Team Omega

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  There was no question of putting anyone but the most intensely committed superhumans in the America costume. The current America had been a lucky find, a man who sparked midway through Boot Camp and turned into a Level 5 superhuman. He had some military training before entering the SDI’s training facilities, self-discipline that most superhumans couldn't hope to match and a level of patriotism that meant he could be trusted with delicate missions. But he was also something of an idealist; the General had quietly vetoed him having any access to the covert team because he wouldn't understand what they did in the name of their country. And that decision might have come back to haunt him.

  “I think that they have taken on far more than they can handle,” America said, finally. The superhumans in the SDI had intensely debated Hope’s actions since he’d invaded the Congo and crushed the warlords. None of them felt any pity for the warlords, but they were in the best place to know that superhuman abilities had limitations—and that Hope was operating without any of the restrictions they knew and accepted. “But I'm not sure that that justifies trying to kill him.”

  “We cannot allow them to run riot over the world, operating according to their notion of right or wrong,” the General said, finally. “What else could we have done? Sent the SDI in to battle them in the middle of Kinshasa?”

  America snorted at the comment. Superhuman conflicts were never quiet. A brawl between the SDI and the Saviours in the midst of a city, even one already shattered by civil war, would have been disastrous. The collateral damage would have been enough to make anyone blanch. And the SDI would have been badly outnumbered. They might have won—they were used to working as a team, something that most superhumans were not—but they would have left a ruined city behind them. America’s reputation would have plummeted; it might have been kinder to launch a massive nuclear strike against the city.

  “I know what you mean,” he said, finally. “I just feel...dirty.”

  The General nodded in understanding. “The real world is a messy fucking place,” he said, standing up and looking out the window at the New York skyline. New York was the world’s superhuman capital, by any definition of the term, and so the SDI had had to base itself just outside the city. “The comics make it look so simple.”

  They shared an ironic chuckle. Comic books had been declining ever since real superhumans had appeared, although some of the older characters still had their legions of devoted fans. There was even a theory that said that some of the fans had believed in superhumans—and heroes—so intensely that they’d brought them into existence. The General knew that Level X superhumans had weird powers, ones that defied normal understanding, but he rather doubted that there was any truth to that theory. Besides, what came first; the Level X superhuman or a world that hosted them?

  No one would have thought that the SDI’s base was actually a military base; the previous Director of Operations had outfitted the tower with luxury carpeting and large bedrooms for each of the superhumans, and the General had never had the heart to replace them with something more Spartan. Besides, his predecessor had been the victim when political leaders had managed to duck the blame for a problem they had helped to cause, his career sacrificed to the mob. He followed America down to the lounge—the briefing room, as he called it—and nodded to the other members of the overt team. If Hope did carry out his threat, they would be in the forefront of America’s defence.

  There was a flash of light, and a girl materialised in the lounge. The General reached for his weapon as the other superhumans jumped to their feet, unused to having their capital invaded by anyone, particularly reporters. He stared as the girl suddenly started to glow, realising in horror just who she was and what she was doing, but it was too late. America picked him up and shoved him into the gravity chute, a moment before the girl exploded into blinding light...

  ***

  “Jesus!”

  The United States Global Observation Command was a relatively new creation, the child of political leaders demanding that something be done to monitor superhuman activity and the technological push created by superhumans helping to establish space stations and orbital facilities around the Earth. Most of the previous monitoring stations and their systems had been folded into USGOC, which had assumed responsibility for watching for nuclear tests, superhumans sparking into life, and foreign activity in orbit. The men watching from the Cheyenne Mountain facility were trained to track superhumans who emitted tiny bursts of radiation. As it was, the flash from New York was so powerful that it burned out a number of the sensors watching from high overhead.

  “Report,” the supervisor demanded. Most of the time spent in the fortress was boring, even if it was the cornerstone of the United States defence network. But when the sensors picked up a nuclear detonation, boredom was replaced by sheer terror. “What happened?”

  “Micro-nuclear detonation in New York City,” the operator said. The blinded satellites were already useless, but there were contingency plans to direct other satellites to take their place. Besides, they also had access to the live take from less sensitive satellites that had survived the blast. “Sir...it’s right over the SDI building.”

  The supervisor didn't hesitate. Picking up the phone, he called the Pentagon. “This is a FLASH message,” he said. “I say again, this is a FLASH message. We have a confirmed nuclear detonation in New York.”

  “It seems to have been a very odd blast,” the operator commented. By now, the alert would be racing through the system, warning everyone who might have to deal with the residue left by a nuclear blast. “Very tiny—I’m not sure that it damaged anywhere outside the SDI facility.”

  The supervisor winced. “Anyone who saw it will still be blind,” he said. “And what the hell does it mean?”

