"Sky traffic tickets?"
Zach chuckled. "Something like that. But wait – there's more. President Morgan wants the rest of your gang to come with you. Terry and Kevin and their parents. Also, your dad."
"Really? Are they being offered jobs, too?"
"Could be. DARE has to start somewhere. And by the way, I'm going to be heading up the biological research division."
"You're kidding?"
"Why, don't I strike you as executive material?" He affected a hurt tone. "I don't strike myself that way, either. But for whatever reason, the President seems to believe I might have a talent for managing people. Not sure where he got that idea."
"Maybe because of the way you've made me do your bidding?"
"Probably. But it remains to be seen how far my incredible charm and sex appeal will take me." He laughed. "The truth is, I actually asked for the position in a joking manner in the Situation Room, and President Morgan said 'You got it.' I battled cardiac arrest for a few moments before accepting."
"I guess congratulations are in order."
"Thanks. We'll see if they're in order after a while, I imagine." He coughed quietly. "I better let you go. Your tickets are waiting for all of you at United. A nonstop trip to the nation's capital."
As long as it's not one-way, Jamie thought.
Chapter 15
THE AUGMENTED AMERICANS Registration and Regulation Act was passed unanimously in an emergency session of Congress, creating the new Department of Augmented Regulation and Enforcement. General Jim Bridger, former CIA Director, was appointed as DARE Secretary.
My new boss, Jamie thought. Not an especially happy thought. She was a teacher, not someone who enforced the edicts of a monolithic government agency. She hadn't met Secretary Bridger, but she had shaken hands with his immediate superior, head of the Interdiction and Enforcement Division in which she now worked, Dan Boltman. Dan was a former head of the Defense Intelligence Agency and an Air Force Colonel and unlike anyone Jamie had ever known or would ever want to know: short, swarthy, with a bulldog jaw and dark, deep-set eyes that glowed harshly over a hawkish nose and thin hard lips perpetually on the verge of a disdainful smile. Or so it had seemed to her.
Days of extreme disorientation broken by evenings questioning what the hell she'd gotten herself into followed after arriving at her new workplace, a wing of the underground Advanced Research Complex now designated as DARE headquarters. A new headquarters was planned for the future, but the President wanted them up and running "yesterday," so the new agency was in a mad scramble to get operational and catch up with dire current events.
It was a madhouse of endless meetings, brainstorming strategy sessions, processing a constant stream of intelligence, and hiring a vast army of new employees – all going on at once. Jamie had soon given up even any pretense of trying to make sense of it all, focusing instead on her new amorphous role as an "Interdiction and Enforcement agent." Amorphous because her own division consisted of a mishmash of augmented applicants and administrators – some of whom were augmented themselves (or soon to be) – and no one, including their director, was sure where everyone belonged, if they belonged at all.
While DARE desperately struggled to place all its bureaucratic cogs in a row, the world outside was burning. Conventional police and law enforcement agencies were largely helpless to stem the swelling tide of super-powered criminals and resistors. The agencies had been forced to adopt a system of triage, focusing on violent crimes and letting lesser offenses such as drug possession or traffic tickets or warrant enforcement languish. Rioting, bold attacks on private and public institutions, and murder and rape sprees, drew all the available manpower, to little effect. More and more police were themselves experiencing new powers, but no one was sure how to implement them. That would be the job of the new agency, but no one could say when it would become operational. Most towns and small cities soon adopted a local "circle the wagons" policy that concentrated on maintaining order and responding to incidents within a small area.
Commerce within the country, Jamie understood, had slowed to a crawl. Only a few brave truckers were on the roads now, after a group of individuals had set up roadblocks on Interstate 80 and collected "tolls" from hundreds of passengers before attack helicopters and troops showed up from a nearby Army base. A battle between the military and the augmented toll-collectors erupted, costing the lives of nearly a thousand servicemen. Only when a few augmented civilians joined the fight did the hijackers withdraw. The casualties of that conflict alone approached fifteen hundred, and joined a swiftly growing national toll that some estimated to be close to a million dead and three or four times that injured.
Much of those horrifying statistics came from within and around major cities, and by Presidential decree halting those conflicts was DARE's first priority.
Jamie was joined in her new employment by Kevin and Terry and their parents, along with roughly three hundred hastily sworn in augmented agents mostly drawn from the police and military. At this point, the Director of Personnel and his staff were hiring people with what they judged to be "exceptionally useful" augmented abilities. By that standard, as subjective as it was, Jamie's father was sent home. His strength and speedier perceptions didn't make the cut. DARE was still in the early phases of classifying super abilities, but its current reckoning, Cal's powers were deemed "run of the mill."
Jamie wasn't unhappy at all to see him go. DARE hadn't stressed the risks of sudden and violent death – understandably – but she was under no illusions about the safety of their job. They would be going up against violent individuals with enhanced powers. Even she, the supposed "superstar" – though she suspected Director Boltman was probably being facetious when he called her that – could be vulnerable. There were no safe assumptions at this point.
