“Need I remind you that the MDF’s job is to save people, not contribute to the destruction of their homes?” Nazari said.
“I stand by the decisions made in the field, sir,” Jamie said evenly.
“Including the one where you blocked out your overwatch?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t take kindly to a xenophobic racist asshole insulting my team.”
Nazari sighed. He pulled a chair away from the table and sat down, looking across the table at Jamie with expressionless brown eyes. “There are proper channels for you to voice your concerns about the stability of your team, Callahan. In the middle of a firefight is not one of them.”
“All due respect, sir, we’ve done missions without an agent in overwatch and completed them just fine.”
“Sergeant Harrison wasn’t an agent. He was a Ranger on secondment from the United States Army.”
Jamie didn’t back down. “He was an asshole. Sir.”
Around him, Alpha Team kept carefully blank expressions on their faces so as to not draw any unwanted attention their way. Even if they had, Jamie would’ve taken the metaphorical hit for them. This was not the first time Jamie had gone to bat for his team, nor would it be the last. To them, Jamie was their rock, their anchor in a storm, even before the fateful mission in Tripoli which changed the course of their lives.
Three years ago, Jamie had been a Recon Marine captain in charge of a direct action platoon on detachment to the USS Barack Obama, a Nimitz II-class supercarrier patrolling off the coast of Libya. In the winter of 2281, they were sent on a mission to rescue a team of UN climate scientists who had come under attack in the wreckage of Tripoli. The security contractor the scientists had partnered with for the expedition to conduct environmental experiments in a contested region hadn’t been enough to keep them safe.
Jamie had taken his platoon and flown in under cover of darkness, flanked by Pave Hawks for the evacuation of the civilians. It was a type of mission they’d performed dozens of times before. Back then, Jamie had taken great pride in the fact his platoon rarely incurred injuries and had acquired no loss of life through the course of their deployment up to that point.
Everything changed in Tripoli.
Climate change had ravaged North Africa and the Middle East more so than the rest of the world over the past two hundred years outside of low-lying coastlands. High heat indexes made a dozen countries permanently uninhabitable. The only safe transit time through those areas was in winter, and even then, that was pushing it. The abandoned hot zones were a vacuum just waiting to be filled, despite the risk from killer heat. Human-traffickers were known to transport their victims along secret routes in those areas and fiercely fought off intruders in their territory in order to keep their profit margins intact. The more ruthless of those criminal enterprises did so by using Splice chemical bombs.
Splice was a toxic chemical born of warfare, a fluke spawned out of a terror attack in Syria over one hundred years ago. A nonpersistent, highly volatile chemical that deployed as a liquid which vaporized quickly, the cytotoxicity of Splice was frighteningly deadly to humans. Splice killed within hours through rapid catastrophic cellular collapse, essentially liquefying people’s internal organs into a meaty soup. Ninety-five percent of the people who came in contact with Splice died. There was no cure to the damage it wrought. Only five percent of people seemed to have a type of inherent immunity to the toxic chemical that resulted in long-dormant junk DNA being activated and changing those select few into metahumans.
Out of forty-three Recon Marines, nineteen security contractor personnel, and twelve UN scientists who were hit by the Splice chemical bombs that day, only Jamie, Katie, Donovan, Trevor, and Madison had survived that horror by luck of the genetic lottery. Jamie still had nightmares from that fateful mission and always would.
Being changed into metahumans had changed the trajectory of their lives forever. For governments, metahumans were the silver lining to come out of terrorist attacks and war over the past century or so. Most people still saw them as victims, while governments saw them as useful. Jamie, like the rest of his team, considered themselves survivors.
Jamie and the others had been removed from the Marines and transferred over to the MDF when they opted to still fight the good fight and remain active rather than retire. Metahumans in America were free to choose how they wanted to live their lives, a right set by law years ago. The United States government couldn’t conscript their services, but they were required by law to be trained on how to control their powers. Due to the wide variety in ages of those subjected to a Splice chemical attack, roughly half of the metahumans alive in the United States chose not to join the MDF. Those that did were not all qualified for active field duty.
Annabelle had joined the MDF one month after the remnants of Jamie’s team put on their new uniform, the only survivor of her Night Stalkers crew running a mission behind enemy lines in the disputed territory zone of Eastern Europe. MDF training officers had slotted Annabelle in with his team and she’d fit in perfectly, unlike every other agent and soldier the MDF attempted to fill their overwatch position with since Alpha Team was formed.
Nazari leaned forward in his chair, gaze never leaving Jamie’s face. In his mid-fifties, the stress of the job showed in deep wrinkles on a craggy face and temples gone white at an early age, with gray slowly creeping through the rest of his pitch-black hair. He was a good commander, and while Jamie rarely voiced an argument with the orders handed down the chain of command, like hell would he keep someone on his team he couldn’t trust.
“You’re all dismissed to complete your individual after action-reports and get cleared by Medical. Standard downtime of three days unless something comes up is in effect, ” Nazari finally said before pinning Jamie with a hard look. “You. Stay.”