  ***

  Chester had been briefing the President when the alerts sounded and the Secret Service agents rushed into the Oval Office. The President was quickly grabbed, taken down a shaft that led under the White House and into a bunker intended to protect the President from anything up to and including a nuclear detonation right above the White House. Secondary agents took care of Chester, leading him to a secondary shaft as the White House staff was hastily evacuated to the bunkers. God alone knew what was happening outside—no one else seemed to know—but Chester would have bet his salary that it had something to do with Hope. The superhuman wasn't known for standing on his hands after issuing a threat.

  The protective agents finally let go of him once they reached the bunker, where a group of armed Marines checked their credentials before allowing them into the innermost core, the secure room that protected the President. It was supposed to be capable of standing up to any superhuman, but no one had actually been willing to sanction the expense in testing the whole system with a real superhuman. Chester saw the President at the far end of the room, surrounded by a pair of military aides responsible for communicating with the Pentagon and NORAD, and walked towards him. There was an ominous red light pulsing over New York.

  “I have word from the ground,” one of the aides was saying. “The blast was definitely confined to the SDI building, which appears to have been largely destroyed. New York medics are rushing to the scene now, but the National Guardsmen with radiation counters have been delayed because of panic in the streets.”

  The President looked to have aged fifty years overnight. “The SDI,” he said, as the horrific meaning sank in. “Are they...are they alive?”

  “Unknown,” the aide said. “But the blast was nuclear in force, if not in scope; we have to assume the worst. Everyone in the building might be dead.”

  Chester felt sick, even though he'd lived with the realities of a superhuman world for longer than he cared to contemplate. The SDI had been America’s first line of defence against a superhuman threat, be it the Protectorate of Iraq or the Latin American alliance that was effectively aimed at the United States. They’d always assumed that the Russians and the Chinese had been building up their own
superhuman forces as well. But if the overt team—and most of the covert team—were dead, America’s defences had already been crippled.

  “New report,” one of the aides snapped. “Hostile superhumans have appeared near the building! They’re ordering the police back and threatening deadly force if they refuse to comply.”

  “I thought that New York was meant to be the City of the Superhero,” the President said, grimly. “Can't the Mayor rustle up a posse to deal with the intruders?”

  “I think it may take some time to get organised,” Chester said. He’d warned about the dangers of allowing so many superhumans to live openly in New York, but no one had listened. No, they’d listened; they’d just ignored him. “And I don’t know how much time we have left. We need to get the President out of here.”

  ***

  The General slowly came back to himself, feeling a dull pain throughout his entire body. His first attempt to move proved that his legs had been broken in the fall, just after the detonation had cut power to the emergency chute. The planners did a good job, after all, he thought numbly, but it hadn't been enough to save the SDI. He’d just have to hope that someone managed to rescue him before he bled to death.

  His ears were still ringing, but he heard the sound as someone—or something—started to move the pile of rubble that had landed on top of the chute’s cage. He started to reach for the gun he always wore on his belt, only to discover that his fingers weren't working properly. Blood leaked from his wrist, suggesting that he’d broken that, too—or perhaps his arm. He gritted his teeth, trying to remember the mental disciplines he’d had hammered into his head during SOF training, but no amount of discipline could overcome what had happened to his arm. There was a final rattle from outside and bright sunlight stabbed into the cage, almost blinding him. He closed his eyes as someone jumped down beside him and then opened them, coming face to face with one of Triple A’s bodies. The German-born super-soldier would have been able to overcome him even if he hadn't been badly wounded.

  “Tell her we got him,” Triple A said. His other two bodies appeared—his main power was splitting himself into three people, who thought and acted as one—and started to pick up the General, despite his injuries. “The General himself, right here.”

  The General cursed as a second person appeared beside him, someone who looked perfect, too good to be true. His tongue started to feel for the suicide pill, but it was already too late.

  ***

  “We need to leave the base,” the Sergeant said. “Captain, we’re sitting ducks here.”

  Jackson heard them as he checked and rechecked his weapons. Team One had been supposed to be on the helicopters thirty minutes ago, but the aircraft hadn't shown up. Part of the national command network appeared to have been taken down, while the TV kept screaming hysterical reports of nuclear war and fighting right across the nation. None of the reports seemed to make any sense. Some claimed that Washington had been destroyed, others that they’d heard directly from the President, who had apparently stayed in the White House. Jackson had no problem understanding that the media would often broadcast rumour as fact, but it was clear that something had gone badly wrong.

  “I don’t disagree,” Lane said. There was a moment when he looked down at the blank laptop, and then stood up. “Grab your weapons; we’ll move out of the base to...”

