The Omega Sanction by Andrew Scorah (urban books to read TXT) 📖

it’s prey below, on the sun scorched verge of the Intersection of 375, or the Extraterrestrial Highway, as it had been dubbed by Nevada State legislature, and Back Gate Road. Here, Tikaboo Valley, 25 miles wide and six times as long, as lonely a place as could be found on the planet, stretched into the distance till it merged with the horizon. It was Tikaboo Valley that connected the outside world to Area 51, or to those who are in the know, those who work there, it is simply known as The Complex, or sometimes, The Ranch, hidden as it was by the jagged peaks and ridges of the Groom Range and the Jumbled Hills. A place where death and life met beneath a sun bleached sky in a battle for supremacy. Tikaboo Valley, where bodies and secrets were buried in spades.

The bird wheeled and circled before diving towards what ever it was hunting. Karl Smith watched and silently cheered the creature on. He watched until the eagle reappeared from behind a line of Joshua trees and headed off towards Coyote Summit.

This was going to be a day for hunters, he thought, as he entered the guard shack. Smith checked his watch, one hour to zero, he saw. He picked up his radio to check in with Central Security Control, which he had to do every hour on the hour. If he missed the check in even by a few seconds the armed response teams would descend on his location with all bells and whistles sounding.

“First base to dutch apples, receiving, over.”

“First base, go ahead.”

“I have a code-5, repeat, I have a code-5, requesting a pony 122,” Smith said into the handset using the codes for shots fired, and nearest response vehicle to attend.

“We are dealing with several Code-2’s First Base, but will free up a pony to attend your location.”

“First Base is 10-4.”

Smith grinned, of course you’re having Code-2’s you schmuck, he thought, we organised the party for you.

Smith had been employed by Wackenhut Security for over two years, he had to prove himself before being given the assignment here at the complex, better known as Area 51 by the crazies out in the world. Its official title was the Nevada Test and Training Range, approximately 100 miles north of Las Vegas, on the edge of the Mojave Desert, it sits inside the largest government-controlled land parcel in the United States. Encompassing 4,687 square miles, this area is just a little smaller than the state of Connecticut—three times the size of Rhode Island, and more than twice as big as Delaware, it was huge. On top of nearby Bald Mountain, elevation 9,380 feet, sat the radar site and observation post that gave security officers an unrestricted view of all traffic entering and transiting the area. It was the first of several security rings and sensor networks employed by the Air Force to ensure that nothing penetrated the discreet cordon sanitaire around the base. The others, if you were unlucky, could be a lot less passive, more in-the-face: the sworn-in deputies from "Pittman Station" who patrolled the valley looking for miscreants and who occasionally locked them up and were said to throw away the key;

Parts of the location were the most inhospitable on earth, the result of hundreds of nuclear bomb tests, both above and below ground leaving the land irradiated for thousands of years to come.

After fifteen months he was assigned here, he had to prove himself all over again, riding shotgun with a supervisor in one of the response team vehicles. If the supervisor decided he did not like him he would be ghosted from the job. Lucky for Smith, his super turned out to have been a Navy SEAL just like him, so they got on great guns.

Once approval was given he became a trusted employee, given more freedom about the base, or as much freedom as could be expected. Now he was assigned to gate duty, his real job could begin.

He took a piece of gum from the packet on his desk and stuffed it in his mouth, before taking the M16 from the grey cabinet at the rear of the shack.

Stepping outside, he looked around. There was no sign of the response team as yet. Heading to the rear of the shack and out of view of the cctv camera, he raised the weapon and fired. The camera exploded in a shower of sparks.

As the last broken parts landed on the ground, he heard the approach of the response teams white Jeep Cherokee, coming in from the direction of the Crescent Reservoir to the south east.

He leaned against the side of the shack, nonchalantly popping his gum, seconds later the Cherokee topped the rise beyond a cluster of storage sheds, dust disturbed by its passage made the vehicle look as if smoke was spewing from it’s rear.

The jeep pulled up in front of him. Mac Dowdle, his supervisor and a new probationer whose name Smith could not remember, climbed out. He smiled to himself as he noticed they had left their weapons inside the cab.

“What’s the problem, Karl?”

“No problem, everything be cool.”

He raised the M16 and shot Mac in the throat. His head was nearly decapitated as he was thrown back against the truck. The probie’s eyes went in to saucer mode. Before his reactions kicked in, Smith put a round in his chest then his head.

