recruits had gone on and on about her, along with a number of other pornographic stars.  The Drill Instructors mercilessly confiscated porn from recruits, but once they could call themselves Marines they’d been allowed to keep some in their barracks.

“I think I may have heard the name,” he said, slowly.  “What about her?”

“She’s a rather odd superhuman,” Ron said.  “Level 1, probably; her only real power doesn't even seem to be under conscious control.  Anyone who looks at her sees her as the girl of their dreams—doesn't matter who they are, or what they like; they see her as the girl of their dreams.  As you can imagine, some bastard music agent snapped her up like a shot and put her on the stage.  Her singing is roughly comparable to cats howling in the middle of the night, but no one actually goes to hear her
sing
.”

“I heard that sales of her albums are pretty low,” Chris agreed.  “Someone with a little talent for singing could get plenty of sales, but all she really has to sell is her body—and you can't put that on a CD.  You know she isn't even allowed to appear on television, let alone the radio?  Cameras and video recorders are banned from her concerts.  They don’t want her real face splashed all over the internet.”

“Actually, there is no shortage of pictures of her,” Ron said.  “They just happen to be different.”

Jackson frowned, puzzled.  “How does her talent actually work?”

“God knows,” Ron said.  “If she was a powerful telepath, she could probably broadcast an idealised image of herself into every mind, but she doesn't seem to be telepathic at all.”

“And even the really powerful telepaths would have problems beaming separate images into thousands of minds at the same time,” Chris injected.  “Most telepaths who like to hide their real faces shun the spotlight.  Dreamy Girl...she
loves
the spotlight.  She’d probably do more if her agents weren’t so concerned about preventing cameras and suchlike.”

Chris turned off the road and headed towards the stadium.  “I suggest that you turn off the siren,” he said.  “We have the expensive tickets, so we can go inside without having to wait like those morons.”

Jackson followed his gaze.  A long line of cars, mostly driven and occupied by men, were waiting to pass through the terminal.  Signs were posted everywhere, reminding the guests that cameras and video recorders were banned and that anyone caught with a camera inside the main building would be fined ten thousand dollars.  Jackson wasn't sure if that was remotely legal, but he made a mental note to keep his camera phone out of sight.  They weren't allowed to switch them off, let alone leave them in lockers.  The call to return to base could come at any moment.

They drove through the executive lane and there was a brief argument with the security officers, before they were waved through towards the parking lot.  Jackson climbed out of the car and removed the emergency light as soon as it came to a halt, pushing it back inside for Ron to hide in the glove compartment.  The other two joined him outside and stretched before heading towards the VIP entrance.  Jackson half-expected them to be confronted by reporters, but there was almost no one there save for an attractive girl who opened the door for them.

“I meant to ask,” he said.  “If even floor-level tickets for this show are fucking expensive, how did you get your hands on them?”

“Dreamy Girl gives a handful to the SDI for every show and they trickle down to us,” Ron said.  “She isn't the only one; plenty of people would like to have experienced personnel around in case of disaster.  They don’t mention it to the media, so our costumed friends get some privacy—if they want to come.  Not bad work if you can get it.”

Jackson had been to stadiums before—his father had been crazy about watching football, no matter who was playing—but he’d never been inside a fancy suite.  It seemed insane to him; there were comfy chairs, an open bar with expensive drinks from all around the world and even a staff of trained experts willing to provide everything from a massage to something a little more exotic.  The other seats in the stadium were cramped and probably smelly, but they were for the true fans.  Just who would have the money to rent an executive box?

“Plenty of rich assholes,” Ron said, when Jackson asked.  “Look over there; that’s one of the richest movie producers in Hollywood.  He doesn't know us, so he keeps glancing towards our box, trying to decide if we’re someone he can network with.”

Jackson had to smile.  “You mean, he thinks we’re rich assholes too?”

“Assholes, definitely,” Chris muttered.  “Do you remember the training scenario we have for this sort of building?”

Jackson shuddered.  They'd run through it a dozen times and the best result they’d had was losing half of the citizens trapped inside, along with half of the team.  Hostage rescue was always a complicated problem—it sucked to be a hostage when the bullets were flying—and trying to storm a massive building could be immensely costly, even when the terrorists were mere humans.  Superhumans could bring down the entire building in seconds. 

“Sit back and enjoy the show,” Ron advised.  “You’re off-duty now, remember?”

The announcer started to talk, mentioning all the people who had contributed money to a fund drive for the Congo, before the roar of the crowd drowned him out.  Jackson had to laugh; no one had come to hear about the latest cause of the month, not when they wanted to see Dreamy Girl.  The announcer eventually gave up and left the stage, while the spotlights started to focus on the exact centre of the wooden structure.  There was a brilliant flash of light, a puff of smoke...and a woman wearing an all-encompassing robe appeared, as if from nowhere.  A teleporter...or simple sleight-of-hand?  There was no way to know.

Dreamy Girl stepped forward as the music started to play, pulling her robe away from her face in a single compulsive moment.  Jackson couldn't help himself; he stared, feeling her catching and holding his attention.  Dreamy Girl was
perfect
, a tall young redhead, wearing just enough to hint at her body without revealing everything.  He had to remind himself that he was looking at an illusion, that Ron and Chris were seeing something different; Dreamy Girl was terrifyingly attractive.  It was easy to see just how her talent could be abused, if she’d wanted to be a criminal—or, perhaps, the single most expensive prostitute in the world.

He closed his eyes as she started to sing.  Instantly, her voice roared into his ears.  The words were silly and her voice was too high to be attractive; if she hadn't had her remarkable gift, she would have been laughed off the stage.  Opening his eyes, it no longer seemed to matter that she couldn't sing to save her life.  She caught his attention and held it, almost hypnotically.  He looked at Ron and Chris and saw the same mixture of admiration and horror on their faces.  None of them were very comfortable with anything that affected them so strongly.  In a world where there were mind controllers and drugs that could influence a person’s behaviour, Dreamy Girl might have been the most dangerous of all.

             
“I got a man waiting for me,

              “Somewhere over the deep blue sea,

              “But I ain’t going to wait for he,

              “Not when there are so many who come to want me...
”

Jackson opened his eyes again and scowled.  The singing was only getting worse—and he wanted to meet whoever had written her songs, just so he could punch him in the nose.  He had never claimed to be a music critic, but half of the verses didn't scan and the other half contradicted themselves.  At one point, she pledged herself to be faithful to her man—and, later on, she told herself that there were many other men she could enjoy while waiting for her man to come home.  It was the worst nightmare of servicemen who were deployed overseas—not that there was much of that, these days—their wives cheating on them while they were gone.  Military service wrecked as many marriages as it made.

“Just plug up your ears and watch her,” Ron advised.  “I could turn the sound off if you want.”

Jackson had to laugh as the beat abruptly changed to a rap song.  He hadn't like rap even before he’d spent two days spying on gangsters in Hell’s Kitchen, most of whom enjoyed what the Sergeant called Angry Young Thug Shit.  It said something about Dreamy Girl's singing that she was actually worse than the gangster rap artists, although what did they have in common with the people in Hell’s Kitchen?