Team Omega

Christopher Nuttall

Team Omega Cover Blurb
The next war will be a superhuman war.

Superhumans!  They fly through the skies like gods; superhumans, men and women who have gained extraordinary powers.  Some are celebrities, some rule entire countries, some just try to lead normal lives … and some are criminals.  

Jackson McDonald, USMC, fought and killed a superhuman who threatened to tear Camp Pendleton apart.  His reward is to be invited to join Team Omega, an elite black-ops military unit tasked with dealing with rogue superhumans.  

But one superhuman has plans.  He will save the world, even if it doesn’t want to be saved…

And no matter who tries to stop him.

Author’s Introduction
“That’s the whole point of [superhumans], isn't it?  Something complicated; you make it simple, something you can hit, or else you just ignore it.  You stay as far as possible from the real world - which, let’s face it, can be a messy fucking place.”
-Billy Butcher; The Boys: Get Some (Garth Ennis)

There is something of a funny story behind how this book came to be written.

When I was at university, I discovered Stormwatch - a comic that had been newly taken over by Warren Ellis - and fell in love.  Stormwatch was a far darker take on both superhumans and the effect they would have on the world.  Their replacement by The Authority only cemented the concept for me.  As Mark Miller’s opening lines, when he took over the comic, stated, what happens when superheroes go after the real bastards?

Think about it.  Superman and Batman fight supervillains and costumed kooks - this was before Injustice: Gods Amongst Us.   (I actually wrote the first draft of this before Injustice came out.)  They don’t, as a general rule, go after dictators, real-life criminals and suchlike.  The Authority’s take was largely revolutionary at the time, at least to me.  Unfortunately, it didn't last.

And then a new Stormwatch series came out.  This one, entitled Stormwatch: Team Achilles, was an even better concept.  A team of elite soldiers, without any effective superpowers, would tackle superhumans who were genuine threats, rather than leave them to other superhumans.  I loved the series, particularly when they took on and bested the Authority; I won’t say it didn't have its flaws, but I enjoyed it.  The news that the Authority was actually going to be taking over the United States - Coup D’état - struck me as an excellent storyline.  There could not fail, I thought, to be a genuine test of both teams ... 

Naturally, it fell flat.  The almighty reset button was hit and nothing actually changed.

But what would happen, I asked myself, if real superhumans took on real bastards?  What would this do to them?  And who would oppose them?

This book was the result.  Enjoy!

On other news, you can download a semi-prequel of this story - Superhuman: Dead America - for free from the ‘free books’ section on my site.
Chapter One

“At ease, Marine.”

Chester Harrison looked up at the young man in front of him and raised his eyebrows.  “Is that as relaxed as you get, young man?”

“Yes, sir,” Lance Corporal Jackson McDonald said.  

He was young and fit, with his hair shaved close to his scalp.  Chester knew that the USMC had considered him one of their most promising enlisted men, with a promotion to Sergeant delayed only by his habit of picking fights and insubordination when not on active duty.  Looking at him, Chester felt unfit, almost overweight.  The life of a desk jockey, even a desk in the Pentagon, wasn't the same as a person on active duty.

“I need to know what happened at Camp Pendleton,” Chester said.  He’d read the reports, including the one McDonald had written himself, but he needed to hear it from the man’s own lips.  “What happened on that day?”

“It’s in my report, sir,” McDonald said, stiffly.  He hadn't enjoyed writing the report, any more than his superiors had enjoyed reading it.  Nineteen Marines dead and five more on the critical list...and no one even knew why.  “You can read it all there.”

“I need to hear it from you,” Chester said, softly.  “What happened that day?”

“What happened?”  For the first time, McDonald showed a trace of emotion.  Horror...and remembered fear.  “What happened was a goddamned nightmare.”

***
Sergeant Bass considered himself to be the very model of a Marine Corps Sergeant—and that included disciplining the young men in his platoon.  Jackson was rowdy, all day every day, and Bass took it as a personal challenge.  After an argument in the barracks that went straight to a fight, Bass had sent Jackson out on a punishment detail- they needed sandbags. Two thousand of them, to be precise. Jackson could secure them on his own, but if there weren't two thousand sandbags filled to standard, stacked nice and neat, he'd be back at it tomorrow. And the day after. Probably the day after that, too.

All day long, Jackson had cursed his luck, hating how he'd been seconded over to the Recruit Training Battalion at Pendleton.  What he would give to be back in the field.  In six years, he'd done four deployments there, and thoroughly enjoyed it every time.  Why couldn't he just be sent out to a Marine unit on actual operations?  Being in the field was what he lived for, not coaching recruits on how to shoot the M-16A2.

He heard the explosion just as he came over the hill towards the parade deck, headed back to the barracks.  It looked as if someone had smuggled a bomb into the Camp, perhaps one of the Mexican terrorist groups that kept threatening the integrity of the US border.  He ran towards the sound of the blast, forgetting his anger at the Sergeant in the fear that one of his brothers might be injured.  Alarms were going off everywhere as he ran into one of the PT compounds used for recruits—and saw a man tearing through Marines as if they were made of paper.  

Two Marines, armed with M-16s, were trying to gun the intruder down, but the bullets were merely bouncing off his skin.  Jackson realised, with a thrill of horror, that he was looking at his first superhuman.  He'd heard about them, of course, yet he’d never seen one before.  But any fascination was washed away by the grim awareness that the intruder had already killed a dozen Marines and seemed intent on murdering dozens more.  

The superhuman roared as bullets hit his eye—it was clear that he could feel pain, even if the bullets couldn't penetrate his skin—and lunged at the two guards.  He caught one of them, picked him up and threw him through the air towards a helicopter that was flying over the camp.  The hapless Marine missed the helicopter and fell somewhere towards LA.  His buddy backed off hastily, only to be caught and physically ripped apart.  Jackson saw blood splashing on the ground and realised, in horror, that he would be the next victim...

***
“I put it all together without realising it,” he admitted.  Chester listened carefully as he outlined the story.  “Maybe he was strong enough to pick up a tank and maybe he was tough enough to survive a bullet striking his body, but he still needed to breathe.”

***
Yelling wouldn't get the bastard's attention, but a mattock to the dome piece?  That would work just fine.  Jackson threw it overhand, watching it sail through the air end over end till it slammed point first directly into the back of the asshole’s head.  Slowly, he turned until he saw a Marine in dirt-and-sweat stained utilities, shovel by his side.

Seeing that he had the super's attention, Jackson raised the middle finger on either hand. Then he ran, trusting that the superhuman wouldn't hesitate to give chase.  The man didn't seem to have any form of super-speed, thankfully; he just lunged after Jackson with a loping stride that suggested that he knew that he was invincible.  No one would be able to stop him even if they caught him.

Gritting his teeth, Jackson looked back and saw that he'd put some distance between himself and his pursuer.  Thank you, Staff Sergeant Fischer, for making us run up and down all these damned hills with those damned mortars. We might not be the smartest Marines, but we'll damned well outmaneuver anybody. 

Up ahead, the low, squat building was awaiting Jackson.  He ran through the open door, then slammed it closed behind him, as if he were trying to hide inside.  

A few minutes later, the superhuman burst into the chamber, lungs sucking down air in great noisy drafts.  Three miles across broken road was never easy on the untrained.   The superhuman looked around, puzzled: where had his quarry disappeared to?  

The door behind him slammed shut.  He whirled around, finding a quartet of grenades lying on the ground.  The superhuman smiled, waiting for the inevitable blast.

Jackson stood outside the door, holding a gas mask in one hand while he kept a sharp eye on his watch.  Part of his training during the thirteen weeks of boot camp had involved the vaunted Gas Chamber.  The recruits would enter, suited up in MOPP gear, do several minutes of calisthenics and then break the seal while Drill Instructors demanded their name, platoon and all manner of Marine Corps knowledge. All in all, a miserable, god-awful experience.

He smiled, darkly.  He hoped the superhuman was enjoying it as much as the recruits.

Thirty-seven seconds, he thought.  Plenty of time to suck down a shitload of pain.

Picking up a fire extinguisher, he stepped into the chamber.  It felt like combat all over again, a chemical cocktail of dopamine and adrenaline pumping through his body. The superhuman had fallen to the ground, twitching and coughing as if he were still trying to throw up everything in his stomach.  His hands were tearing at his face, trying to claw the irritants away.  It was pointless.

Quite calmly, Jackson pushed the extinguisher into the man’s mouth and pulled the trigger.

Two minutes later, it was all over.

***
“Your report stated that you made the decision to kill him without consulting anyone,” Chester said, when McDonald reached the end of his story.  “Do you think that that was a wise decision?”

“I think that there was no way he could be secured and taken away before he recovered from the gas,” McDonald said, flatly.  “And he had killed a number of Marines.  The only thing I could do was kill him before he recovered and ripped my head off, sir.”

Chester could almost read the Marine’s mind.  He had been the person on the spot, the sole person to figure out a way to end the crisis before it claimed more innocent lives...and yet he was being second-guessed by some Washington deskbound bureaucrat who wouldn't know an M-16 from a broomstick.  

But there would be repercussions from this incident, even though no one had—as yet—figured out who the superhuman had been, or why he had had a grudge against the United States Marine Corps.  The CIA, FBI, SDI and Interpol had all drawn a blank.  It was quite possible that the superhuman had been nothing more than an unregistered superhuman, but it was equally possible that the attack on Camp Pendleton could be the first shot in the long-feared superhuman war.  Superhumans had upset the balance of power between the world’s nations ever since they had first appeared.

“You’re not in trouble, Marine,” he said, as reassuringly as he could.  But he wasn’t really there to be reassuring.  “You kept your head when others panicked and you took down a superhuman opponent.  Not everyone can make the same claim.”

He smiled at McDonald’s reaction.  Superhumans weren't invincible, but they did tend to intimidate the hell out of people.  The police preferred to back off and call for the military if there was even a hint that a superhuman was involved, while calls for mass registrations of superhumans had failed because there were fears that superhumans would turn on the government.  Some could live normal lives, passing for mundane humans.  Others were physical freaks, marked as superhuman whatever they did.  Far too many of them had been driven into the underworld by suspicion and bigotry.  Chester regretted that, as much as he regretted anything, but it didn't keep him from having to deal with the consequences.

“Your platoon has been scattered by the attack,” he continued.  “I would like to offer you a transfer to my unit...”

McDonald gaped at him.  “Your unit, sir?”

“My unit,” Chester confirmed.  He looked like a Washington paper-pusher; hell, he was a Washington paper-pusher.  But he served as the director of a unit that was probably more important than any other in the era of the superhuman.  “Your superiors have consented to your immediate transfer, assuming you want to take up the position.”

“I see,” McDonald said.  He was too young to hide his scepticism.  “And what exactly does this unit do?”

Chester smiled.  “We kill superhumans,” he said.  “Interested?”

"You've got my attention, sir," McDonald replied.

Chester explained, as best as he could.  “Superhumans show an alarming series of personality traits—almost disorders—after they become superhuman.  These tend to fall into several different categories.  Some believe that they are heroes and have a right to save people, some become instant assholes and decide that they have the right to take what they want, some just want to hide from their powers...and some want revenge on people who tormented them before they became superhuman.  It is comparatively rare to find a superhuman who can be considered suitable for the military—and most of those who are tend to be among the lesser powers.  

“This gives us a major problem.  We have had superhumans turn divorce courts into murder chambers, superhuman heroes who injure or kill criminals they catch while on patrol and plenty of villains whose only concern is getting all the money and women they want in the world.  And then there are the superhumans serving in foreign countries as part of their defence forces.  I assume you’ve heard some of the rumours about Iraq.”

McDonald nodded.  The Protector of Iraq, himself a superhuman, had created a superhuman force to defend the country’s borders.  They were allowed to indulge themselves in almost any way they wanted, provided they served the Protector’s country.  Some of the rumours flooding out of Iraq were downright terrifying.

And Iraq wasn't even the worst problem in the world.

“Fighting a superhuman opponent doesn't have to be a death sentence—but you know that already,” Chester concluded.  “Team Omega’s task is to monitor the world’s superhumans and, should it be necessary, take them down one by one.  Should you agree to join, you’ll serve as part of a small force of elite soldiers and intelligence operatives, working from the shadows to keep the world safe for humanity.  You won’t get credit for your work, but you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you’re doing something that no one else can do.”

He smiled at McDonald’s stunned expression.  “Your superiors have already approved a week’s leave for you,” he added.  “You have that long to decide what you want to do.”

“I have questions,” McDonald said, slowly.

“I can't answer them, not until you’re all the way in,” Chester said.  “Team Omega does not—officially—exist.  The government fears what will happen when the superhuman community becomes aware of its existence.  It is possible they will react against the government as a whole.”

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.  

“It is imperative,” Grimes added, “that he be taken out before he realises what is happening to him.  How would you carry out the operation?”