Terry's grandmother, Madeline Mayes, had also been sent home. Her husband, Thomas Sr., would've returned with her if not for her fierce insistence that he stay and do "the Lord's work." As far as Jamie knew, Madeline Mayes was their first example of someone who couldn't mentally handle her changes. Thomas Senior would be serving on their medical team. Terry was being considered for some form of mechanic position because of his aptitude for healing people and machines. Kevin had been tentatively offered a general advisory role – either for a particular division or the agency as a whole. Kevin's mother, Karen Clarkson - the only mind-reader among the applicants and the one who made everyone, including Jamie, the most uneasy – was slated for a "yet-to-be-determined" position within the agency. She was hardly the only one DARE was unsure about how to use. The general consensus was that anyone with unusual powers would find a place within the organization.
None of Jamie's cohorts from Grand Forks were in evidence now in the newly christened "Red Room" – partly an homage to Stephen King, partly a reference to the pinkish colors of the walls, but mostly an acknowledgment that bloody actions would be planned here. Nicknames were springing up for everything as a multitude of new DARE agents struggled to wrap their heads around what was happening and to find words to make things more familiar or less frightening. At least that was how Kevin had explained it in one of his frequent oracle-like observations.
The group of individuals now sharing the Red Room with Jamie had already been given a nickname – "Hunter-Killers." The origin of the term was probably the Division Director, Dan Boltman – who was now scrutinizing them all with this dark-eyed half-smirking stare – but Jamie wasn't sure.
It might also have been Mort Anderson, head of field operations and their most immediate boss under Director Boltman. A Midwesterner like herself, whose chirpy Minneapolis dialect and genial smile didn't quite match his icy blue eyes or his casual way of discussing death and dismemberment as a former Green Beret. He had a penchant for delivering his dark commentary in a tone so casual and understated that it sounded innocuous.
The rest of the forty or so people in the room struck Jamie as even more dazed and out of sorts than she was. With three
or four exceptions, they didn't look like people who would be comfortable hunting and killing anyone. With a few exceptions, they were unified by their ordinary appearance and wariness more than anything else.
Mort Anderson had everyone introduce themselves and give a brief summary of their previous employment and their new powers while he studied a laptop on his desk and occasionally keyed in more information.
The people didn't go into much detail and spoke quickly, with the brusqueness of a reluctant participant in a group therapy session. Maybe a third of the group claimed telekinetic ability of various strengths (mostly self-assessed), and a much smaller percentage could fly. Several had strength and toughness to a remarkable degree. Fewer had both great physical strength and telekinetic ability. Fewer still were those with stand-out powers such as the ability to transmit extreme heat, make objects implode or explode, move in fast motion while slowing time-perception, and one owlishly blinking young woman claimed she could both fly and see forward in time several seconds. A young man who appeared even younger than Kevin and Terry said he could teleport – both himself and/or a limited number of objects. Six people besides Jamie boasted of two or more significant abilities. The fast-motion person was also super-strong – probably a necessity for those speeds, Jamie thought – and had substantial telekinetic power. The allegedly time-traveling young woman added a powerful electrical discharge to her flying and short-term prediction capabilities. The teleporting dude couldn't fly but was capable of not only transporting himself but could also simply teleport people and objects "out of existence." The scientists could not explain his abilities yet, but that was par for the current course. He was the only person whose power scared Jamie a little. One blink from him and she'd either be dead or in some form of Phantom Zone?
After completing the introductory roll-call, Director Boltman exited, and Mort Anderson had the group sit. He paced in front of them like a caged tiger, his tall, rangy frame bent slightly as if he were preparing to jump or perhaps break into a sprint.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "You were chosen out of several hundred applicants to form our most elite branch of what I'll call 'augmented enforcers.' You were selected not only because we believe you may possess the most deadly - or potentially most deadly - super powers, but also because you tested reasonably well on both general and psychological intelligence. In addition to your powers, in other words, you appear to have your heads on straight. Some of you may have leadership capabilities."
Mort stopped his pacing to face them, his crooked smile suggesting skepticism. He surveyed each person, pausing on occasion as if to take someone's measure. Jamie thought his gaze lingered the longest on her. Or maybe it just seemed that way. His small nod suggested an acknowledgment, but she wasn't sure of what. Maybe what she'd done in the Capitol building?
"But the truth is," Mort continued, "you may not be the most powerful or the smartest super-people on the planet. We don't know what's out there. But one thing I do know, is that training makes the difference. Everything being equal – sometimes even unequal – superior training and conditioning prevail. Also, superior organization and planning.
"Our advantage over the super-assholes we'll meet will come from the fact that we've all worked hard to master our abilities. I don't see mastering a super ability being any different than mastering any other. It takes time and effort and discipline. You're gonna be better than your opponents because you're gonna work your asses off developing and refining your abilities while they sit on their lazy asses believing they're the meanest dog on the block.
