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.
Chapter Ten
Patience didn't come naturally to Hope, but he forced himself to wait for the aircraft to land.
He could fly around the entire world in the space of a few hours if he ignored little details like air traffic controllers and regimes that thought they had the right to dictate to everyone else. It had always galled him that others travelled slower than he did, particularly when they had had the chance to make use of a teleporter and declined it. By the time the aircraft had landed, his patience was at an end.
Kinshasa International Airport was the largest airport in the Congo, but it had barely been maintained since the civil war began. He ground his teeth as the staff pushed a stepladder up to the aircraft. At least it didn't have to run a gauntlet of anti-aircraft fire any longer. They’d just have to repair the airport and improve it as quickly as possible. Aircraft were the only way to bring in outside supplies quickly, because the Congo’s road network was littered with IEDs and other unpleasant surprises.
He sucked in his breath as Bill Jefferson, Secretary-General of the United Nations, appeared at the top of the ladder and glanced around in surprise. His staff had tried to insist that the handful of reporters in the city cover his arrival, but Hope had refused to allow them to interview Jefferson until he had dealt with the more urgent matter of humanitarian aid for the Congo. If he’d wanted to stroke the ego of powerful political leaders, he would have stayed in the SDI and demonstrated his powers to a succession of American Presidents.
Bill Jefferson had once been called the greatest President America had never had, if the DNC had been convinced to push him forward against Bush in 1988. But Bush’s campaign had been blown out of the water by the Slaughter Affair and the DNC had preferred to put forward Michael Dukakis rather than the younger Bill Jefferson. His appointment as Secretary-General had been a surprise to many, but Hope hadn’t been too surprised; the Secretary-General’s only real power was the ability to talk to everyone and Jefferson had always been good at building one-on-one relationships. Besides, compared to the previous Secretary-General, who’d taken vast bribes from Saudi Arabia and Iran, he was clean and surprisingly popular. A report that he might have had sex with an intern had been lost in the press of other events sweeping the globe.
“Welcome to Kinshasa, sir,” Hope said, as Jefferson reached the bottom of the ladder. He had travelled light, part of Hope’s mind noted; there were only five aides in the aircraft, along with a pair of security officers who were probably superhuman. Neither of them seemed unduly worried when looking at Hope. “I apologise for the small greeting, but we have much to discuss.”
Some politicians he’d met would have stood on their dignity and insisted on being greeted by vast and cheering crowds; Jefferson, at least, didn't seem to have that particular weakness. “I quite agree,” he said, smoothly. “I assume that you have a conference room ready to go?”
Hope nodded and led the way across the tarmac, into what remained of the airport’s reception facility. He’d had to pay in dollars to convince the locals to clean it up and check that it was reasonably safe, evicting a number of poisonous snakes that had made their homes in the building over the years. Hope was sure the conference room was grubby compared to the ones Jefferson was used to using, with a single fan to provide cool air for Westerners, but at least he’d be reasonably comfortable. It wasn't as if Kinshasa had a proper hotel for wealthy politicians.
“There is a great deal of concern over what you have done,” Jefferson said, without preamble. Chances were that the Security Council or the General Assembly would have handed him his marching orders before he even left New York, assuming that they’d been able to come to some kind of consensus. Quite why anyone expected the UN to do anything was beyond Hope. “You chose to overthrow a government and take a country by force.”
Hope had expected that charge. It still stung. “If I c
an direct you to the report of the United Nations Special Representative to the Congo, published last year, you will note that your own personal choice for representative stated that there was no overall government in the Congo, just a bunch of warlords who were fighting it out while crushing the natives below their feet,” he said. “Or I could direct you to Amnesty International’s report, which urged the UN to reconsider the proposal for direct foreign intervention as the only way to prevent genocide.”
His voice hardened. “Or I could take you outside and show you one of the mass graves,” he added, sharply. He picked up a folder from the desk and passed it over to Jefferson. “We exhumed two of them and took photographs. Take a look, and then tell me that we did the wrong thing.”
The photographs were sickening. One pit had over seventy men, ranging from teenagers to elderly gentlemen who should have been reflecting on their lives, who had been tied and then shot by one of the factions. The other pit held a smaller number of women, most who'd been raped before they had been executed. There was no way to know who had committed the atrocities or what they’d hoped to gain from them. The nearest village had been a death zone for years, abandoned by everyone. Maybe there were survivors in the refugee camps who would be able to return home, now that it was safe. Or maybe it would just be reclaimed by Mother Nature and lost below the foliage, now that there were no rogue loggers cutting into the rainforest.
“I do not dispute the atrocities committed by the warlords,” Jefferson said, heavily. At base, he was a decent man—and the photographs would have horrified anyone, at least anyone who wasn’t an outright sadist. Perhaps Adolf Hitler had done worse, but the Holocaust hadn’t been filmed with digital cameras and broadcast for the world to see. “But the concerns of the General Assembly cannot be put aside so easily.”
Hope stared at him. “Are you saying that they will refuse to send any help to the Congo?”
“I'm not saying that,” Jefferson said. “I’m saying that they have concerns they want to address.”
“I see,” Hope said, finally. It was easy to hear Jefferson’s heartbeat, racing much faster than it should. He was nervous, and conflicted. But who wouldn't be when caught between the devil and the deep blue sea? “How do they wish their...concerns to be addressed?”
“They want you to open the Congo up to international governance until the population can form a government of their own,” Jefferson said, carefully, “and they want you to guarantee that you will not repeat this somewhere else.”