Jackson needed time to think, but he had a feeling that time was critical.  Level X superhumans weren't super-strong, nor could they fly; they possessed abilities that meddled with reality itself.  As such, they were incredibly dangerous, even to their fellow superhumans.  He'd never heard of a Level X superhuman choosing to live away from the rest of the superhuman community, but there were superhumans who preferred not to enter the world of caped superheroes and masked villains.  Or fight for their country as part of the Superhuman Defence Initiative.

“Level X,” he repeated.  “Just what powers does he possess?”

Grimes looked at him, dispassionately.  “I have given you everything you need,” he said, impassively.  Jackson could sense the disdain behind his words.  “How do you intend to take out the superhuman?”

“Assuming that he leaves his apartment, snipe him down from a distance using explosive rounds,” Jackson said, finally.  Level X superhumans were rarely invulnerable, thankfully.  There was a story about a town that had been warped into a nightmare by a Level X superhuman some years ago.  The townsfolk had never really recovered from the event, even after their town had been liberated.  “If not...quietly evacuate the entire apartment and then destroy it.”

Grimes slapped the table, his expression shifting from disdain to anger in a split-second.  “You stupid son-of-a-bitch,” he bellowed.  “The man you just killed was the lover of your commanding officer’s wife!  Don’t you think before you jump into action?”

Jackson fought down the urge to land a punch between the bastard’s eyes.  The hell of it was that Grimes was right, at least to some extent.  He should have asked more questions; he’d just assumed that it was a test to see how he would carry out the assassination.  Assassinating a Level X superhuman was a more plausible operation than assassinating any other superhuman, with the added bonus that no one would be able to prove any differently once the superhuman was dead.  Level X superhumans had no enhanced muscles or other detectable traits.  And yet he resented how the test had been carried out.  Perhaps it was also an exercise in self-control.

“I take your point,” he said, finally.  “Look before I leap.”

“And before you carry out an unauthorised operation within the United States,” Grimes added, unpleasantly.  “Don’t you know that the military can only be deployed here for a series of specific contingencies?”

Which did, Jackson knew, include dealing with a rogue superhuman.  But Grimes probably wouldn't be impressed by that point.  The test, if it was a test, was rigged to see how he would react to each question.  Grimes, he suspected, wasn't the real judge.  That would be the operatives of Team Omega.

“So,” Grimes said, “after a moment.  You have a sister?”

“Yes, sir,” Jackson said.

There was a long pause as Grimes waited for him to say something else, before looking down at the papers on the desk.  “Quite a pretty girl, your sister,” Grimes observed.  “Just about to enter college on a scholarship from Harvard.  Not too bad for a girl from a lower middle-class family.”

He looked at Jackson.  “What would you do for your sister?”

Jackson looked back at him, evenly.  Gayle had been a pain in the ass when she'd been young, but they’d come to a truce as they both grew older and matured.  He’d once had to convince a prospective boyfriend to look elsewhere, only to discover that Gayle was quite prepared to do the same to his girlfriends.  She wasn't the sort of person to take such an insult lying down.

“Whatever I had to,” he said, evenly.  

Grimes shrugged.  “There’s a Level 5 superhuman who has taken over a building on campus and is holding several students as hostages,” he said.  Jackson remembered some of the students who had demonstrated against the Marines at Camp Pendleton and wondered if that would be a small loss.  “Those hostages include your sister, but your CO doesn't know it.  Would you tell him that you have a personal stake in the operation?”

Jackson fought down his anger, once again.  A Level 5 superhuman was powerful enough to knock down the entire university.  Taking one out required advanced weapons and a great deal of luck.  The crossfire might kill all of the hostages and destroy Harvard before the superhuman either escaped— as most Level 5 superhumans could fly—or was brought down by Team Omega.  It would only become more complicated if other superhumans showed up to help...

“I would have to,” he admitted.  Rescuing hostages was a tricky business, even at the best of times.  “And I’d be withdrawn from the team until the mission was completed.”

Grimes nodded.  “You may return to the Sergeant,” he said.  There was no clue in his face about just how well Jackson had done on the test.  “Thank you for your time.”

His head spinning, Jackson left the office.

“Welcome back,” von Shrakenberg said.  He grinned, evilly.  “You’re just in time for another run around the track.”  

Chapter Three
“All right, ladies, the shit has just hit the fan,” Lane said.  He looked calm and focused, despite the situation.  The nine men of Team One – counting Jackson—stood ready for action.  They’d donned body armour, checked out their weapons and completed their good luck rituals.  “We're going into action in one hour precisely.”

Jackson kept his face expressionless.  It was a drill.  He knew it was a drill.  But they had to treat it as if it was a real deployment.  There could be no slacking, even on drills.

His gaze swept over the group.  Unlike the others, he hadn't expressed any doubts about Jackson, the Fucking New Guy.  But then, they’d all been running him ragged over the last week, pushing him right to the limit.  Team Omega operators were supposed to remember a colossal amount of trivia on superhumans as well as keeping up with their exercises, both physical and mental.  A FNG had no place among them until he had either proven himself or died heroically.

“As you may have heard,” Lane continued, “Dilbert Corporation has been threatened by the Green Warriors, a radical band of ecoterrorists who believe that Dilbert has been taking the lead in paying bribes to factions in the Congo who can secure the mines and allow the corporation to make vast profits over the last five years.  Today, the Warriors finally put their money where their mouth is and assaulted Dilbert HQ in New York.  The assault was surprisingly well-planned and they managed to capture over five hundred office drones and cubicle monkeys, along with the chairmen of the board.  They released a handful of hostages who needed urgent medical attention, using them to convey their demands to the Mayor.”

One of the operators stuck up a hand.  “What do they actually want?”

“They gave us a list of demands,” Lane said.  “For the release of the hostages, they want new curbs on pollution and an end to corporate interference in Africa, as well as release and a full pardon for any of their members who are currently being someone’s bitch in prison.  And themselves as well, I assume.  They’re not going to get any of that, and they have to know it.  It will make them very dangerous.”

Jackson couldn't disagree.  Unless the terrorists had someone who could teleport on their side, they weren't going to get out without running the gauntlet of police, National Guardsmen and soldiers assembled outside the captured building.  They had to know that they were trapped, unless they intended to use the hostages to buy them time to escape.  

There was a pause as the team studied the maps.  “New York’s SWAT team, assisted by the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, launched an assault two hours ago,” Lane concluded.  “They were comprehensively defeated by a handful of superhumans involved with the Green Warriors, resulting in thirty dead and seventeen wounded.  The terrorists have since informed the Mayor that if he doesn't give in to their demands within five hours, the remaining hostages will be butchered.  You’ll be pleased to know that some of the hostages are quite important, with powerful friends who have urged the Mayor to do whatever it takes to free them...even if it means bending over for the terrorists.  The President has authorised Team Omega to intervene.”

Sergeant von Shrakenberg took over.  “Our mission is to recover the hostages, eliminate the terrorists and recover the building, preferably intact.”  There were some chuckles from the team.  All of the reports Jackson had read suggested that Team Omega’s operations tended to get messy.  “As you can see, the building is isolated from its fellows, leaving us with only a handful of possible assault routes.  Landing on the roof has been dismissed as the terrorists have at least one flyer among their number.”

Jackson listened as the Lane went through what little was known about the terrorists, particularly the superhumans among them.  “Five appear to have enhanced strength and durability, little else,” the Sergeant agreed.  “One appears to be a flyer; probably Level 3 as she didn't join the fighting against the SWAT team.  The other two appear to be mutants with enhanced speed and strength.  I don’t need to remind you that mutants can be very deadly enemies.”

Lane nodded, drawing their attention back to the holographic schematic of the building.  “As far as we can tell, most of the hostages have been placed in the underground vault here,” he said, tapping the schematic.  “Unfortunately, someone has taken out the security cameras so we can’t be sure, but it makes tactical sense.  However, a number of hostages have been taken to the upper floors of the building, where they are being...interrogated by the terrorists.  The main body of the terrorist force appears to be on the first and second floors, allowing them to keep the hostages penned in and respond to a second attack from the NYPD.

“Snipers will deploy here, where they will take out every terrorist within sight as soon as I issue the order to move.  Team Alpha will scale the building here”—he pointed to the rear of the building, which was decorated in a fashion that should leave plenty of handholds for the operators to climb—“while Team Beta launches a covering assault against the main entrance.  Ideally, we should catch the terrorists between two fires; if not, Team Beta will liberate the hostages and pull them out while Team Alpha goes up.  I don’t have to remind you all, I hope, to be damn careful with the hostages.  In a building that big, it would be easy for someone to be slipped into the hostages as a ringer.”

Jackson nodded, sweat trickling down the back of his neck.  Hostage rescue missions were always dangerous, all the more so when terrorists could be hiding among the hostages, ready to murder them if they looked to be losing.  The briefing material on the Green Warriors had reminded him, as if he hadn't already known, that they were fanatical defenders of the planet.  Each murdered human only made it easier for Mother Nature to breathe.  They’d just have to cuff the hostages until they could all be positively identified.  It wasn't going to be pleasant. 

And if I screw up, he thought grimly, I may be sent back home. 

“New Guy, you’re Team Alpha, with me,” the Sergeant said.  Jackson had expected Lane to lead the assault in person, but Team Beta would be going right into the teeth of enemy fire, the most dangerous part of the mission.  Once the terrorists realised that they’d been cut off from the hostages, they’d come boiling downstairs like angry wasps intent on stinging the intruders to death.  “Move out!”

***
Jackson had seen Shooting Houses before, back during his original MOUT training, but the Shooting House belonging to Team Omega was something else.  Combined with holographic projectors buried within the stonework, it presented a near-perfect rendition of a building held by a hostile force.  It was chillingly realistic.

The Sergeant led them towards their jumping-off position, eyes sweeping for any sign of enemy scouts who might alert the main body.  Some superhumans could turn invisible, after all.  The rear of the building loomed up in the distance, with a single superhuman standing guard.  It didn't look as though he could fly.

His earpiece buzzed.  “Ten seconds,” Lane’s voice said.  Jackson braced himself, focusing on the matter at hand.  It was his first real exercise with Team One and he was determined not to fuck up.  “And go!”

The snipers fired as one, the superhuman standing guard tumbling to the ground with a massive hole in his throat.  Even if he was tough enough to survive that, he wouldn't be in a position to interfere after cracking his head on the concrete.  Jackson followed von Shrakenberg to the rear of the building and started to scramble up, while the snipers picked off any terrorists stupid enough to show their faces.  The entire building shook as Beta Team detonated the breaching charge in the lobby, blowing a handful of terrorists into the next world, just before the Sergeant tossed a grenade through a third-floor window and followed it into the building.  Two terrorists had been caught by the blast and wounded too badly to offer resistance; the third was midway through lifting his rifle when a single shot from von Shrakenberg took him in the head and sent him crashing to the floor.  

Jackson took point as the remaining two operatives followed them in, heading to the stairwells where the terrorists should appear if they weren't distracted by Beta Team.  They got to the third floor and came immediately under fire; two masked men appeared, both spraying bullets at the soldiers.  Jackson gunned them down without hesitation.  The other two operatives threw grenades down the stairwell to panic the remaining terrorists as Jackson’s HUD updated; Beta Force was in the house and clearing its way to the basement.

“Alpha Team, go up,” Lane’s voice ordered.  “Beta Team can handle these bastards.”

Sergeant von Shrakenberg took the lead as Alpha Team ran up the stairs, checking each floor as they moved.  Most of the terrorists in watch positions had been taken out by the snipers, but a handful remained alive, including two who tried to surrender.  The operatives searched them roughly, cuffed them and then left them where they lay.  They’d be able to pick them up after the fighting was over and the building was secure.  Besides, Jackson wouldn't shed any tears for them if their comrades killed them before they could be interrogated.  They’d lost all right to be treated as human beings the moment they took civilians as hostages.  

A burst of gunfire greeted them as they reached the tenth floor, forcing Jackson to crawl on his hands and knees after the Sergeant, who barely slowed down.  Maybe his enhanced form had some advantages, Jackson decided, although he couldn't see just how von Shrakenberg would get up if someone managed to knock him over.  The gunfire grew louder, mingled with sobbing from the hostages, both male and female.  They might have been corporate CEOs, with more money in the bank than Jackson could ever dream of earning as a soldier, but they didn’t deserve to be treated like that.

“Standoff,” von Shrakenberg muttered.  The terrorists had a near-perfect position, apart from the fact that they couldn't get out without being shot down.  Alpha Team would be sure to take hits as they threw themselves into the room and their body armour wouldn't be able to handle everything.  “New Guy—take that corridor and see if you can catch them in a covering fire.”