  An explosion cut off his words, followed by a thunderclap that seemed to strike the entire base. Team One was on their feet instantly, holding their weapons at the ready, but they had no idea what was going on. The siren started to howl outside, warning that the base was under attack! Jackson had never heard the siren sounded for real inside the United States.

  “Ron, Jackson, escort Lane to the final room,” the Sergeant ordered. Jackson blinked in surprise, but started to obey. “Everyone else, follow them and...”

  The building shook as someone crashed right through the door, landing in front of the soldiers and coming towards them. None of them hesitated; they opened fire and blew the mutant apart with their weapons. But others would be on the way, Jackson knew, and from the sounds outside it was unlikely that there would be any help from the rest of the base. Another mutant appeared at the broken door, snarling at them with a disconcertingly human face. A close-quarter grenade exploded under the creature, and it was blown into bloody chunks. And then a third superhuman appeared. Bullets just bounced off this one...

  “Go,” the Sergeant ordered. “Now!”

  “There's no point in trying to run,” the superhuman said. He sounded almost...bored. “I can take you all, and...”

  “Go,” the Sergeant repeated. He lunged forward, lifting his oversized fist. Absurdly, the superhuman didn't even bother to duck; he practically invited the Sergeant to hit his chin with his fist. An ordinary human might not have been able to hurt him, but the Sergeant had been enhanced...his fist slammed into the superhuman's jaw and smashed him right out of the barracks. “Go, I said!”

  Jackson caught hold of Lane and dragged him down the corridor as the superhuman flashed back, only to be caught and held by the Sergeant. The files on enhanced humans had made alarming reading; very few were any match for a genuine superhuman. He cursed himself for running as the Sergeant held off their enemy, trading blows with a person who could kill them all without breaking a sweat. How long could he hold out...?

  The final room sprang open, revealing a device he'd only been briefed on after being promoted. If superhumans could teleport, a number of scientists had wondered, surely the trick could be duplicated. They’d come up with an experimental model that worked—mostly—but was considered too risky to use in anything other than the direst emergency. The Sergeant had evidently decided that this counted. Jackson slapped his hand down on the activation panel as they stumbled onto the pad and braced themselves...

  He cursed as the door smashed open, the sergeant’s body flying through and crashing to the ground. Jackson watched in horror. His chest and fists had been superhuman, but his legs had been those of an ordinary man. The superhuman advanced towards them, blood trickling from his nose. He wanted revenge...

  ...The teleporter activated and whisked them away, just in time.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “An enhanced human,” Hope said. The first reports had come back, reporting success. “I thought there were treaties against producing enhanced humans.”

  “I doubt that this one was an American creation,” Mainframe reported. “Judging from the peculiar mix of racial traits, I’d say that he came from South Africa rather than the United States. I don’t think any of Dr. Death’s creatures could be blamed for what he made them.”

  Hope shrugged. The South African Diaspora had scattered the former apartheid regime’s enforcers everywhere, so there was no reason why one of them couldn't go to America and join the United States military. He would probably have been a child at the time, ensuring that there was no blood on his hands—at least until he’d joined Team Omega. Hope wasn’t unduly surprised to discover that there was a team designed to kill superhumans—he would have done the same in their place—but it was disquieting to realise just how much success they’d had over the years.

  But they were broken and scattered, and the American military establishment was about to go down hard. What trouble could they cause in the future?

  Dismissing the thought, he turned to look at his forces as they gathered in the park. Thirty-seven superhumans, all Level 3 or higher, were ready to invade Washington. The advance teams had crippled the forces the United States could direct against them, successfully destroying much of the SDI and the mysterious Team Omega; now it was time to end it before the Americans regrouped and started launching nuclear weapons at the Congo.

  “Let’s go,” he said, quietly. “Open the gate.”

  Gateway nodded. A shimmering portal appeared in front of Hope. He led the way through the light and into Washington, appearing in front of the White House itself. Smaller teams would target the Pe
ntagon, Congress and the Senate, and the handful of military installations around the city, paying particular attention to Langley and Fort Meade. He had hoped, without any real expectation that he would be lucky, that the Americans would have decided to surrender without fighting any further, but a hail of fire from Marines stationed around the White House convinced him otherwise. He gritted his teeth as he flew up into the air, seeing a pair of attack helicopters moving in on an intercept vector; how many lives was the American government prepared to throw away, merely to maintain themselves in power?

  A Hellfire missile slammed into him and sent him tumbling towards the ground before he managed to recover control and throw himself at the nearest helicopter, smashing right through the metal and leaving the wreckage falling to the ground behind him. The second helicopter danced back, firing at him and the advancing superhumans. Hope attempted to ram it, but it cut power and dropped like a stone instead. He felt a moment of admiration for the pilot before catching the spinning blades and pulling them away from the helicopter. The main body of the craft plummeted towards the ground and crashed into the White House lawn.