All of Alpha Team except for Jamie stood up and saluted the director before filing out of the room, the door sliding shut on Katie’s heels. He didn’t watch them go, focusing instead on Nazari. Jamie had been dressed down by a superior officer before and Nazari made it a point to never do it in front of an officer’s team. Jamie watched as the older man leaned back in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Ceres, save all video feed from the mission to the appropriate folder and close the file. I’ll access it later,” Nazari ordered.
The crisp, female voice of the MDF’s smart-building operating AI echoed through the room’s hidden speakers. “Certainly, Director.”
Jamie loosely clasped his hands together on the table, ignoring the data that streamed away from the pressure of his arms on the screen in a holding pattern. “We got the job done, sir.”
“It’s how you got the job done that’s giving me a headache. You blocked your overwatch, which meant he couldn’t spot for you and couldn’t take any shots without risking the rest of the team. You also ordered Ovechkina not to engage telepathically with the enemy after the first few minutes of engagement.”
“All of the enemy wore neural nodes, sir. Someone was keeping tabs on their mental state by monitoring brain waves. I assumed they wanted to gather evidence of mental trauma for future propaganda. The Sons of Adam are American citizens. They’d cry breach of privacy and use that to rally support from the fringe alt-right. We have enough people breathing down our necks about our use of power, especially telepathy. I figured we didn’t want to reignite that argument this week.”
“I could have sworn I employed metahumans here, not politicians.” Nazari held up a hand when Jamie opened his mouth to speak, cutting him off. “I am aware of whose son you are. That doesn’t change the fact that your job is the mission. Leave the politics to me. I have people for that.”
Jamie pointedly didn’t promise anything. “I don’t want Harrison on our team anymore.”
“Lucky for you, he requested a transfer. You and your team are getting a reputation for being difficult, Callahan.”
“I have high standards. Everyone you’ve saddled us with doesn’t mak
e the cut, sir.”
“They’ve been more than qualified as far as humans go.”
Jamie’s silence spoke volumes.
Nazari got to his feet and approached the smaller side table where bottles of clean water and a carafe of synthcaf sat. He grabbed a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, and took a long sip before refocusing his considerable attention on Jamie. “I thought bringing in more military options would solve your problem.”
“All due respect, sir, we work well at our current number. Annabelle can do double duty as overwatch when we need eyes in the sky.”
“That’s not her primary job. You need a sniper.”
“We’ve done okay without one so far.”
“Perhaps. But I’ve had analysts crunch the numbers. Your team would be even better with one. It’s just the matter of finding the right fit.”
“I won’t accept anyone who doesn’t accept us, sir. I can’t do that to my team.”
“I understand that, but neither can you continue railroading out every person who fills that slot. My options are dwindling, which means so are yours.”
Jamie grimaced at the warning. “If you’re going to insist on us maintaining a sniper—”
“I am,” Nazari interrupted.
“—then make sure they can actually work with metahumans and aren’t just spewing false platitudes to get a pay raise and a prestigious patch. I won’t put my team in the position of needing to trust someone who can’t trust us back because of what we are. My team has been through enough. I won’t put them through that.”
Nazari eyed him, one dark brow raised high. “Are you done?”
Jamie nodded curtly. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ll take your concerns under consideration, but as of right now, the next person I assign to your team will be permanent. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed, Callahan.”
Jamie stood up and saluted the director before leaving the conference room. He was absolutely unsurprised to see Katie waiting for him in the hallway outside. She arched an eyebrow in a silent question before falling into step beside him.
“Next person assigned is permanent,” Jamie told her once he managed to unclench his teeth.
Katie frowned slightly, but didn’t let any of the worry she felt show on her face. They’d both been doing this for too long to let go of old habits now. Officers and NCOs knew better than to reveal their true feelings on anything when in public to save face and keep order in the ranks. The uniform might have changed, but the situation was still the same.
“Do we get a say at all in who they give us?” she asked.
“The director didn’t seem so inclined.”
“Fuck,” Katie swore softly under her breath.
They reached the end of the hallway and Katie stabbed her finger at the elevator’s control panel. She crossed her slim arms over her chest and glared at their reflections in the burnished metal doors.
“How’s your mom?” Jamie asked.
“Safe. The fight was nowhere near home or the restaurant.”
Katie came from a large Russian-American family, the only child of a single mother who ran a hole-in-the-wall Russian tea house that produced some of the best home-cooked Russian dishes Jamie had ever eaten. He’d made it a point over the years to meet the families of his teammates, preferring them over his own most of the time, and he had a soft spot for Katie’s mom and the food she conjured up in her kitchen. Her blintzes were the stuff of legend in the team, but Jamie was rather partial to her pelmeni.
“Glad to hear it.” The doors opened and they stepped inside the elevator. “Why aren’t you in Medical?”
“I was waiting on you. Team’s going out tonight.” Katie tilted her head back to look him in the eye as they began their rapid descent. “You up for it?”