Jackson nodded in acknowledgement and crawled westwards until he could stand up without being seen.  His father had often grumbled about working as a corporate drone, pointing out that the managers loved to spy on their employees while remaining hidden behind semi-transparent glass.  Now, their offices had become prisons, allowing the terrorists to hold them with minimal effort while they concentrated the main body of their force against the rescue teams.  Jackson found a crack in the wall and peered through it, wincing as he saw five terrorists—including two mutants.  The superhumans who could no longer pass for human were more inclined to violence; why not, when civilised society shunned them?  One of the mutants sniffed loudly and turned to look at Jackson, even though there was no way that he could have seen him.  Jackson threw himself to the ground as bullets tore through the cheap plaster walls separating him from the terrorists.  They offered no protection at all.

“Five terrorists, including two mutants,” he subvocalised, as the bullets drew closer.  He crawled away as fast as he could.  “I don’t know how, but they saw me!”

“Nice going, new guy,” someone muttered.

The Sergeant ignored him.  “Go,” he snapped.  Jackson heard the sound of M-22’s firing as the three operatives took advantage of the distraction to charge into the room, taking down the terrorists before they could react.  “Move...”

Jackson felt someone grasp the back of his uniform.  A strong arm picked him up and threw him down the corridor, slamming him into the wall at the far end.  The body armour took most of the blow, but it was still jarring as hell; Jackson managed to turn around, only to see the mutant growl as it charged towards him.  Up close, it was very hard to tell that it had been born human.  It looked rather more like a werewolf might, if caught in transition between human and wolf forms.  

He managed to draw his knife as the werewolf caught him, ready to bite into his helmet with sharp canine teeth.  The helmet should have protected him, but there was no point in taking chances.  Desperately, Jackson knifed the mutant in the heart and was rewarded with a howl so loud it almost deafened him.  Then the mutant staggered backwards, glaring at him with disconcertingly human eyes.  Jackson had just enough space to draw his pistol and shoot the werewolf through the head.  They weren't silver bullets, but they were enough to put the creature to sleep permanently.  

Glancing from side to side, Jackson walked back to where his M-22 had fallen and picked it up, checking that the weapon hadn't been seriously damaged.  Everything looked fine, although he wouldn't know for sure until he tried to use some of the advanced functions.  The M-22 was designed to be robust, but it had taken one hell of a bang when he’d been thrown away as easily as a Marine would throw a grenade.  It was a shocking reminder that superhumans rewrote the laws of combat just by existing.

“I’m clear,” he said, hoping like hell that the communications system hadn't been broken.  His goggles had picked up a nasty scratch that was interfering with the HUD display.  “One mutant down; I say again, one mutant down.”

“Noted,” the Sergeant said, dryly.  “Come and relieve one-seven.”

Jackson lowered his weapon before walking into the offices, knowing that it was alarmingly easy for friendly fire to kill operatives in the confines of close-quarter battle.  The last thing he needed was to be mistaken for a terrorist and gunned down by one of the members of his own team.  Inside, one terrorist had been captured and secured by the operators, who had also secured the small group of CEOs and secretaries.  They all looked too stunned to argue about their treatment, but Jackson doubted that would last.  There were plenty of civilians who would complain, afterwards, about how the military had dealt with them.  

One-seven—Basil Adamson, who’d introduced himself as a hard-entry specialist—was guarding the terrorist prisoner by keeping one foot on his neck and his gun pointed at the terrorist’s head.  It seemed a little excessive, but after fighting the mutant, Jackson knew better than to assume that any of the terrorists were ever truly secure.  They’d have to wait to do a full body-scan before they knew for sure that the prisoners were human—or superhuman.

The building shook as gunfire echoed through the atmosphere.  “We have to keep the former hostages here for the moment,” the Sergeant said, calmly.  “One-nine; keep an eye on the prisoner while the remainder of us go to assist Beta Team.”

Jackson blinked.  “You’re leaving me here on my own?”

“You think you can't handle ten zip-cuffed men and women?” the Sergeant demanded.  “There are no terrorists above the third floor, so all you have to do is mind him until we call and relieve you.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Jackson said, silently grateful that the mask kept the embarrassment from his face.  Assuming, of course, that the Sergeant was right when he said that there were no terrorists anywhere near him.  Team One just wasn't large enough to sweep the building properly, even without splitting into three teams.  “I can handle it.”

The Sergeant nodded and led the other two men out of the room, leaving Jackson alone with the former hostages—and the prisoner.  As far as he could tell, the terrorist was completely stunned, unable to move—or too terrified to move.  Terrorists were really grown-up bullies, he knew; they never picked on people who could actually fight back.  The CEOs looked scared, apart from one who seemed angrier than anything else.  How dare the Green Warriors assault his headquarters and take him prisoner?

Or perhaps he was a terrorist.  Their HUDs had been programmed with the names and faces of everyone who should be in the building, but the facial recognition software was nowhere near as clever as the geeks who’d designed it seemed to think.  Judging from some of the reports Jackson had read, it had been known to identify people as outsiders—and therefore suspected terrorists—even when those people had a perfect right to be in the building.  He had to keep an eye on everyone, not easy when his earpiece was filled with chatter from the rest of the team, fighting to subdue or kill the remaining terrorists.  They clearly didn't trust him enough to let him join the fighting downstairs.

Something fell outside.  Jackson lifted his gun automatically, taking his foot away from the terrorist and advancing towards the shattered ruin that had once been the door.  There was nothing outside, even when he used the sensors on the gun to probe for invisible men.  Something had probably just been dislodged by the explosions shaking the building and had finally fallen to the ground.  He cursed his own paranoia, just before he heard a snap from behind him.  Something had just broken...

He spun around in time to see the terrorist jumping to his feet and coming right at him.  Somehow, he'd broken the zip-tie holding his arms behind his back...shit, he had to be stronger than ten regular men!  Jackson had seen the cuffs when they were first introduced and they got tighter the more someone struggled.  He was still trying to raise his gun when the terrorist became a blur.  He felt more than saw a crushing blow to the side of his head...and then he plunged into darkness.  

Chapter Four

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” a female voice said.  Jackson opened his eyes and saw a dark-skinned woman bending over him, pushing something against his chest.  “You took quite a nasty bump.  How are you feeling?”

Jackson rubbed his aching head.  “Uncomfortable,” he said.  He hadn't been hit like that since...since he’d been taught basic unarmed combat at boot camp.  “Did you get the number of the tank that ran over me?”

“I keep telling Chester that these exercises are too realistic,” the doctor said.  “It’s hard enough to patch you guys back together when you go out to fight.”

Jackson sat up, feeling his head spinning.  “I’m Doctor Jones,” she added.  “If you suffer any form of problem in the next two days, come back and see me at once.  Don’t hide it, because it will spring up at the worst possible moment and cost you your life.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Doctor,” Jackson said.  He’d never had very much patience for being mothered, even though Doctor Jones looked better than the average military doctor.  Besides, she would certainly be checked out on weapons and expected to use them if necessary.  “I’ll let you know.”

“Good,” Doctor Jones said.  “Now I believe that your Sergeant is waiting for you outside...”

Jackson made sure he could walk steadily before opening the door and stepping into the corridor.  Sergeant von Shrakenberg was waiting for him, one eye showing the traces of a bruise that had probably been inflicted during the training simulation.  Apart from that, he looked irritatingly healthy.  Jackson wondered if his enhanced metabolism gave him an enhanced healing factor of his own, but there was no way to know.  Each of Dr. Death’s enhanced humans had been different—and most of them had gone insane very quickly.  They were still causing trouble in the shithole the Congo had become.

“Ah,” the Sergeant said, putting aside the magazine he’d been pretending to read.  “Got tired of lollygagging, have you?”

Jackson resisted the temptation to say something that would probably get his ass kicked out of the military.  “I only just woke up, Sergeant,” he said.  Something clicked in his mind.  “You set me up, didn't you?”

“Of course,” von Shrakenberg said.  He didn't sound apologetic.  “You have to understand, you have to really feel what it’s like to take on a superhuman.  Without that, you get lazy and then you make mistakes.”

They walked out into the bright sunlight and across to the barracks.  “Doctor Jones is one of the few experts in superhuman psychology on this planet,” he added, as they walked.  “Her other speciality is trauma medicine, so if you get seriously wounded she will be the one patching you together.  Don’t get on her bad side.  I’ve seen her bring soldiers with terrible wounds back from the brink of death.”

He scowled, just for a moment.  “The rate of soldiers from this outfit taking a medical discharge is far too high.  Every so often, some jerk in the Pentagon realises that we’re losing ten to twenty percent of our manpower that way and throws a fit, probably thinking that the CO tortures recruits for fun.  He has to be calmed down before he starts doing something stupid, like taking it to the press.”

Jackson nodded.  Medical discharges weren't uncommon, but losing even one person from Team One’s manpower would mean that they were down by ten percent.  Most army units were much larger; perversely, they could lose more men than Team Omega and wind up looking better.  He said nothing as they reached the barracks and marched right into the centre of the room.

“Take a chair,” von Shrakenberg instructed, as he bellowed for the other soldiers.  “It's time to start the most dreaded communist invention of all.  The self-criticism session.”

He waited until the rest of the troop had sat down, and tapped the table to begin.  “So tell me, Lance Corporal McDonald, just what went wrong yesterday?”

Jackson blinked.  He’d slept overnight in the medical ward?  “I took my eyes off the bad guy,” he said, finally.  It had been the first mistake, although in hindsight he couldn't see how he could have acted any differently.  If there had been someone outside, they could have tossed a grenade into the room before he could react and murdered all of the hostages.  “I didn't realise that he was a superhuman...”

“You weren't meant to,” von Shrakenberg admitted.  His tone didn't soften.  “Let that be a lesson to you.  Every time we are involved, superhumans are also involved.  You can never be sure of what the freaks can do, ever.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Jackson said.

“If that had been a real situation, you would have died there and then,” von Shrakenberg continued.  “You would have died; you would have lost the hostages...and there wouldn't have been enough of your head left for us to identify you afterwards.  It wouldn't have been the first closed-casket we’ve had to send home, and it probably wouldn't be the last.”

He tapped the table again.  “The CO has been called to Langley for a briefing, so I will be handling the session,” he said, addressing the room at large.  “What did we do wrong in that session?”

Jackson sat back and listened as the whole exercise was hashed out from beginning to end, with every factor studied carefully.  They’d won, but it could easily have turned into a bloody disaster—and nineteen of the holographic hostages had died in the crossfire.  It was true that no one could guarantee that a hostage rescue mission would succeed bloodlessly, yet a loss rate like that would probably lead to questions being asked in high places.  Some of his friends who had joined the Navy SEALs had noted that politicians seemed to shy away from anything remotely controversial, even if the United States came out ahead.  SEALs had killed pirates near Africa, only to be threatened with criminal charges.  

“Overall, we need to work on our espionage systems,” von Shrakenberg concluded.  “We missed a number of terrorist positions because we were too reliant on what the NYPD pulled from the building’s security net before they took down all of the cameras.  It’s always a risk to use micro-technology near superhumans because their senses can be very acute, but in future we may not have a choice.”

“We were a bit pushed for time,” Specialist Chris French pointed out.  As a sniper, he’d been shooting through windows and taking out all the terrorists who showed themselves before Alpha Team burst onto the tenth floor.  “If we’d had time to wait, we could probably have scoped out the building better before we moved.”

“Says the guy who didn't have to charge through the doors,” Basil said.  “We don’t always have the luxury of time.”

The Sergeant glared at them both and then addressed the room at large.  “Downtime is coming to an end in three days,” he said.  “By then, we need to sharpen up our game and make sure that Jackson here is fully integrated into the team.  Tomorrow, we will return to the shooting house and make damn sure we do better.  Next time, it could be real.”

He stood up.  “You all know what is at stake.  We cannot afford to fuck up in public.  Those of you who bothered to check the background of the simulation would have noted that the media were there, covering the crisis.  One single misstep on camera, and the shit would really hit the fan.

“Johnny, Thomas, I want a word with you two about the proper way to secure hostages,” he concluded.  “Everyone else—assemble at 1700 for briefing; until then, you’re on your own.  Except you, Jackson.  You have an appointment with the legal team.”

Jackson stared at him.  “We have a legal team?”

“Fiends in human form,” Basil assured him.  “Try not to annoy them or they will eat your soul.”

***
Professor Brian Hayworth wasn't military; indeed, Jackson was fairly sure that he hadn't seen a less-likely military officer in his entire career.  He was short, with a long beard and a vaguely pink shirt that would have aroused suspicions of homosexuality if worn by a career military officer.  But he knew his stuff and, after insisting that Jackson take a cup of coffee and a piece of cake from Britain, he started to outline the legal basis behind Team Omega.

“Superhumans fall into two basic physical categories,” he said.  “One category can pass for human, the other—the mutated humans—are largely incapable of existing within normal society as they are the objects of fear and hatred.  They remind us that we might not have been so lucky in our lives and bodies; it doesn't help that any number of religious denominations have decided that mutants are the spawn of the devil.  Most of them turn to crime or terrorism because it is their only way of getting back at a society that hates them.”

