Team Omega (36 page)

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, as he caught the agent’s hands and held them.  For a moment, they were evenly matched, pushing at each other with terrifying force.  “The President is a war criminal, and...”

The agent ignored him, yanking one hand free and slamming his fist into Hope’s nose.  It hurt more than Hope had expected, suggesting that this agent had had some measure of military training, unusual in superhumans outside the SDI.  But then, he
had
been assigned to protect the President, and had probably gone through the SDI’s training course before completing the Secret Service’s own course.  Or maybe it had been the other way around.  A person could spark into superhumanity at any time.

Hope felt his eyes ignite with fire as he focused on the agent’s face.  The fire wouldn't harm him directly, but it would burn up the oxygen in the air, making it harder for him to breathe.  Hope slammed into the agent as he staggered, gasping for breath, hitting him again and again until he was beaten into submission.  He wasn't dead, but he was out of the picture for the moment.  One of the others could pick him up as soon as Hope had caught the President and his companions.  Hurling himself down the corridor, he soon caught up with the President’s car.

***

Chester lifted the pistol as Hope came into view, hoping that the hidden superhuman would have torn a gash in Hope’s invulnerable skin.  But there was nothing, no sign of any wound apart from a slight discolouring around his nose.  Chester hesitated—and then Hope yanked the pistol right out of his hand, crushed it and caught hold of the car.  There was a terrifying screech as it came to a halt.  A moment later, Hope picked up the driver with one hand and effortlessly tossed him out of the vehicle.

“Mr. President,” Hope said.  His voice was rich and warm, but there was an edge in it that Chester didn't like.  Superhumans walked closer to madness than ordinary humans and Hope was clearly frayed, if not mad already.  How would he react when he discovered that his grand plan had gone completely off the rails?  “You are under arrest.”

He looked at Chester.  “And I know you from Sparky’s memories,” he added.  “You’re under arrest, too.”

Before Chester could say anything, Hope picked up the entire car and carried it back down towards the White House.  A pair of superhumans greeted their leader as he emerged from the tunnel; Hope directed them to secure the people he’d left behind as he helped the President out of the car and pushed him towards the shaft.  Chester could still hear a handful of shots in the distance, but it certainly seemed that Hope had taken the White House and all of central Washington.  But taking the nation’s capital wouldn't subdue the United States.  There were Americans who would raise a glass in Hope’s honour if he destroyed Washington, seeing it as the source of all the trouble that blighted the United States, before going back to the war.  And there were plenty of superhumans who wouldn't go along with Hope...

And my wife will be caught in the middle,
he thought, numbly. But all he could do was pray she survived.

The White House hadn't been designed as a prison, but the superhumans had taken over the Ballroom and converted it into a temporary holding pen.  Two mutants searched Chester roughly, removing everything from his cell phone to the pencil and notebook he always carried in his pocket, before forcing him into the ballroom to wait with the other captives.  Most of them were White House staff, although there were a couple of wounded Marines and one of the President’s military aides.  They had been given basic medical treatment, but they needed to go to a hospital.  Somehow, he doubted that the superhumans would provide transport until Washington was firmly under control.

He’d had nightmares about a superhuman coup once he’d been given political control of Team Omega.  One reason he’d fought so hard for the team’s independence—and its wide remit—was fear of what would happen if superhumans ever banded together into a single force...but that hadn’t been necessary, had it?  Hope had taken the White House with only a tiny percentage of the world’s superhuman population...and Chester was helpless to do anything, even contact Team Omega.  Even if he could...it would only risk betraying them to the enemy. 

Shaking his head, he forced himself to be patient.  There would be an opportunity to escape sooner or later - he hoped - and then he could make contact with others who might join the fight.

Chapter Thirty-Six

The briefing on the teleporter had warned that using it was a disconcerting experience.  It
hadn't
said that it would leave anyone who used it throwing up everything they’d eaten as soon as they arrived, or that they would spend what felt like hours suspended between reality and unreality. 

Jackson staggered the moment the field released him and threw up, dry-heaving as soon as he emptied his stomach.  All of the others did much the same thing, leaving the team practically helpless if a superhuman arrived and caught them before they recovered. 

He pulled himself upright, clutched his chest, and looked around.  They had materialised in a basement illuminated only by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, a basement containing nothing but weapons.  There were crates of ammunition, grenades and even antitank rockets, enough to fight a small war.  Behind them, he saw a handful of specialised weapons designed for Team Omega.  There was even a pair of whispers for their operations.

