Team Omega

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  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?”