He shrugged.  “However, the really dangerous problems can come from those who pass for human,” he continued.  “Some of them have become superheroes; others try to avoid registration or just choose to live their lives as normally as possible.  It really doesn't help that many of the public superheroes have agreements with the big corporations.  They have legal support they can call upon if they get into trouble with the law.”

“Wonderful,” Jackson said, sarcastically.

Hayworth nodded and continued.  “The principle legal tool in our arsenal is SARA—the Superhuman Activity Regulatory Act.  Under SARA, any superhuman who seeks to live a public life must be registered and undergo some degree of training before being effectively deputized into national service.  Those who choose to live normal lives do not have to register, but there are those who refuse to register for one reason or another while still using their powers publicly and they have to be hunted down.  SARA also covers the deliberate creation of superhumans, although it isn't always easy to tell if a superhuman developed naturally or was created by an injection of mutagenic DNA, surgical enhancement or something along those lines.”

Jackson remembered the Sergeant and held up his hand.  “What happens if the superhuman is created against his will?”

“It rarely happens,” the Professor said.  “When it does, the superhuman is generally invited to register—or live a normal life.  If he or she did seek enhancement, they could be charged under SARA and jailed indefinitely.”

He cleared his throat.  “SARA also allows the government to secure superhumans whose power makes them a danger to everyone around them,” he continued.  “Those also fall into two categories: those who have no control over their powers are treated fairly well, even if they are isolated from normal society, while those who are criminally insane are treated as high-risk criminals and stored in the Pit.”

Jackson frowned.  “The Pit?”

“A prison for superhumans,” Hayworth explained.  “It’s designed to hold them permanently.”

“Looking back at registered superheroes, they are supposed to obey the dictum of minimum necessary force—but it isn't always easy to tell what the minimum necessary level of force is.  For example, Horsley v. SDI suggests that the superhuman on the spot is the judge of what level of force is required, but Torrance v. SDI suggests that the courts have an oversight role.  Both of those cases are included in the briefing notes you are required to read, I am afraid.

“There are also other legal issues around police relations with superhumans.  Those who are legally deputized to the police force itself don’t often have problems, but the ones who are more generally assigned don’t tend to wait around for paperwork to be completed—which can cause legal problems down the line...”

“I’ve never understood that,” Jackson admitted.  “If there is a flaw in procedure, that doesn't mean that the guilty man is actually innocent...does it?”

“Unfortunately, our litigious society now insists that the police have to document everything,” the Professor said.  “If there happens to be a gap in the chain of custody, for example, a wily defence lawyer can probably call the validity of all the evidence into question.  Or...if a superhero captures a rapist in the act and breaks both of his legs, his lawyer could argue that the rapist had been abused while in custody and use it to manipulate the DA into dropping the charges.  It is extremely difficult to legally hold a superhuman responsible for such...overreactions, so the blame tends to fall on the police force involved.”

“Because they’re scared of provoking a reaction from the superhuman community,” Jackson said, slowly.  He had known about superhumans and superheroes, of course, but he hadn't realised just how much latitude they were granted by mundane society.  Some people had shied away from him when they realised that he was a Marine; how much worse would the reaction be, he asked himself, if superhumans were involved?  

“And because the bigger names have powerful corporate backers,” the Professor added.  “Whatever the...justice of any case, very few people could bring a suit to bear against a superhuman with access to such deep pockets.  Certain superhumans even have connections with powerful political figures.  It’s much easier to drop the case than risk drawing attention from those quarters.”

“Why?”  Jackson asked.  “Why do we even tolerate this situation?”

The Professor shrugged.  “Different reasons for different people,” he said.  “Some believe in the legend of Superman, Batman and others who upheld the ideals of law when the government, police and military were hopelessly incompetent.  Groupies, basically.  Others think that provoking trouble between humanity and the superhumans will eventually lead to outright war, one we might lose.  And still others want the United States to maintain the lead in superhuman power—Iraq’s taken over most of the Middle East, Latin America has its own force intent on keeping the Gringos out and Bangladesh is turning into a superpower.  The next war will be a superhuman war.”

“Shit,” Jackson said.

“I wouldn't argue with that,” the Professor said, mischievously.  “I also wouldn't argue about the legal problems involved in your operations, which are really quite alarming.  You might wind up taking down a superhero who hides a great deal of trouble under his cape.”

Jackson stared at his fingers.  “Why doesn't everyone know about this?”

“Much of the information I gave you is in the public domain,” the Professor said.  “Draw your own conclusions.”

“They don’t want to know,” Jackson said.

“Of course not,” the Professor said.  “And even if they did...take a look at the President.  His approval ratings are never very high at the best of times.  What would happen to him if he was to open up a full investigation into superhuman activity, perhaps even strengthened SARA?  His ratings would plummet, his enemies would see their chance at an impeachment...and absolutely nothing would be done.  After the oil shock when Saudi Arabia collapsed into chaos, you’d think they’d learn...”

“But they didn't,” Jackson said.

“That’s why Team Omega exists,” the Professor said, quietly.  “Your task is to keep a lid on this situation in the hopes it won’t blow up in humanity’s collective face.  I don’t envy you.”

***
“Superhumans fall into three categories,” Professor Blunt said.  Unlike Professor Hayworth, he was military, a former Ranger who had joined Team Omega and had been crippled in a nasty confrontation with a pair of criminal mutants.  “There are those who are registered and catalogued, or seen in operation—the known knowns, if you like.  Vice President Rumsfeld devised the term five years ago, and it stuck.”

Jackson nodded.  Everyone seemed to have different categories for superhumans.  

“Then there are those who are not registered and catalogued, but are known to be superhuman—the known unknowns,” Blunt continued.  “We know they’re superhuman, yet we don’t know for sure what powers they have—we end up treating them with extreme care because we are moving blind.  It’s better to use extreme force than risk having an outraged superhuman crush you like a bug.

“Finally, there are the unknown unknowns—we don’t know they’re superhumans, and sometimes they don’t know it, either, until their powers spark.  Most of the time, when we get called in to clean up someone else’s mess, it's when a superhuman or two were involved, but those on the spot didn't know it.”  Jackson nodded, remembering what had happened to New York’s SWAT team in the simulation.  “You cannot take anything for granted, ever.”

He grinned, revealing a mouth that was missing several front teeth.  “Beyond that, superhumans are classed as being levels one to five—with ‘X’ for the inexplicable powers.  Level 1 superhumans aren't too difficult to deal with; level 4 and 5...we as a society are just hoping they’re good people.  Dealing with them is extremely difficult and can be very costly.”

Jackson nodded, slowly.  Blunt had been crippled in one such operation—and five of his teammates had lost their lives.  

“Superhumanity is practically becoming its own subculture,” Blunt continued.  “You’ve seen the black subculture...superhumanity is becoming something similar, with its own way of doing things.  Some of the surveillance tapes are remarkable; the so-called superhero teams all tend to fall into the same pattern, no matter what the original intent of the team’s founder was.  The stronger superhumans lead; the weaker ones follow.  I don’t think we can count on a Batman to keep them all in line.”

“It's illegal to dress up as a superhuman unless you actually have powers,” Jackson said, quietly.  There had been a number of incidents where mundane humans wearing costumes had been killed because the superhuman who had confronted them hadn't known to hold back.  “Kids are so disappointed at Halloween...”

Blunt ignored him.  “I’m writing a book on it, which I doubt the boss will ever allow me to publish,” he concluded.  “I think there will be an explosion, sooner or later, and there will be a major confrontation between us and the superhumans.  Team Omega’s real purpose is to prepare the tactics for the coming war.  God help us.”

Chapter Five
He could hear the screams.

Hope floated high over the Congo, staring down at the darkened countryside.  No normal human could have sensed the endless torment of the population as the civil war raged on and on, but Hope’s ears could hear a pin drop from half a world away.  Down below, he heard men groaning in pain, women sobbing and children screaming as they suffered.  There was so much pain and suffering that he could barely pick out individual sounds

The Congo had been bad enough before superhumans had floated north from what remained of South Africa to add to the chaos.  Now, no less than twelve other nations were meddling openly in the remains of the state the Belgians had created, while the population tore and rent at what remained of the fabric of their nation.  Conflicts were fought over tribal differences, religion, even superhumans versus normal humans.  The death toll was terrifyingly high; hundreds of thousands had been forced to flee into refugee camps, breeding grounds for starvation and disease.  

A woman screamed just loud enough to attract his attention.  Eyes that could peer through anything short of a sheet of lead plating watched as she was chased by one of the victorious soldiers from a tiny battle that had taken a village from its previous overlords.  They had probably told the population they’d been liberated, but the locals wouldn't be able to tell the difference.  By the time the soldiers left, there wouldn't be an untouched girl left in the village, while the men and boys would have been conscripted into the army and taken off to fight the war.  Children barely old enough to think would be handed weapons and pushed into the front lines; lacking any adult perspective, they would be ruthless and brutal on a scale unmatched by anyone short of the Nazis or Japanese from the Second World War.  And they hadn’t had superhumans to help them commit an endless stream of atrocities.

He couldn't let it happen.  Not any longer.

Hope moved before he’d quite realised what he intended to do.  A Level 5 superhuman could move at supersonic speed; he was on the would-be rapist before he had any idea that he was under attack.  One hand caught the man by the neck and hauled him into the air, carrying him miles above the countryside before letting go and allowing the rapist to plunge to his death. 

Good.  The man had deserved it.

Hope knew that he shouldn't feel such satisfaction at watching anyone die, but he couldn't help it.  He was tired of poor women being brutalized because of this endless war.  And while he couldn't save everyone, he was glad he'd saved this one.

It had all seemed so simple when he’d sparked and come into his powers.  He’d registered, of course, and accepted the training that the government offered.  It had been easy to fight crime with his powers, even when dealing with supervillains, but he never seemed to make anything better for the world.  No one really understood what it meant to have superpowered senses, to see and hear far more than the normal humans who thronged the planet.  He’d saved a thousand people from death by hearing their desperate struggles from miles away, but how could he not hear those in countries tormented by war, oppression and suffering?  Eventually, he’d walked away from the SDI because it was set up to defend the United States alone.  Hope wanted—needed—to do something on a grander scale.

He flew higher, until he could see all of the Congo from his position.  Dozens of little warlords, some superhuman, struggled for supremacy, while the populations they supposedly served simply struggled to survive.  There was nothing the outside world could do—or, rather, there was nothing the outside world would do.  Hope had no illusions about the power gathered by the SDI, or the European or Russian superhuman teams.  They could have pacified the entire country in a week, but actually fixing the problems tormenting the Congo would take a long-term commitment—and no outside country would make such a commitment.  The African countries surrounding the Congo were all involved in the endless war.  He looked northwards until he saw the unit of Libyan troops that had been dispatched by their leader to ensure that the outcome of the civil war favoured his proxies.  The task had been impossible; the troops had rapidly become as savage as the rest of the armies fighting for dominance.  Hope couldn't look away from the mass graves where they’d buried their victims after they’d had their fun.

The outside aid workers were just as bad.  Some fed all sides indiscriminately and kept the war going long past when it should've ended.  Others abused the population themselves, even helping one side round up the others for extermination.   It hadn’t been that long since one side had launched an attack on a refugee camp, one the victims had thought was safe.  They’d looted, raped and burned at will, even murdering the Western do-gooders who had thought that organising a refugee camp was the right thing to do.  

And no one had done anything about it.

Hope clenched his fists, trying to shut out the noise, but it was impossible.  Men were screaming in pain as they died; women were being raped and murdered; children were howling for their missing parents...it never got any better.  Nor could he block his senses for long.  His ears repaired themselves automatically; he'd once torn them off, only to have them regenerate within a day.  Rage boiled through him as he found himself looking down at Kinshasa, the capital city of the Congo.  Right now, it was a city in the grip of a tyranny worse than anything Berlin or Moscow had ever known, a tyranny enforced by a superhuman who had declared himself Emperor of the Congo.  His writ didn't run for more than a few miles outside the city, but that didn't stop him from keeping the entire population under strict control.  They couldn't hope to rebel.

They called Hope a hero.  The American population loved his blond good looks, his muscles on his muscles and willingness to risk his life to save people and make the world a better place.  If only they’d realised that, for all of his crime-fighting, he’d done nothing to save the population of the Congo and a dozen other failed states.  He hadn't even managed to clean up Hell’s Kitchen or any of the other inner cities across the United States.  Hope had removed a hundred drug lords, henchmen spraying him with bullets that just bounced off his impregnable skin, but what had really changed?  He could remove a drug lord each day, but a new one would be in power within hours.

The irony chilled him.  If the CIA was to be believed, the first known superhuman had appeared in Africa—and yet Africa was still a mess.  Superpowers had only made a bad situation worse.  

No more, he swore to himself.  No more.