Lane staggered towards a wooden ladder heading up to a hatch and climbed up, one hand holding his pistol as the other pushed the hatch open.  Bright sunlight streamed from the windows, but no one opposed him as he climbed out of the basement.  Jackson followed him, feeling slightly shaky as he struggled up the ladder, and out into a lounge.  It looked like an average house, as far as he could tell; there were no signs that it belonged to anyone other than a stockbroker or insurance salesman.  The list of books along the far wall suggested someone more interested in historical fiction than military life.

“These windows are tinted,” Lane said.  He sounded weak—and badly shocked.  His Sergeant had died winning them time to escape.  The relationship between a Captain and Sergeant had to be good for the team to prosper—and they’d served together for nearly seven years.  Losing him had to hurt badly.  “Come on up; it should be fine.”

Jackson followed him into the kitchen and saw that someone had stocked it with enough food to feed an army.  His stomach growled at him and so he picked up some cereal and milk, followed by a loaf of bread and preserved meat.  He passed it back to Ron and then started to fill the kettle with water for coffee.  The team needed to eat before they all collapsed from hunger, having emptied their stomachs down in the basement.  Besides, it didn't look as if they were in immediate danger.

“Captain,” Ron said slowly, “what is this place?”

“Some dot-com millionaire built it before his company crashed and burned in 2005,” Lane said, absently.  “A front company made him an offer for the house and lands, allowing us to turn it into a classified deployment base that is completely off the books.  The capes can dig through all the military files they like; they won’t find any trace of this place.”

He smiled, rather humourlessly.  “We then hid some equipment underground in the basement, just in case we needed to deploy quickly and we couldn't go back to the base to pick up our equipment.  The only people who ever knew about this particular base were me and the Sergeant.  Even the people in the front company didn't know what we wanted it for—they probably suspected that it was going to be turned into another CIA safe house for debriefing defectors or returning agents.”

Jackson nodded.  “Do the other teams have their own refuges in case of disaster?”

“I assume so,” Lane said.  “It's one of the details we don’t share with each other.  This base being compromised won’t betray the other bases.”

He looked over at Ron.  “There’s a computer in the next room,” he told them.  “Get online and see what you can pull from the military network.  Jackson—turn on the television in the lounge and see if you can find a reliable news channel.  We need intelligence before we do anything.”

Jackson nodded, picked up the boiling kettle, the coffee powder, and the mugs, and walked into the lounge.  There was a massive widescreen television neatly mounted on one wall, a television that had been the best available in 2005.  He clicked it on and started to surf through the channels, only to discover that few of them knew anything beyond wild rumours and innuendo.

“...Reports from Washington, DC speak of a pitched battle between soldiers and superhumans,” one reporter said.  She sounded as if she was on the verge of panic.  “The Washington police have been keeping us away from the core of Washington, but we have interviewed refugees, and they speak of fighting in the streets...”

He changed the channel.  “...The Emergency Broadcast System has issued a warning for all civilians to stay in their homes,” a male reporter said.  He sounded worried, very worried.  “Reports are coming in of fighting at a dozen military bases; our attempts to raise the Pentagon to get official word from the military have gone unanswered...

“...Bring you this footage of the downing of a military helicopter over Washington,” a third reporter announced.  Jackson watched in horror as a blurred streak, about the size of a man, struck a helicopter and blew it into flaming debris.  The streak flashed away from the wreck, heading towards the next helicopter before the video abruptly cut out.  “Abby Winters was on the scene with a video phone, and she was lucky enough to record that footage before being ordered to leave by the police.  We go now to Doug Simpson, our superhuman affairs analyst, for his take on the scene.”

Doug was an older man, with his hair turning white.  “Well, it’s obvious that the presumed missile that took out the helicopter was actually a superhuman,” he said.  “Enhancing the footage hasn't produced anything useful, but in the light of Hope’s threats against the United States, we must assume that the Saviours have attacked Washington and our major military bases.”

“Thank you,” the reporter said.  “The real question is, what do they
want
?”

Jackson changed the channel again.  “...Governors of a dozen states have ordered everyone in the National Guard to report for duty at once,” a female reporter said.  “With communications so badly fragmented, we have been asked to pass on the instruction to report for duty.  This also applies to policemen, firemen and FEMA employees.  If you happen to be a FEMA volunteer, you are asked to report to your nearest station at once...”

“It isn't much better on the internet,” Ron said, as Jackson turned down the volume.  “A great deal of speculation, plenty of reports of superhumans invading Washington—and little hard data.  The military network is badly fragmented.  All I could pull out of the system was the instruction to report for duty—and our base has been hopelessly compromised.”

He looked over at Lane.  “How the hell did they even know we existed?”

Lane shrugged.  “They caught someone who knew about us in New York?  Someone telepathically picked up on the information and just kept it to themselves until they needed it?  Or maybe one of the people we interacted with picked up enough information to betray us when the Saviours arrive.  One of their sympathisers might have been in the SDI covert team...”