"So what we're gonna do – and I fully realize this is gonna piss off a lot of people, especially those above me – is practice. We're gonna practice not only at mastering your abilities but also at working together in various scenarios. You gotta learn not just how to take people down but also how to take prisoners. I know we're authorized to terminate any augmented individual committing a violent crime, but we got some wiggle room on defining that, which I aim to exploit. There's a reason armies take prisoners, and it ain't all about humanitarian concerns. I don't want my opponents thinking they got nothing to lose by fighting to the death, so I plan on offering them surrender options whenever I can. I'm guessing a lot of these people are just confused, and some believe we got no right to round up innocent people by force. In my opinion, they got a point. We need to make a distinction between protesters and people standing up for themselves and low-life super-criminals. Even some of those might be turned to the light. It's a lot to ask of some kid who maybe hasn't had a lot of values instilled in him or her to handle a superpower responsibly. Hell, I was a juvenile delinquent myself. So I want more from you than trained assassins. I want you to be part social workers/crisis negotiators, too, when that's called for. In my experience in the Army, we built more victories out of goodwill than killing people. Some of our leaders may disagree in their great rear echelon wisdom. But then they're in flat-out panic mode right now, and panic doesn't win battles. Along with training and organization, cooler heads almost always prevail." He paused. "Questions?"
Jamie sensed the tension in the room. People wanted to ask questions, she thought, but they weren't quite ready to draw attention to themselves – to bring down Mort Anderson's formidable judgment upon them. A few weeks ago most of these people had been accountants, service professionals, software engineers, small business owners, teachers, and managers. A handful of them had military experience, but hadn't made a career out of that. Only one among them had been a police officer.
The range of people's jobs appeared limited to the moderately successful. No one had given up prize careers to volunteer for this new agency, but the agency probably didn't accept people below a certain level of education and success. Jamie imagined that FBI or other elite law enforcement employees weren't eager to jump ship and join an unproven enterprise.
Finally, one guy raised his hand – the teleportation dude. Jamie thought she remembered him saying he was a computer programmer. Mort nodded to him.
"Won't police departments have their own people with super powers? Isn't the theory that everyone will soon have them? Why do they need us?"
"Good question," said Mort. "The simple answer is the powers that be believe the best idea is to create an organization specially tasked for handling the superpower problem. My guess is that our function as law enforcers in augmented crime will be taken over more and more by conventional law enforcement as things settle down, but for now we're the big gorilla in this jungle. Time will tell. Our only concern should be becoming the best we can be and serving our country the best we can under these chaotic circumstances."
"I don't want to kill anybody," the time-traveling young woman blurted. "I didn't volunteer here to do that."
Mort regarded her for a long moment before replying.
"Anyone else have reservations about killing someone? Raise your hands."
After a few seconds, about half the room, including Jamie, raised their hands.
"I'm disappointed," said Mort. "Because anyone who doesn't have reservations about taking a human life doesn't belong on this team. As I said, I'm not looking for stone-cold killers. I want people who value people's lives. That said, do any of you believe you would be unable to kill or injure another person in self-defense or under circumstances where that person threatens the lives of others?"
No one raised their hands, though several people exchanged uncertain glances.
"Good," said Mort. "Look, I know most of you aren't soldiers and have no training in fighting or arresting people. I'm not expecting you to be Rambo here. I'm expecting you to work with me – to work together – to be your best. I expect you to want to make a difference. Our highest call is to help people. I will tell you now, straight-up, if you have notions of being a badass, you won't make it here. I won't tolerate any trigger-happy – or in this case, power-happy – people on my team. Anyone here feel like they want to kick some ass and take some names?"
That drew u
neasy looks from four or five guys. Even one woman appeared a bit guilty. One guy – buff, good-looking twenty-something with a ramrod posture – was wearing a half-smirk. Jamie remembered him as former military and boasting of telekinetic, super-strength, and minor heat-projecting powers.
"You, son?" Mort asked, staring straight at the young man. "You got an urge to be a badass?"
"I wouldn't say that, sir," he replied. "But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to stopping these ghetto-busting rioters and people who think they can stop interstate traffic to take tolls."
"Like that thought of putting those uppity black people in the cities down?"
The tall young man shifted his footing and lowered his eyes under the former colonel's hard gaze. "Uh, no, sir. I'm not a racist, sir."
"I'm glad to hear that. Because I won't tolerate that shit in my unit. We're here for everyone in this country, including people in the inner cities."
Mort stood leaning against his desk, his face set in harsh reflection. An uneasy silence settled over the room. Jamie felt a warm sense of relief. She liked this man. She'd been afraid they'd be serving under some gung-ho take-no-prisoners type of person, and that definitely wouldn't have worked for her.
"All right," said Mort, straightening up. "We have a lot of work to do. We should get started."
"THE UNRIGHTEOUS are coming," said Madeline Mayes matter-of-factly, as if predicting the weather.
Cal smiled politely and confined his gaze to the succulent-looking slices of roast on his plate. His phone conversation with Mrs. Mayes, which he'd intended to be a courtesy call asking how she was doing and if he could do anything to help since her son and grandson were gone, had evolved into an invitation for dinner he didn't think he could reasonably refuse. And being all by himself on his daughter's "estate" was making him a tad lonely. A good home-cooked meal and some easy conversation could hit the spot.
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