He smiled as he felt another presence near him, turning to see the Redeemer as she floated above the tormented land.  No one really knew what the Redeemer looked like; she appeared differently to each person who saw her, a minor use of her extremely powerful mental talents.  Hope saw her as a woman on the verge of middle age, combining youth and wisdom in her smile.  He had no idea what others saw when they looked at her.

“Such a tormented land.”  The Redeemer sighed as she looked at him.  Her talents were, if anything, more prone to being distracted by the suffering below than his own.  Hope had long since come to terms with the fact that she was so telepathically powerful that she could read his mind without ever intending to.  “They sent me to inform you that they are ready.”

Hope nodded.  Enough was enough.  It was time that superhumanity lived up to its potential for making the world a better place.  And if that meant that a number of petty tyrants and their attack dogs in human form had to die, it was a worthwhile price for saving so many lives.  He looked down, once again, at the Congo and shuddered inwardly.  So many people were dying, trapped in an endless hell...something had to be done.  Something would be done.

The Redeemer shrugged.  “They’ll try to stop us, you know.”

“I know,” Hope said.  She’d read his thoughts again.  The world would not enjoy discovering that superhumanity had taken steps they were unwilling to take themselves.  “But we have no choice.”

He touched the communicator built into his belt.  One of the early superhumans had been a genius, so intelligent that he made Einstein look like a moron.   He’d died early, but before he’d fallen he’d invented computers that were lightning-fast, communications devices that couldn't be jammed or censored and thousands of other devices that would have reshaped the world, if they’d ever been released on the open market.  Various governments had tied the patents up in litigation, just to make sure that the existing balance of power wasn't threatened.  Opportunism like that, back when he'd been a good soldier, had convinced Hope that it was time to leave the SDI.

“Gateway,” he said, “bring us home.”

There was a flash of light.  They both vanished.

***
The Saviours had wanted to make it clear that they were beholden to no country when they went public, so choosing a place for their headquarters had required some careful negotiation. They finally built their headquarters in Antarctica, very close to the South Pole.  It wasn't a perfect solution, but it had won them some plaudits for keeping illegal mining away from the final untouched continent.  Besides, explaining why they owned Antarctica would have been tricky for several governments.  

Hope winced as he materialised in Gateway’s room, feeling the urge to be sick once again.  Gateway was barely sixteen years old, but her talent—instant teleportation, as well as the ability to open gates from place to place—was too useful to be discounted.  Besides, if she had stayed in America, she would have been snapped up by the SDI and put to work protecting the country—and advancing the country’s interests.  She was far more useful as one of the Saviours, even if her talent did make people feel sick.

The Redeemer looked over at Gateway in mock annoyance.  “You didn't have to bring us here,” she said, with a thin smile that suggested she knew very well why Gateway had brought them to her rooms.  Her crush on Hope was as obvious as it was embarrassing.  “You could have brought us to the main room.”

Gateway flushed, her face suddenly bright red.  She looked up to The Redeemer, everyone did.  “I just wanted to see you alone,” she said, seemingly unaware of the double-meaning in her words.  “I...there’s a lot of people out there.”

“I know,” Hope said.  It was difficult to convince superhumans to work together, particularly ones who considered themselves to be the equals—or superiors—of every other superhuman.  Eventually, it had been the Redeemer who had convinced most of them to come and hear his speech.  “Thank you for the chance to compose myself before I faced them.”

Gateway smiled, clearly relieved.  “You’re welcome, boss,” she said.  “Knock them dead.”

Hope concealed his smile as he walked out of the girl’s quarters and into the main room.  They’d built it large enough to house a jumbo jet—and all of the space was occupied by superhumans, most of them wearing gaudy costumes that showed their underwear on the outside of their pants.  Hope was old enough to remember the jokes from the first era of superhuman activity, before the glow had worn off.  Behind them, a handful of mutants lurked, watching through inhuman eyes as the ones who had won the genetic lottery showed off in front of their peers.  These mutants were a part of Hope’s plan.

He cleared his throat as he floated into the air, looking down at the crowd.  They’d been very careful regarding whom they’d invited, aiming for the semi-independent teams rather than the government-sponsored teams like the SDI or the British Lions.  Even if they rejected his proposal completely, they wouldn't betray him to the world governments ahead of time.  Besides, few of them would want the Saviours as their enemies.

“I suppose you’re all wondering why I called you here today,” he said.  As he’d intended, the line drew their attention and broke the ice.  A handful of chuckles ran through the air.  “And I suppose that some of you have wondered why you were chosen for such great power.  What makes you so much better than anyone else?”

He smiled at their puzzled faces.  No one really knew where superpowers came from, although experiments by Nazi Germany—or American and Russian scientists during the Cold War—were the favoured theories.  But all attempts to create superhumans tended to create beings with flaws, ones that could be exploited.  A natural superhuman was far more stable than an engineered creation.  

Of course, those in this room weren't the only ones with superpowers.  There were supervillains, who stole, raped and murdered on a far larger scale than any mundane crooks.  And there were the covert operatives for a hundred governments...and the independent actors, ranging from the mercenary to the downright weird.  Hope had been slightly relieved to discover that the Fashion Witch had turned down the invitation to the meeting.  Hope might have been a Level 5 superhuman, but the woman scared the pants off him.  

“I believe that we were put on this Earth to make it better,” he said.  He’d said it before, in a dozen venues—and in front of the cameras, back when the Saviours had first introduced themselves to the world.  “Think about it; we have the power to do so much, power that shortcuts ordinary technology and could save millions of lives.  We were the ones who lifted a space station into orbit and established a network of bases on the moon.  And many of us work on a smaller scale.  How many of you have rescued people who were doomed, if a superhuman hadn't been around to save them?”

He paused, remembering the woman he’d saved.  He hoped she’d made it home alive - and remained safe until his people arrived.  

“It is time to take it to the next logical position,” he said.  “For the past fifteen years, the Congo has been trapped in a nightmare.  We have the power to end that nightmare once and for all, by destroying all of the different factions and permitting the people of the Congo to breathe freely.  How can we save individuals facing certain death and not save entire populations from their tormentors?

“It is the intention of the Saviours to remove by force the evil governments, rebel groups and outside forces in the Congo.  I ask you all to join us.  We are intimidating, but an entire army of superhumans—natural superhumans—would be far more threatening to the outsiders.  If they retreat and stop supplying the various factions, they would be far less dangerous.

“We will enforce the rule of law over the state—and disarm the different factions.  We will provide help that will get the population back on their feet, rather than keeping them helplessly dependent for the rest of their lives.  We will provide training and support to build a police force and an army that can prevent rebels from destroying the country once again—or outsiders interfering to steal the country’s mineral resources.  And it will provide a harbour for those of us who feel unwanted by mundane society.  We will create a whole new shining city on the hill, an example for the human race—and a warning to all tyrants that the old laws no longer operate.  Who will join me?”

He watched their reactions.  Some were idealistic, inclined to help; others were more cautious, or bound to various corporations that might not approve of them launching an altruistic invasion of the Congo.  It was strange to think that he might have fallen like that, if he hadn't been too idealistic for his own good as a young man.  Working for the SDI had been an eye-opener into the ways of the world that would never be shared by any of the corporate whores.

JQ Public was the first to speak out loud.  “You’re talking about a massive commitment,” he said.  For someone who was normally as idealistic as Hope himself, he sounded reluctant to join him in the operation.  “And operating on a far larger scale than anyone else.  What happens if the rebel factions refuse to disarm?”

“We disarm them by force,” Hope said, flatly.

“And what,” JQ Public added, “if the population refuses your gifts?”

Hope had an answer for that one, back when they’d discussed all the ways the meeting could go.  “I do not believe that the Africans are unable to accept democracy, to say nothing of the other gifts we will bring.  They will see what we can offer and accept it freely.  We’re not interested in exploiting them, nor are we interested in taking what little they have—including their bodies.  We are merely there to help them rebuild, to make their lives worth living.  They will not refuse our gifts.”

The discussion raged for hours.  Hope had no illusions about the size of the task ahead of them.  The more power on their side, the better.

Eventually, somewhat to Hope’s relief, forty-two superhumans agreed to join the Saviours, at least for the duration of the intervention in the Congo.  A number of the mutants noted that they would have to consult with their fellows before they could make any decisions, but at least some of them would probably join.  Some might have looked inhuman, yet they could be deadly fighters.  

“We move in a week,” he concluded as the meeting broke up.  Gateway would transport them all back home.  “Thank you all for listening.”

Chapter Six

Jackson fell back as his opponent jabbed at him, and then threw a haymaker at his chin, missing by scant millimetres.  He lifted his fist to retaliate, just as the Sergeant’s voice could be heard down the corridor, bellowing for Team One to get off their asses and join him in the briefing room.  It was a little unfair—Team One spent most of their time exercising– but he was getting used to the Sergeant by now.  And, after a month and a half of constant exercises and alerts that went nowhere, the members of Team One were starting to accept him as one of them.  

“Saved by the bell,” Ron Friedman said, mockingly.  A specialist in close-quarter combat, Ron had qualifications and awards that Jackson had never seen before, even among the Force Recon Marines he’d met.  “If the Sergeant hadn't called for us, you would have had your ass kicked.”

“You wish,” Jackson said, as he grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat away.  Actually, he suspected that Ron was right.  He was far more experienced at hand-to-hand combat—and was a vicious little bastard to boot.  “Maybe this would have been my lucky day.”

Ron snorted.  “Better get moving,” he said, as he picked up a bottle of water and drank it quickly.  “The Sergeant doesn't like it when we’re late.”

Entering the briefing compartment, Jackson was surprised to see Professor Blunt—and a middle-aged man wearing an old suit and fedora standing beside Lane, talking to him too quietly for the soldiers to hear.  A Fed, Jackson guessed, as he took his seat, one that had been brought in just for him.  All SF units had their own little rituals; Team Omega’s included sending the seats that belonged to operatives killed in the line of duty to the nearest bar, which happened to be tended by a former Delta Force commando.  Apparently, it had been the last wish of the first operative to be killed in action—and had then become a tradition.

“Be seated,” Lane said, briskly.  There had been a dozen alerts since Jackson had joined Team One, but none of them had led to any action.  This one felt different.  “This is Harvard Coombs of the DEA.  He’s here to brief you on a prospective mission.”

Jackson took his seat and pulled a notebook out of his pocket, ready to take notes.  It was better to have a reminder of whatever they were told, just in case his memory failed him at a crucial moment.  Besides, it showed the outsider that he was actually paying attention.  The last briefer had been so nervous around them that she’d stuttered through the briefing and then gone off for a quick drink.  At least it beat the ones from Washington who expected everyone to bow and scrape because their distant relative happened to be the President’s personal pool boy or something like that.  

“Good afternoon,” Coombs said.  He launched straight into the briefing without attempting to flatter or put down the soldiers.  “For the past six months, the Drug Enforcement Agency has been attempting to break open a distribution ring bringing various hard drugs from Latin America up into the United States.  This distribution ring appears to operate on a national scale and includes an alarming number of cut-outs, men and women who can be abandoned to face the law without threatening the big bosses who control the network.  Most of them, naturally, don’t have the slightest idea of the true scale of the operation; very few of those caught realised that it stretched outside their hometown.”

He hesitated, clearly unsure of how much they already knew.  “It isn't common to have a network that operates largely independently of the more...restricted networks in towns and cities,” he continued.  “Crime lords tend to resent someone poking into their territory and generally take steps to throw the intruders out, something that is generally ignored because the criminals are threatening or killing other criminals.  This network, however, seems to be tolerated—as near as we can tell, it is tolerated because it isn't actually competing for business.”

Jackson nodded, very slowly.  Drug distribution might have been illegal in much of the United States, but it operated along similar lines to any legal distribution network.  One drug dealer could set the prices as he liked; a dozen would have to lower their prices to compete with their fellows, a situation that benefited the addicts, but not the drug lords.  The criminal masterminds—although mastermind wasn't a term he would use for most criminals—would either attempt to bring all drug dealers under their control, forcing them to sell at the same rates, or eliminate the competition.  Just like a regular nine to five job, with the added danger of being shot, knifed or arrested by the police.

“I don’t understand,” Ron said, thoughtfully.  “If they’re not selling their drugs, how the fuck are they making money?”

Coombs nodded.  “That was the question that bedevilled the analysts back home,” he said.  “Their first thought was that the network simply supplied users in the Midwest, away from the border with Mexico where shipping drugs across can be quite risky, but it didn't seem to be linked with any of the known distribution networks in the area.  There’s no profit to be had from smuggling drugs into Canada through the United States.  It kept nagging away at us until we finally managed to catch a middle-ranking fish in the organisation.  Carlos Hernandez, in exchange for a reduction in his sentence, had quite a story to tell.

“He claimed that the network operated out of Columbia, the drug capital of Latin America, and brought nothing but the finest grades of cocaine, marijuana, heroin, scopolamine and ultimate up into the United States.  I understand that ultimate is of particular concern to you.”

“Yes,” Lane said, shortly.