“I have yet to see any evidence that the UN is remotely capable of handling such a challenge,” Hope said, finally. The UN had been a large part of the problems confronting multi-ethnic states like the Congo ever since the end of the Cold War. “Do you intend to put an army into the Congo, one with the ability to prevent the warlords from regrouping, or do they merely intend to stand by and watch as helpless civilians are slaughtered? Or do you intend to allow half of the international aid to be looted or used to feed the men with guns while the population starves?”
“You have killed most of the men with guns,” Jefferson pointed out.
“There will be others,” Hope said, flatly. “Tell me: will you send troops willing to uphold the rule of law, or will you get distracted by side issues of no great importance? Will you stamp on uncivilised practices or will you condone them because you do not want to appear insensitive to religion? Will you stay the course, or will you pull out the moment one of your soldiers breaks a nail?”
“The details have not yet been worked out,” Jefferson said, his face flushing. “I...”
“You mean they won’t be worked out,” Hope said, flatly. Jefferson wasn't a bad person, but he wouldn't be calling the shots. It would take years to iron out the details of a multinational force, during which time the Congo would sink back into chaos and hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians would die. “And with states like Pakistan and Libya calling the shots, I dare say that they will do whatever it takes to convince the UN not to help. They really don’t want us pointed at them, right?”
“You have upset the world,” Jefferson said, calmly. “Did you expect that there wouldn't be a reaction?”
“Politicians always put themselves first,” Hope said, bitterly. He’d hoped for better from the UN, even though he knew more than most about its failures in the Congo. “I don’t know why it surprises me.”
He shook his head. “You can tell the states you allow to serve on your Human Rights Council, despite committing more abuses of human rights than half the warlords we killed last night, that we will continue our mission until the entire human race can breathe free,” he said, firmly. “I suggest that they start liberalising themselves until their populations no longer need to suffer at the hands of their rulers. The only governments that can be considered just are the ones that recognise the right of the people to choose their own rulers.”
“They won’t like that,” Jefferson said.
“I don’t give a shit about what they like or don’t like,” Hope snapped. “Pakistan allowed a girl to be burned to death because she was raped; Libya gunned down a hundred protesters only four months ago because they wanted to live freely. They are in no position to lecture us on what is right and wrong. Do you understand me? I will not tolerate people who torment their own people to lecture us while the blood is dripping from their hands.”
No normal political leader could have said that, not when they needed to try to keep channels open between the democratic nations and those that spit in the eye of democracy. But Hope was accountable to no one, save his fellow Saviours. He could move against them at will and he would, once the Congo had been stabilised. Superhumanity would make the world better—and those who got in the way would be smashed. They’d had their chance.
Jefferson’s heartbeat seemed to falter, just for a second. It was a shame that the Redeemer wasn't nearby to read his thoughts, but he had probably had enough experience with telepaths to tell when one was probing into his mind. Telepathic scanning without permission was a crime all around the world, save in nations that operated secret police forces. Hope didn't intend for the Congo to wind up like that.
“Right,” he said, forcing himself to calm down. “How much humanitarian aid are you prepared to forward to the Congo? My people will ensure that it reaches people who actually need it.”
“My staff are still searching for commitments,” Jefferson said. One of his few successes as Secretary-General had been streamlining the programs for using non-governmental organisations as bearers of aid. Too many of them operated on the principle that they needed to keep people in need to remain needed, but at least they could spring into action quicker than any government. “The NGOs are ready to start sending in aid provided that you guarantee their security. There weren't many volunteers to actually travel here in the first place...”
Hope nodded impatiently. Foreign aid workers were supposed to be neutral. That idealism had lasted until they realised just what sort of hellhole they’d entered. Some of them had found themselves being pushed around by men with guns, others had been forced to leave the country or had suffered accidents that were really murders. At least one body in the mass grave they’d uncovered hadn't been African. They’d have to test her DNA to find out where to send her remains.
“We can provide security,” he said, confidently. Four hours ago, a team of men with guns had started ordering the civilians back to their homes. They hadn’t lasted longer than five minutes before they’d been scooped up and dragged to the internment camp. “But we need governmental aid as well as civilian support...”
“The governments are still arguing over the precise response to your actions,” Jefferson admitted. “Some are willing to extend aid, but they are not willing to legitimise your actions because it could create a dangerous precedent...”
“I note that Iraq was taken over by a superhuman in 1991,” Hope pointed out. It hadn't worked out too badly for the Iraqis. The Protector of Iraq might have
built on Saddam’s foundations, but Iraq now dominated the Middle East and had solved the omnipresent Israel-Palestine dispute. And ever since a Saudi terrorist leader had been executed in Baghdad, Islamic terrorism had been much less of a problem outside the Middle East and Pakistan. “The precedent existed a long time before I founded the Saviours.”
“He was still Iraqi,” Jefferson countered. “You have effectively invaded and occupied another country. Yes, there were plenty of good reasons to wish the warlords ill, but that doesn't prevent what you did from shaking up the world. If you think that governments are not going to experience some qualms over what you did, you’re going to be very disappointed.”
Hope gathered himself, fighting down the frustration that threatened to overwhelm him. Couldn't they see that he was trying to make a better world? He’d already done the hard part, the dangerous part, and yet they were refusing to help! How could they refuse when so many people desperately needed the help of the developed world?
He gritted his teeth together as he pulled himself to his feet. “Tell the General Assembly that there are people here who need help,” he said, tightly. “Tell them that there isn't much time to act before people start to die. Tell them that this is their chance to make up for their decision to either abandon the Congo or to meddle in it without caring about those caught up in the fighting. Tell them that I personally will hold them to account for every last piece of aid they refuse to send.”
Team Omega Page 10