Jamie sighed. “As much as I’d love to empty my account and buy everyone a round, I have dinner plans.”
“Good plans?”
“Family.”
Katie grimaced for the both of them. “I see.”
“Want to trade?”
The elevator slowed and came to a stop on the ground floor, opening onto the lobby and adjacent hallway that linked the main building to Medical. Katie clamped her hand on Jamie’s shoulder, giving him a friendly shake as they stepped out of the elevator.
“Jamie, I can honestly say with absolute certainty I’d rather take on a fifth-generation Howitzer with a toy gun than go through another dinner with your family.”
“You and me both,” Jamie muttered as he followed her toward the impatiently waiting doctors and nurses keeping a lookout for their arrival in Medical.
2
Make Your Own Road
The Georgetown was located five blocks southeast of The Mall, in the historical area of the Washington, D.C., megacity, far from the shadow of the seawalls. The restaurant’s entrance was watched over by an impeccably dressed doorman, a slew of valet drivers, and a fashionably dressed hostess who greeted the regulars by their titles instead of their first names. Polarized smart windows whose opaqueness could be adjusted with a wave of a hand looked out on a street crowded with cars, even at this late hour of the night.
Jamie got out of his sleek Bentley and handed the code-keys to the valet hovering outside his car door. Buttoning up his dove-gray suit jacket for the walk into the restaurant, Jamie bypassed the small crowd waiting in the lobby hoping to be called off the waitlist by the beautiful hostess who guarded the tables behind her with a zeal Jamie always found disconcerting.
“Reservation for Callahan at ten o’clock,” Jamie said with a quick smile once he caught her eye, remembering to use the civilian time over military at the last second. “I’m a little late.”
The woman’s gaze flicked down at the schedule that appeared in thin air between the fingers of her left hand, courtesy of the set of data rings she wore. She tapped something on the holographic display before minimizing it again. “Of course, sir. Your party is waiting for you. If you would please follow me?”
She smiled at him and spun on her sky-high heels, her off-the-shoulder structured dress looking as if it had come right off the runway and leaving little to the imagination by way of sheer panels in the bodice. The Georgetown always employed gorgeous people as a company aesthetic, but she wasn’t his type in the least. Jamie was more interested in those seated at the tables they passed, automatically cataloguing faces and exits as he followed her to a more private table in a side alcove.
The Georgetown was an establishment frequented by politicians, lobbyists, and the elite movers and shakers within the government and without who called Washington, D.C., home when it suited them. Anyone who was anyone with political power, no matter their party, came to be seen within these walls.
The restaurant itself was done up in real wood panels lining the walls, the tables surrounded by buttery soft leather seats. The art hanging on the wall was rotated out monthly, and the light shining through delicate antique Tiffany lamps was soft and inviting. Crisp, white linen tablecloths covered each table, showing off the place settings of fine china dishes, silver cutlery, spotless glasses, and small candles. The long bar at the back was manned by a trio of bartenders wearing neatly pressed button-down collared shirts, vests and suspenders. Dozens of bottles existed at their fingertips to craft the perfect drink to go with every bite, to say nothing of the wine cellar manned by the master sommelier.
“Your table,” the hostess said as she gestured smoothly at the occupied space.
“Thank you,” Jamie said with a nod. She smiled in reply and whisked herself away. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down on the comfortable chair, nodding at the man sitting across from him. “Senator.”
“You’re late,” Senate Majority Leader Richard Callahan replied, not bothering to look up from the slim, pocket-size tablet he held in one hand as he checked his email.
Jamie unfolded the cloth napkin fanned out on the plate and draped it over his lap. A wait
er discreetly filled his water glass and left two leather-encased tablets containing the menu and wine list on the table before departing. “I was busy.”
“So I saw on the news streams.”
Blue eyes the same shade as Jamie’s lifted from the now blank screen as the senator biolocked his tablet and put it away. Jamie got his blond hair from his mother, eyes from his father, and his stubbornness from both of them.
His honor, however, was his own.
The older man leaned back in his seat and studied Jamie intently. Even with thirty years of living under his belt, nearly half those years spent in the military in some form or another, Jamie had to fight not to squirm.
Richard Callahan was in his late fifties, a technocrat and politician who’d inherited several billion dollars from his family’s ownership shares in a swath of unicorn tech companies that had thrived instead of died over the last two centuries. It was a wealth Jamie had been born into and previously measured himself by before joining the Marines. While Jamie’s mindset had changed over the years, his father’s had not.
Based out of New York City, Richard started his career in politics at the tender age of twelve when he volunteered for a congressman’s re-election bid after joining the Young Republicans club at his elite prep school. From there, he mapped out a life in politics with a sureness that only came from being born with the right connections already at his fingertips. Republicans had managed to win control of Congress, if not the presidency, off and on over the years. The past decade seemed to be an on swing of the pendulum, which meant an untold number of headaches for Jamie.
In the Wreckage: (M/M Sci-Fi Military Romance) (Metahuman Files Book 1) Page 2