Coombs hesitated, and then returned to the briefing.  “When pressed about the destination of the drug pipeline, Carlos was reluctant to talk, but finally admitted the truth.  The drug pipeline leads straight to the Young Stars Foundation—and the Young Stars themselves.  We probed the links in the chain Carlos claimed to be linked to and discovered enough circumstantial evidence to support his claim.  Just how far it reaches, unfortunately, is debatable; my Director requested support from the SDI before we moved any further and General Kratman pointed him to Mr. Harrison.”

“Thank you,” Lane said.  “We will discuss the plan for a joint operation later, once my team is fully-briefed and ready for deployment.”

Coombs nodded and headed out the door.  The Sergeant checked that it was sealed before returning to his seat, while Lane nodded to Professor Blunt, who stood up and took the stand.

“Some of you know this already, but it never hurts to go over the material again,” he said, flatly.  Jackson, who knew very little about the Young Stars, started taking notes again.  “There are only five super team organisations in the world that recruit from teenagers and even children, as there are no shortage of concerns about the ability of children to handle combat situations, even with their...remarkable power levels.  Such teams have always been closely supervised, and two of them have even operated as training camps for later SDI operatives.  However, the Young Stars have largely evaded government control and supervision.”

His gaze swept the room.  “According to their website, the Young Stars were founded to provide a home and a purpose for homeless kids with superhuman powers,” he continued.  “In reality, the situation is quite different.  The Young Stars were formed around a handful of teenagers, including the son of one of the richest men in the United States.  As a charitable foundation, they are largely spared the onus of paying taxes and are permitted to make large donations to charitable causes, often without any oversight at all.  They are tolerated largely because they are registered superhumans and because they don’t really engage in actual crime-fighting or other superhuman activities.  On the face of it, they are glorified celebrities, people famous for who they are rather than what they do.”

“Kind of like Paris Hilton,” Ron muttered.  “Do they make porno movies too?”

“Probably,” Jackson muttered back.

“Pay attention,” Professor Blunt snapped.  He’d been an operative and wasn't about to be scared by them.  “The Young Stars have a core membership of six superhumans and about a dozen allies who are not technically members, but do associate with the core group.  Some of them have independent careers of their own that don’t really bring in the cash, so they make appearances with the Young Stars from time to time that serve as a fucking licence to print money.  Bear that in mind at all times.  Each of the Young Stars is a millionaire at the very least, even though most of their money goes into charitable causes.  It’s difficult to trace where the money goes, but I have a suspicion that a large amount goes into campaign donations for various Senators and Congressmen.  Anyone proposing a bill to ban young super teams from operating has had it shot down before it ever reached the floor.

He picked up a remote and activated the PowerPoint projector.  “Their leader is Youngster himself, the kid of the rich man who created the Young Stars franchise.  Officially, he’s nineteen; old enough to be reasonably mature, but young enough to serve as an idol for the children.  He’s been nineteen for a while now; his birth certificate may have mysteriously vanished, yet there is enough evidence left to confirm that he is at least twenty-five years old.  His lawyers issue a storm of legal threats every time someone questions his age, so don’t count on it being breaking news any time soon.”

Jackson blinked in surprise.  No one had realised Youngster had been officially nineteen for at least six years?

“On the record, he’s as sweet and wholesome as your mother’s apple pie,” he continued.  “Off the record, he’s got a reputation for being a bit of an asshole.  He has slept with countless super-groupies, many of whom may have been younger than sixteen when he fucked them.  Even if he was nineteen, he would still be a pervert, but there won’t be legal trouble, because he has a small army of lawyers on his side.

He shrugged.  “No steady girlfriend, no mother...and a father who sees him as a source of money.  That sort of shit is always a recipe for trouble.”

Jackson nodded.  Youngster didn't seem very nice, but most of the super teams he’d been studying tended to have skeletons in their closets.  At least one super team had broken up after discovering that its founder had very bad intentions...too late to stop him from using them to rob a bank and escape with the cash.  

“His power level is generally rated as a low Level 4,” the Professor added.  “Most of them probably relate to gravity in some way; he can fly, has a limited form of invulnerability and is formidably strong.  On the other hand, he does need to breathe”—he winked at Jackson—“and has a handful of other weaknesses, all of which will be covered in the detailed briefing notes.

“Next up is Sparky.”  He clicked the remote, using the projector to show an image of a Latino girl showing off her cleavage, Jackson sucked in his breath and heard some of the others doing the same.  “She actually is eighteen years old, but like Youngster she has a bit of a reputation behind the scenes.  Unlike him, there are plenty of teenagers and even young men willing to brag online that she picked them up after a show and took them to bed, where they spent the entire night with her.  You won’t be surprised to discover that she’s done nude shoots for Playboy in-between her activities with the Young Stars.  Her powers all involve manipulating electric power; she has a very limited flight ability that doesn't seem to be anything like as flexible as a normal flyer.”

“And you can go look up the pictures of her online later,” the Sergeant injected.  There were some chuckles from the team.  “And if we do have to fight her, don’t hold back.  Any freak is dangerous, even the sexy ones.”

Professor Blunt cleared his throat.  “Nova and Brute have been teamed up by the Young Stars as a message about the importance of racial harmony,” he said.  Jackson had to smile; Nova was a tall African-American, while Brute was at least as large as the Sergeant—and looked older than twenty years old.  “They detest each other, although no one is quite sure why; they never share a room or a flight if they can help it.  There’s probably quite a story in there somewhere if we knew what it was.  Maybe they just pretend so that people don’t think that they’re secretly lovers or something stupid like that.

“Nova’s main powers involve manipulating fire and superheated plasma, including using it to fly and shield his body.  Although he’s rated as a Level 3, do not turn your back on him; the best tactic we’ve been able to devise involves burning away the atmosphere near him to put out his fires.  Alternatively, hose him down and hope for the best.  If worst comes to worst, rely on your body armour to take the heat, jump in close and knock him out.  A sniper could probably kill him if he wasn’t shielding himself.

“Brute is extremely strong and tough—and little else.  He’s probably the least remarkable member of the group, although he is surprisingly popular with some parts of the female demographic.  He actually is seventeen years old, but looks older because of his enhanced muscles; again, his greatest weakness is that he needs to breathe.  Alternate tactics are included in the briefing notes.

“Siren”—the picture flicked to an Asian girl, probably of Japanese origin, wearing a more modest outfit than her teammate—“is the weakest of the group.  Her only real power is the ability to project sonic screams at a target, screams that have been known to weaken buildings and destroy objects.  She also may have some form of manipulation capability within her voice, although reports contradict one another and it may be nothing more than a case of her waving her chest under someone’s eyes.  Her power is directional, so strike from the rear before she sees you coming.  And don’t be misled by her appearance.  She may look sweet and innocent, but she’s a freak.  Give her a chance and she will take your head off.

“Finally, we have Gamma Dude,” he concluded.  The image changed to a young man wearing a protective suit that reminded Jackson of the MOPP suits they’d been trained to use in combat, if necessary.  “Under SARA, Gamma Dude should actually be in a facility out in Nevada away from the civilian population, but the Young Stars have managed to tie up the courts in legal and constitutional issues.  His main power is projecting clouds of radiation at any given target; in fact, he is a pretty constant radiation emitter.”

His expression darkened.  “From what we have been able to deduce, his power eventually killed his entire family.  Not deliberately, but they spent their days in the company of a walking, talking radioactive isotope.  By the time they died, they had absorbed more radiation than the poor bastards who lived near Chernobyl.  If they’d lived in a city, the effects would have been disastrous; luckily, they lived out in the countryside.  Gamma Dude fled into the mountains and...well, we don’t know exactly what happened then, but the next time he appeared he was one of the Young Stars.

“The best defensive tactic you have is to avoid puncturing his suit.  Our best guess is that he has acquired a degree of control over his powers, but breaking the suit will expose you even if he doesn't want to actually fight.  There are some analysts who think the suit isn't designed to actually blast people with radiation and the films of him in action are faked—do not take that for granted.  The Young Stars would have to be insane to bring him anywhere near a crowd if there was the slightest chance he might give them radiation poisoning—hell, they’d have to be insane to live near him.  But we don't know for sure.  Keep that in mind.”

Jackson shook his head and leaned over to Ron.  “We have to fight these guys?”

“Yep,” Ron said.

Lane stood up.  “Thank you, Professor,” he said.  Unlike the DEA officer, Blunt got to attend the remainder of the briefing.  “At the moment, we will be operating in support of the DEA—ideally, no one on the outside will ever know that we were there.  According to the stool pigeon, there will be a meeting where the Young Stars will pick up the drugs—and pay the courier thousands of dollars.  The DEA will move in and attempt to arrest everyone involved.”

His voice tightened.  “You’ve heard the briefing.  If they attempt to fight, the DEA will be completely outmatched.  We will have to put them down as quickly as possible—take them alive if we can, kill them if not.  And Gamma Dude adds a problem I’d sooner not have to face.  We may need MOPP suits and radiation detection gear—and we can’t fight in the MOPP suits.  Team Three may be moved to support us if necessary.

“The Young Stars are based near Chicago,” he concluded.  “Gather your equipment and supplies, then read the briefing notes carefully.  The flight departs at 1900 precisely; be ready.”

Jackson nodded as the team was dismissed.  It all seemed incredible, the intersection of the mundane human world with that of the superhuman, but it was real.  And it wouldn't be the worst thing that so-called heroes had done, not if the files were accurate.  Team One had been tested in fire before and lost good personnel to rogue superhumans.

“I meant to ask,” he said, as he followed Ron back to the barracks.  “I can understand the other drugs, but what is ultimate?”

Ron snorted.  “It gives you superpowers,” he said, dryly.  “Not for very long, but long enough to do some damage.  And if they want it...what does it say about them?”

Chapter Seven

“Is everyone in place?”  Hope asked.  They stood on a hill, close enough to Kinshasa to move quickly, but distant enough to remain undetected.  “And ready to go?”

The Redeemer nodded.  She was using her telepathy to keep the various groups in touch.  It was remotely possible that excessive use of their communicators would be detected by one or more of the factions—or, more likely, their foreign backers—and so Hope had insisted that they rely on telepathy.  The factions would be unable to stop them, he was certain, but there was no point in making the death toll any higher than it needed to be.

“They’re ready,” she said.  Most of his force had been dispersed over the Congo, ready to take out the faction leadership groups and smash the most dangerous fighting units.  The remainder were already building a prison camp for the survivors, once they'd completed their first strikes; they’d be held as prisoners until they could be redeemed or charged by the International Criminal Court for murder, war crimes and attempted genocide.  “They just await your command.”

“Good,” Hope said.  Ahead of him, he could see lights from Kinshasa—fires burning to give the population what little heat they could.  Most of them were starving; the men with guns had taken almost all of the food, along with the best of the women.  Kinshasa had once been a remarkable city, he’d been told.  It could hardly have been worse than it was now, a derelict city with a ruthless strongman in charge who allowed his thugs to torment the local population at will.  “Tell them...to make a change.”

He leapt into the air and lanced up, over Kinshasa.  From above, the city looked strange, almost as though a dozen eras had intermingled in one vast whole.  Great towering skyscrapers pressed against slums and huts from a bygone age, all showing the signs of damage inflicted by war.  The skyscrapers had been built in an era of optimism; now, with the war still underway, they were broken and ruined husks of themselves, inhabited only by squatters who had nowhere else to go.  One day soon, he realised, they would collapse into rubble and kill everyone who had relied on them for shelter.  

They’d considered launching their operation in broad daylight, but some of the more tactical thinkers had pointed out that it would be easier to take the leadership out when they were in bed, reading.  It felt vaguely unfair to strike in the dark, as if they had something to hide, yet the leaders deserved no consideration.  Their battles over the Congo had doomed their people to endless war.  He opened his ears to the dying city and used them to strengthen his determination.  Those who preyed on their fellow humans had to be destroyed.  

He took a moment to look at his objective.  The strongman’s fortress was the only new building in Kinshasa, for who would build when war might destroy their investment in a single moment?  It was a towering construction, hardly the sign of a ruler who loved and trusted his people.  The men who guarded it had a fancy name in one of the many African tongues, but they all boiled down to thugs.  Between them, they had committed every war crime in the book except genocide—and that hadn’t been for lack of trying.  Hope had no way of calculating how many had died since the Congo had fallen into chaos, but it had definitely come close to genocide.  

A waste, Hope thought.  To waste so many resources on one building when there are people starving ...

He crashed into the building at five times the speed of sound, relying on his invulnerability to shield himself as he searched for the strongman.  He ignored the falling rubble as he concentrated on his objective.  If the Redeemer’s telepathic probes had been accurate, the master bedroom was located in the basement and had at least three different tunnels to allow the warlord to escape.  But there was no way any human could move fast enough to escape a superhuman.

Especially not a superhuman like Hope.