“We have to do something,” Chris said.  “Captain, we could suit up and get to Washington...”

“Might be tricky,” Ron observed.  “According to the internet, the National Guard and the State Police are closing all the main roads.  If we went directly to Washington, we might have to use our ID cards—and
that
might tip off the bastards that we’re coming for them.”

“There's a small army of superhumans on the ground,” Lane said, quietly.  “And we have next to nothing in the way of proper intelligence to plan our operations.  Going to Washington now will merely get us all killed.”

“So you’ve turned into a coward,” Chris snapped.  “Goddamn it, sir; we swore oaths!”

Lane looked at him, icily.  “I have no intention of abandoning the fight,” he said, sharply, “or leaving the country in the hands of an unelected group of morons who think that superhumans have the right to rule because they have power.  But I am
not
going to throw away your lives for nothing.  We think, we plan, we act—we don’t run in like some brightly-coloured idiot in a gaudy costume who thinks that superpowers make him invulnerable.”

The television changed to a picture of the White House before he could continue.  “Captain,” Jackson said, quietly, “I think we ought to listen to this.”

He turned up the volume as the damage to the White House became clearer.  The building was surprisingly intact, but the front windows had been shattered by the fighting and there were bodies and debris everywhere.  Jackson felt a pang as he realised that many of the bodies were Marines, presumably from the quick reaction force at the nearby Marine Barracks.  The camera panned over a handful of faces, but he recognised none of them.  Beyond the bodies, there were a number of vehicles that had joined the fight, including a pair of modified tanks.  The superhumans had smashed them as ruthlessly as they’d smashed the Marines and Secret Service agents who had tried to block their path.

“We have been asked to broadcast a statement from the White House,” the female reporter said.  Jackson remembered bull sessions in the barracks when the Marines had speculated that Lara Croft had to be the product of computer manipulation, if only because no one could have breasts that large and walk without toppling over.  Evidently, the Marine recruits had been wrong—unless CNN was splicing her image over that of the actual reporter.  “Right now, we’re looking at a scene from hell.”

There should have been an American flag flying over the White House, but it was gone.  As the reporters advanced, more details came into view: the damage to other buildings, the hundreds of scattered bodies, and the mutants prowling around the White House lawn. 

Jackson shuddered as the reporters finally entered the Press Room; he might not have voted for MacDougal, but he was the
President
, appointed by the will of the American people.  How
dare
Hope and his allies, including a number of Americans, wage war on him and his country?  Whatever the President had done, assuming that Hope’s statement was accurate, it didn't justify invading the country, or killing so many good men.  He felt a low rumble of anger as the camera focused on the podium at the front of the room.  The seal of the President had been removed from the wooden stand.

Hope appeared from one corner of the room, somehow managing to loom larger than life in his golden suit.  A handful of other superhumans appeared behind him, but they remained in the shadows, their faces hidden.  Hope took the podium and smiled at the assembled reporters.  There were people who had voted him the sexiest man in the world, with the sexiest smile of all time, but Jackson couldn't help thinking that it was a condescending expression.  Hope wasn't some minor criminal with superhuman powers or someone who was out for personal power, but someone who really believed that he knew what was best for everyone.  In some ways, Jackson would have preferred a power-mad supervillain.  He would have some restraints on his power.

“I know that many of you are frightened about what has happened in Washington today,” Hope said.  His voice was charming, but Jackson could still hear the patronising tone behind the charm.  He knew that many were frightened indeed! “You have heard rumours on the internet, each one more alarming than the last, and you have heard speculation from reporters and talking heads without any facts.  They drove each other into hysteria, and that hysteria has spread across the country.

“The American Government failed in its duty to the people, and it failed in its duty to the world,” Hope continued.  “Many of you demanded that your government send help to the Congo, where the aid might finally have been effective, but the government refused.  It refused because corporate lobbyists demanded that Congress attach unacceptable conditions to each aid shipment, and because your President didn't have the moral courage to stand up to those who would warp democracy for their own ends.  Many of you wanted the government to tread a sane course between extremes, between the left and the right, but your government failed to deliver what you wanted.  Interests, personal and private, religious and corporate, forced the government to fail to give you what you wanted.  It failed even to give you what you needed!

“We have removed the corrupt American government from power; we have arrested the President and many Congressmen and Senators.  It is our intention to put them on trial, with infallible telepathic evidence to establish their guilt or innocence, and then judge them as their cases merit.  We will clean up the government, remove corrupt officials, and ensure that such a situation can never happen again.  And then we will surrender control to a newly-elected government and return to our work in the less-fortunate parts of the world.