He crashed into the basement and smiled as the strongman—a bitterly-scared black man—produced an AK-47 from under his pillow.  He couldn't resist hesitating just long enough for the strongman to press the trigger and spray him with bullets, which all bounced off his skin.

The strongman stared at him in horror, and pulled something else from under the sheets.  A young girl, barely entering her teenage years, screamed in pain as he clutched her neck, babbling in a language that Hope didn't understand.  The meaning was clear, though; the girl would die if Hope didn't leave.  

Instead, Hope generated a beam of light from his eyes and used it to slice the man’s arm from his body.  He screamed, staring at the ruins of his arm, then gasped something in yet another language.  Before the warlord could use his other arm to grab the girl again, Hope was on him, pulling the strongman into the air.  He cried and begged for mercy, like all other bullies Hope had dealt with over the years, but it was too late.  Hope casually crushed the strongman’s neck and watched the life drain out of him.

The girl had stopped screaming; instead, she stared at him, eyes wide with fear.  Hope couldn't blame her.  She’d been taken from her home, forced into the bed of a far older man—and raped.  Someone so young...even consensual sex would have hurt her, if she’d known what she was consenting to.  

Hope smiled at her and picked up the tattered remains of a nightdress from the floor, but stopped once he realised that it was covered in blood.  Instead, he found a gaudy uniform from the cupboard and passed her the jacket.  It was too large for her chest, but it would provide some protection as Hope picked her up and launched himself towards the creaking ceiling.  The building was on the verge of collapsing inward.  She cried out—either in fear or in delight—as Hope dodged his way through the rubble and up into the sky.  Behind him, the remains of the building crashed into the basement and came to a halt, burying the strongman’s body under the rubble.  It would have to be recovered later, just to convince the population that the bastard was dead.

Hope smiled as the strongman’s goons started to stare at him, before lifting their weapons and taking aim.  It was easy to take one breath and blow them all away like ninepins, leaving them to crash into buildings and drop their weapons on the ground.  He would have preferred to engage them directly, but while he was invulnerable, the girl was nothing of the sort.  There was no way of knowing if she understood English, but he tried to get the message across anyway.  

“I’ll find your family,” he promised.  The girl didn't seem to understand.  “And then you can go home and enjoy the new day.”

Far below, Kinshasa was in chaos.  The superhuman army had attacked the barracks, where the young conscripts were locked up after a hard day’s training in how to be a brutal asshole, and destroyed the more trusted soldiers keeping the conscripts under guard.  Some of them had fled into the darkened city, while others—too fearful to move—just remained where they were, fearing a world without the strongman as much as they feared one with him.  It would take time, Hope reminded himself, for them to realise there was no longer anything to fear.  And then they could start rebuilding their country....

I see you picked up a friend, the Redeemer’s voice said, in his mind.  She’s rather attached to you already.

Hope flushed at the teasing tone in her thoughts.  “Never mind that,” he said aloud, vocalising for his own benefit.  “How is the rest of the country?”

Looking good, the Redeemer sent back.  Only real problem is a troop of tanks to the north.  I’m afraid that their leader wasn't among those killed and he’s ordering an immediate attack on the city.  He thinks that the man you killed was behind the attack.  Oh, and he has a superhuman with him.

“Understood,” Hope said.  He grinned at the girl before flying to where the Redeemer waited, with a handful of mutants to provide protection if she needed it.  Coordinating an entire invasion was taking a great deal out of her.  “I have a present for you.”

“She doesn't want to leave you,” the Redeemer said.  Her face was tired and worn, but she managed a smile for Hope.  She placed her fingers against the child’s forehead, drawing on her powers.  “Just sleep now, my dear.  When you wake up, you will be at the dawn of a whole new world.”

Hope smiled as the girl’s eyes closed and she went to sleep.  “I could wipe her memory of everything that foul beast did to her,” the Redeemer offered.  “And then one of the healers could fix her up so she doesn’t carry the scars...”

“Let her choose,” Hope said.  He’d never been comfortable with anything that reassembled mind control.  “And now, if you will excuse me...”

He rocketed into the sky and twisted through the air, looking down towards the rebel position to the north of Kinshasa.  It had been attacked once, but the speedster who’d hit the base hadn’t bothered to confirm that he'd actually killed the rebel leader.  Hope made a mental note to reprimand the idiot before he caught sight of the tanks advancing towards the city.  They were old tanks, originally from Russia, but they would inflict a great deal of damage if they got into firing range.  The tankers clearly didn't know just what they were facing, or they would never have risked exposing themselves.  Tanks were no match for a superhuman who knew what he was doing...

But they had a superhuman with them.  Hope dropped down out of the sky, right in front of the lead tank.  Before the driver could do anything more than gape at him, he caught hold of the tank, picked it up and threw it effortlessly towards the next tank.  The two vehicles collided and skidded to a halt, forcing the remaining tanks to spread out to avoid running into their fellows.  Their drivers caught sight of Hope standing there, his eyes burning with red fire as he prepared his heat vision for action; he heard the crews being ordered to bail out.  Hope systematically started to melt the tanks, crippling their ability to move, but left the crews alone providing they did not attack him.  

And then, as he looked up, a single humanoid form jumped towards him and took a wicked swing at his head.

“A monster from Dr. Death,” Hope said.  

He gritted his teeth, torn between sympathy and rage.  Like many others, the creature was a misshapen parody of a superhuman.  It was a surprise to find one serving in a largely black army—and serving a black commander—but maybe this particular Boerbel had grown out of trite racism and the other stupidities practiced by the Apartheid regime.  Or maybe he was just addicted to drugs, women or children.  Or mad.  Every time he thought that he had plumbed the full depths of horror in the Congo, he found something even darker.  

It wasn't easy to keep his voice level, but he tried.  “You have to know that you can’t beat me...”

The creature ignored him and took another swing at his chest.  This time, Hope didn't move fast enough; the fist slammed into him with the impact of a pair of locomotives running flat out.  He was picked up and thrown through the air, crashing in a patch of ground that had been torn up during a previous battle.  There were bodies scattered everywhere, some only partly buried; apparently they’d been abandoned and left for the vultures.  

No wonder there was so much disease running through the Congo, Hope thought bitterly.  The locals couldn't even bury their dead without some bastard taking pot-shots at them.  

Hope pulled himself to his feet and lunged forward.  The maddened creature lifted its fists again, but Hope moved too fast to be deterred.  He slammed his fist into the creature’s head; it staggered back.  Dr. Death’s creations had never been capable of standing up to a real superhuman for long, but this one didn't seem to have any of the usual weaknesses.  Not that it really mattered; it couldn't fly, so it couldn't escape.  Hope brought his fists down again and again, until he felt the creature’s head start to weaken.  A final punch smashed through its skull and killed it instantly.  

Hope studied the corpse for a long moment, just in case its stolen abilities had included a healing factor of any kind, before deciding that it was unlikely that anything could recover from a shattered skull.  

He looked up at the tankers, only to discover that they were running for their lives.  They didn't seem to have anywhere to go, but at least they’d left the tanks and their weapons behind, perhaps assuming that Hope wouldn't bother to follow them if they no longer carried the ability to hurt others.  In the Congo, where having a weapon turned someone into a big man, they had been dangerous.  But without their weapons...

They could be redeemed, he thought, given time.
But for the moment, they were very much a secondary concern.  He watched them go, then turned his attention to the tanks, smashing through their armour, breaking their gun barrels and finally setting off the ammunition before someone could come by and recover it to continue the fighting.  Once it was gone, he launched himself back into the air and flew over to Kinshasa.  The city was in chaos, but most of the strongman’s goons had been rounded up or killed by the invading army.  They couldn't hope to hide from the most powerful telepath in the world.

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.”

“Just because we invaded Nazi Germany doesn't mean that we also invaded Great Britain,” Gayle countered.  “We cannot jump to the conclusion that they mean us harm because they did great harm to the Congo’s leadership...”

“The government is power with responsibility,” Chester said, quietly.  “I know; half the population would say that the Federal Government wasn't responsible at all.  But the fact is that the Government of the United States, or even the Government of China, has a certain responsibility to its population.  A rogue state feels no responsibility towards its people, but the dictators do feel responsible for maintaining their own power base.

“The Saviours have no such limitations.  They judged the Congo themselves, without considering the international effects of their actions, and then attacked.  Where will they go next?  There is no shortage of suffering in this world.  Will they attack North Korea, or will they attack China...or will they buy into the claim that the United States is the source of all evil and attack Washington?  These people have no responsibility.  Their actions are therefore unpredictable—and dangerous.”

The President slapped the table.  “Those concerns have been noted,” he said.  “The question remains, however; what do we do now?”

“I shall speak to Secretary-General Jefferson and ask him to convene an immediate meeting of the Security Council,” Gayle said.  “God knows that the General Assembly will already be buzzing, but maybe we can moderate them into trying to help rather than hinder.  After that...we have supplies we can spare to help them, maybe that’s what we should do.”

“You want to help them?”  Kratman demanded.  “The real question is, do we recognise their government as being the legitimate government of the Congo!”

“They certainly fit the standard definition,” Chester pointed out.  “They hold territory and all opposition is too scattered to fight back.  We can recognise them as an occupying power until they manage to form a proper government to run the country.”

“Assuming they ever do,” Kratman said.  He looked over at the President.  “Mr. President, I understand that there is an argument for helping them—and the poor folks in the Congo.  I wouldn't raise the slightest objection to sending humanitarian aid to the state; the Saviours might at least be able to distribute it properly.  But if we recognise them as an occupying power, or even as a government, we legitimise any other superhuman power grabs.   What happens if that bunch of religious creeps from Pakistan manages to take over the government?  They would become an instant superpower and a potential threat.”

“The Saviours are already a superpower,” Gayle said, softly.  “What happens if they manage to gain more allies—not just mutants, but other high-ranking superhumans?”

The President looked at Chester.  “Your recommendation, Mr. Harrison?”

Chester hesitated.  “For the moment, we have to accept that they rule the Congo and we cannot dislodge them—at least not without further devastating the area,” he said, slowly.  “But Tom is right; we cannot accept their action without opening up a whole new can of worms, one that might explode in our faces.  I would suggest agreeing to send humanitarian aid—the charities will start doing that without our encouragement—but refusing any form of formal recognition until the Congo has a proper government and the Saviours go back to their clubhouse at the South Pole.”

“I wouldn't count on the charities doing anything useful,” Kratman muttered.  “They always do well by doing good.”

“We can also flood the area with reporters to see just how well the Saviours manage to operate when they’re trying to hold territory, rather than just smashing through anything in their way,” Chester added.  “It might help discourage others from trying the same thing if the Congo collapses into chaos despite their presence.”

“Possibly,” the President agreed.  “Are there any other recommendations?”

“The opposite,” Gayle said.  “The world has changed, whatever we think about it.  We should seriously consider supporting them to the hilt--”

“Which will convince other nations that we are behind them,” Kratman snapped.  “Do we really want the blame for crushing the Congo’s government and occupying the country?”

“Hope is American,” Chester pointed out.  “We will get much of the blame anyway.”

“It can't be helped,” the President said.  “We will send humanitarian aid while watching closely.  And General?  Draw up a plan to evict them from the Congo if necessary.  We need to be ready for anything.”

Chester scowled, inwardly.  Superhumanity had finally come into its own—and God alone knew what would happen next.  Human history suggested that it wouldn't end very well.

Chapter Nine

“Can you believe this shit?”

Jackson looked up from where he was peering through a window down onto the grimy streets of downtown Chicago.  The area had once been peaceful and prosperous, but changes in the economy had driven the industries out of the city and most of the population had followed, leaving the streets to the poor, the gangsters and the drug lords.  Jackson wondered what would have happened to him if he’d grown up in such a hopeless area, where boys were killed off in gang fights and girls became whores almost as soon as they started their first period.  It took a special kind of personality to climb out of the gutter, and most of those personalities moved away as soon as they could.

Basil thumped the portable television in irritation.  “A bunch of capes decide to knock over an entire country and what do we do?  Nothing!”

“Not the mission,” Jackson said.  He’d been surprised that the Young Stars—assuming that the DEA was right—had chosen such an isolated area for their drug deals, but perhaps there was a certain kind of logic to it.  Doing something closer to their hangout would have been asking for trouble; besides, the area was effectively neutral ground between two different gangs.  “It’s only been a day.  Give them a chance.”

“That’s why we were created,” Basil informed him, rolling off the pile of blankets they used as a sleeping pad.  “Sooner or later, one of those caped assholes is going to think that they’re God and we’d better all bow down to him.  I think we’d better get ready to fight them.”

“Tell that to the Sergeant,” Jackson said, tiredly.  “And if you blow this mission, he won’t ever forgive you.”

He scowled down through the dirty window onto the streets below.  This part of the city had once accommodated warehouses, but they were abandoned now, slowly decaying into rubble.  Someone had looted everything that had been left behind and then left the doors open, mocking the civilised society that had abandoned its poor to the gutter.  Everywhere they looked, there were traces of drug users and worse in the area.  The rooms of the office block they’d taken over as a watchtower were littered with needles and empty injector tabs.  Some of them were probably contaminated with AIDS or worse, they’d been warned; since then, they’d brushed them to one side and hoped for the best.

The latest update from the DEA had stated that the drug courier was going to arrive just before evening, when the sun began to set.  Jackson wondered why they hadn't bothered to arrest the courier on his way up from Texas to Chicago, but it wasn't his decision to make.  By then, they had to be ready for the Young Stars—assuming they bothered to show.  The media had been driven into a frenzy by the events in the Congo and the Young Stars were no doubt being pressured for statements that could be taken out of context by the media.  Lane had noted that their backers were probably ordering them to say nothing until they decided what they wanted them to say, but teenagers weren't noted for restraint.  The only reason they believed the Young Stars would still show up to meet with the drug courier was that they were addicts, and they needed those drugs.  

He’d never had a chance to use surveillance gear before joining Team Omega and he’d been surprised—and a little horrified—when he’d realised just how much information the gear could pick up.  Tiny sensors had been scattered around the area, each one linked to the computer gear in their hideout through an almost invisible cable.  The spooks who were part of the support staff had admitted that they would have preferred to use microburst transmissions, but with superhumans involved it was possible that they might hear the transmissions and escape before it was too late.  Superhumans screwed up everything, they’d grumbled; they’d been saying it long before the Congo invasion.

One of the consoles bleeped.  “I’ve got movement,” he said, as several teenagers came into view.  They clearly weren't the Young Stars, almost certainly gang members from one of the groups or refugees from their wrath.  Or, more alarmingly, they might have been scouts sent ahead to ensure that the area was clear.  “What do you make of that?”

Basil knelt down beside him.  “Looks like one of those politically-correct multi-ethnic gangs you don’t see outside bad television and worse comics,” he said.  “And look at those outfits, dude.  Those kids are working for the drug lords or I’ll eat my gun.”

Jackson had to agree.  The lead kid was a tall black teenager with glasses and an afro.  Beside him, there was a Goth girl, a pair of blonde white kids who might almost have been brother and sister, with a mutant and a little girl bringing up the rear.  Their clothes were expensive, far too expensive.  Basil was right, he decided; they looked too rich and healthy to be native to the area, particularly the Goth girl.  Someone like her would have been pimped out by now, along with the blonde girl.  Hell, maybe the boys would have been added to the brothels too.  They catered to everyone.

“That one could be a problem,” Basil said, grimly.  Behind the teens, there was a single mutant gambolling along; it resembled a cross between a man and a lizard.  It seemed to be acting as an animal—there were plenty of stories of mutants growing up isolated and becoming more animal than human—but Jackson saw the pattern in its movements.  The blasted creature was sniffing for signs of trouble.  “How well do you think we covered our tracks?”

“Well enough, I hope,” Jackson muttered back.  He keyed his communicator and gave the CO a quick update.  If the kids down there spotted them, they might have to fight their way out; the mission would definitely be blown.  “You think someone could just pick off that lizard guy before he got up here?”

“Chris is on sniper duty,” Basil said.  “He could probably pick them all off before they came in to this building.”

“But that would blow us,” Jackson said.  He settled back and watched grimly as the teenagers came closer, walking up to the warehouse below them.  It didn't look particularly safe, but that wouldn't have deterred him as a child—and it didn't deter the scouts either.  “That little girl should be in foster care.”

“I was in foster care,” Basil said.  Jackson blinked.  The operatives rarely shared stories of their past, even of their careers before joining Team Omega.  They knew he had been a Marine—and he was fairly sure that he’d picked out Rangers and Delta Force from among the other operatives—but most of them obscured their past.  “My dad died when I was a baby and my mother just couldn’t cope, so they said she had to give me up.  Even the worst of parents couldn't have treated me as badly as the foster family did—and no one seemed to listen to my complaints.  Eventually, I left them and never looked back.”

He shrugged.  “And here will be worse,” he added.  “That kid might be safer on the streets, at least until she reaches her teens.  After that...”

“All bets are off,” Jackson agreed.  He cursed under his breath as the teenagers seemed to stop outside their building, looking across at the burned-out vehicles someone had stripped and then shoved into one corner.  As a child, he would probably have played with the remains until his parents dragged him home and lectured him on the dangers of touching burnt rubble.  “I think we may have a problem.”

Basil picked up his M-22 and loaded it with standard rounds.  “If we have to fight, take out the mutant with guns and then kick their asses hand-to-hand,” he ordered, calmly.  “They’re just kids.  I don’t want to have to explain to the Sergeant why I killed kids.”

“Understood,” Jackson said.  The teenagers were probably drug addicts working for the local drug lord; it would certainly explain the fancy clothes.  That didn't mean that they deserved to die.  “I think...”

He grinned suddenly as the teenagers moved away.  “They’re going,” he said, in some relief.  “One is pulling out a box of pills.”

“Watch them carefully; leave the rest of the surveillance to me,” Basil ordered.  “If that’s anything but ultimate, we shouldn't have a problem.  Ultimate, however...”

Jackson winced at the thought.  He'd found out more about ultimate now; it was actually distilled from superhuman blood and for a few minutes it gave someone the powers of a superhuman.  Not a very powerful one, true, rarely over Level 2, but enough to make a drugged-up fighter a deadly enemy.  He'd read through all the files, including some that covered attempts to create enhanced soldiers before SARA had made all such experiments illegal.  Repeated use of the drug eventually burned out the body and left the user either comatose or dead.  Some had even died when their wounds had caught up with them after the drug faded from their bloodstream.  

“They’re taking pills as they go,” he said, slowly.  “Do you think that’s something dangerous?”

“No way to know,” Basil said.  He keyed his communicator.  “Papa-Mike, this is OP; teens coming your way, watch them until they’re gone.”

“Understood, OP,” the response crackled back.  “Gee...that girl just walked over a sensor.  You think we can get a peek up her skirt?”

“As you were,” the Sergeant’s voice snapped.  “Besides, she’s probably jailbait.”

Jackson watched the teens leave and then looked back at the warehouse.  “How much longer do we have to wait?”

“Another hour, if the DEA was on the money,” Basil said.  His voice twisted into a bad impression of Yoda.  “You’ll have to start learning patience if you want to be a Jedi, young Skywalker.”

“And stop lusting after my own sister,” Jackson countered.  They shared a chuckle.  “Do you think that Lucas will ever produce the first prequel in the movie series?”

“I very much doubt it,” Basil said.  “These days, no one wants to see movies about superhumans—even Jedi Knights.  The last Superman movie was a total flop.”

Jackson nodded.  He hadn't been a big fan of comic books as a child, but then the golden age of comics was long over.  Who wanted to read about Superman when you could look out of a window and see a superhuman flying past?  Besides, real superhumans were edgy, even those who were patriotic and fought crime on behalf of Uncle Sam.  Superman had been escapist fantasy in a world that had never had to face superhumans in real life.  The only comic book hero who had remained popular outside the fringe was Batman—and he was a regular human, just like Team Omega.

“They were going to call us the Batmen,” Basil said, after Jackson had voiced his thoughts.  “And then someone pointed out that it might get the Pentagon tied up in legal shit, so they dumped the idea.  They wanted us to take out a superhuman who dressed up as Superman two years ago, before someone at DC decided that it would make them look like bastards in the eyes of the public.  The guy wearing the costume saved plenty of lives before they decided that perhaps they should sue him.”

“I...see,” Jackson said.  “And I have to be familiar with all this shit?”

“Study it in your off-hours,” Basil told him.  “And try to have a chat with Grimes about it—I know, you don’t like him and no one else likes him very much either.  But he does have some interesting insights into how some superheroes can cross the line into outright criminality and force us to take them down.”

Jackson nodded, reluctantly.  He’d learned to dislike psychologists before coming face to face with Grimes, who was a perfect example of the worst of the breed.

“He had a theory about professional limits,” Basil continued, absently.  “You see, it isn't uncommon for teachers to fuck their students, doctors to fuck their patients and policemen to fuck their prisoners.  It should be very uncommon, but it isn’t.  Grimes suggested that everyone needed to keep a mental barrier between themselves and someone....vulnerable, but that that barrier was always porous.  The more involved they became, the more they broke the barriers and turned into monsters.  And many of them remained convinced that they were doing the right thing even as they were hauled off into jail for underage sex.

“Superhumans see things on a much bigger scale than us.  Someone like the Sergeant isn't too far ahead of us; he’s strong and tough, but little else.  But someone like Hope or America or that Russian with the unpronounceable name?  They are so powerful that every failure is a kind of little death for them.  Their powers make them feel so involved that they cannot look away.  How well would you cope if you knew that the little girl across the road was being beaten every night by her mother and abused by her father?”

“Not well,” Jackson said.  He would have killed the parents, if he had known, and to hell with the consequences.  “I couldn’t leave her there.”

Basil shrugged.  “I knew a Green Beret who knew a SEAL who knew a Delta who served in Lebanon before the capes arrived to make our lives more complicated,” he added.  “He said that one of the Deltas had seen a man beating his wife while trying to take out a pair of enemy snipers and shot him.  They’d watched the whole area so closely that they lost all detachment and decided to interfere.  I don’t know what happened—I don’t even know if it really happened—but it’s something to bear in mind.”

Jackson considered it as he poured them both a cup of coffee.  “We might be better off with someone like that,” he said, finally.  “Someone who was too detached might just turn out like a communist planner, ordering the world to suit his own personal theory of the universe.  At least Hope cares.”

“It is possible to care too much,” Basil said, taking the coffee and drinking it in one gulp.  “Anyway, you get a quick rest.  We only have an hour left before the shit hits the fan.”

Jackson nodded, lay down on the bedroll and closed his eyes.  When he opened them again, darkness was falling over the city and Basil was wearing a pair of night-vision goggles.  He picked up his own goggles and tested them, smiling at just how easily he could use them to see in the dark.  Rumour had it that they’d been designed after a superhuman criminal—the Cat—had been captured while trying to steal the British Crown Jewels, but he didn't know for sure.  It had been enough of a surprise to discover that Team Omega was sometimes sent out on loan to other NATO countries.

“DEA says that the courier just left his hotel and is on the way,” Basil said, very quietly.  “Our watcher at the hangout hasn't seen any movement from the capes, but they may have a way out without our noticing them.  We have to assume that the shit is about to hit the fan.”

Jackson nodded as he checked his weapons, equipment and body armour.  By now, after six weeks of intensive training, it was second nature to him, even with the specific devices developed for Team Omega and unseen outside the unit.  The surveillance gear was claiming that the area was completely abandoned, with no one there apart from the OP, but he knew better than to take it for granted.  All of the later exercises had included random failures in the equipment just to keep them on their toes.

His earpiece buzzed.  “Alpha Team reports ready,” Lane said.  “Beta Team?”

“Beta-One ready,” Basil said.  “Beta-Two?”

“Ready,” Ron said.  “Are the DEA armed to the teeth or do we have to cover them as well?”

“Armed, they say,” the Sergeant said.  “If the shit hits the fan, they have orders to duck and get the hell out of the way.”

Jackson caught himself breathing heavily and concentrated on calming himself down, feeling the sweat running down his spine.  The seconds ticked away slowly until a black van entered the monitor showing the live feed from one of the sensors.  A tag affixed to the van by the DEA positively identified it as the van belonging to the courier.  He parked in the centre of the square, climbed out of the vehicle and looked around, carefully.  According to the DEA, he had no enhanced senses and no training that might have allowed him to spot something out of place, but someone who grew up amid violence might have developed purely human senses to their highest level.

“Doesn't seem to see us,” Basil subvocalised.  No one could have heard him with normal hearing, but a superhuman?  Jackson braced himself as a second van appeared.  “And here come the buyers.”

Jackson had expected—without really realising it—that the Young Stars would wear their costumes in public.  But they didn’t; instead, they wore normal civilian clothes and showed nothing that might suggest the presence of superhuman abilities.  Youngster himself was easy to identify, carrying himself with a posture that suggested a greater maturity than the average teenager.  Jackson reminded himself that he was almost certainly older than nineteen and resolved to keep an eye on him.  Behind Youngster, he saw a black man—Nova, almost certainly—and an Asian girl, presumably Siren.   It was hard to be sure about Nova because all of his publicity posters showed him as nothing more than a humanoid fireball.

“They didn't bring all of them,” he commented, very quietly.

“Be grateful,” Basil muttered back.  Quiet updates were flashed between the team members as the superhuman teenagers went forward to meet their supplier.  “Here we go...”

The DEA agents appeared from where they’d taken up position and advanced into the light.  “THIS IS A DRUG BUST,” one of them bellowed through a loudspeaker.  “PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR...”

Nova flared to light.  A second later, fireballs were raging out towards the DEA agents.