He turned away, pulling a cell phone from his pocket. He hit speed dial.

“Hunter König, Zeit zu kommen in die Partei eintreten, Heil Hitler.”

 

Bane used the week before his flight to tie up the loose ends of his life, he had no idea how long this secondment would last, but he figured long term rather than short. He didn’t have a partner, or siblings, and his parents were dead, so there would be no tearful goodbyes to contend with. Bane, in his mid thirties,was about five-ten, with a rugged creased face and black hair. He usually wore his hair cut short and his chin clean-shaven, but after seven weeks in the field chasing down leads on Mueller then following the shipment, his hair was longer and he had a healthy stubble around his jaw. Bane had striking blue eyes and would probably have been considered handsome were it not for the scar running from his hairline down to the right side of his mouth, giving him a perpetual half smile, a trophy from a previous mission that had gone bad. He spent a day briefing Deakin on his ongoing jobs, after he was up to speed he decided to head off to a pub run by a friend of his, Bob Jennings. Smileys was on Herrick Street opposite Millbank Gardens, he had recruited Bane straight from int and squint, other wise known as 14th Intelligence Company, the unit conducted undercover surveillance operations against suspected members of Irish republican and loyalist paramilitary groups, and Bane had been especially gifted in intelligence gathering, he had an unerring knack of seeing things as a cross between a jigsaw and a giant dot to dot puzzle, he never failed to complete the puzzle. He had joined the unit towards the end of the troubles, but still managed to shine within the company. Jennings approached him when he put in an application to take part in the SAS induction course, he persuaded Bane he would be better off crawling through the seedy world of spy vs spy, than mud and blood.

Jennings was retired now, but still kept his finger on the pulse of the intelligence world, he may have been in his seventies but his mind was as sharp as a newly forged Toledo blade. Bane wanted to know more about Omega, but did not want to go through official circles. Jennings was the best man to ask.

He pushed open the main door of Smileys to be greeted with the pungent aroma of spices and beer, the spices came from the afternoon lunches cooked up by his Gurkha chef, Tamang, the little man was a virtual wizard in the kitchen.

Jennings raised a hand in greeting when he saw Bane. The pub was busy as usual at this time of day. So he took a seat at the end of the bar to wait for Jennings to come over to him.

The pub was a regular stop off after work for many staff from Thames House. They felt comfortable with Jennings being one of their own. Bane nodded to a few familiar faces, and ordered a Whiskey Sour, his favourite tipple, from the young girl behind the bar. Jennings came over to him as she was handing him his change.

“Good afternoon, young Adam, what brings you in here so early in the day?”

“Thought I’d check on my old friend, see if he wanted a lift to the old peoples home.”

“Get away with you, I’m not even close to joining the shit in my bed brigade,” he laughed, and flicked the towel in his hand at Bane.

Jennings leaned across the bar, speaking in a low tone he said, “Word on the ticker tape is you are being shipped out to the Greeks.”

“You still don’t miss much, do you?” Bane laughed and took a sip of his drink.

“What do you know about them? I’ve never heard of them before.”

Jennings looked deep in thought for a moment, then came around the bar, and led Bane by the elbow to a booth in a quieter section of the pub.

“I know about Omega,” he said when they were seated, “Because my counsel was sort out when the company was in the planning stages.”

“Okay, tell me more.”

It came as no surprise to Bane, Jennings had been a global intelligence operator all his adult life, he began with the SOE, the Special Operations Executive, it was officially formed by Minister of Economic Warfare Hugh Dalton on 22 July 1940, to conduct espionage, sabotage and reconnaissance in occupied Europe against the Axis powers, and to aid local resistance movements. After it was dissolved officially on 15 January 1946, Jennings was taken into MI6’s fold where he spent many years butting heads with the Soviets during the cold war, before transferring over to MI5. Some said he was the inspiration for Flemings James Bond. A hard nosed operator whose knowledge of international affairs as pertaining to clandestine operations was incomparable.

“Omega was initially put together by a United Nations Security Council resolution, as an information gathering unit, primarily in the field of WMDs.”

“Why did they need extra information gatherers? They already have plenty of those.”

Jennings went on to provide an explanation.

The resolution was what is known as a closed door resolution, not needing the whole of the council present, Omega was going to be run along the lines of the SOE, which is why they needed Jennings input. It was the belief of Ban Ki Moon that his inspectors may have succumbed to bribes to doctor the information they gathered. Omega was to be the answer to that. They would gather their own information via clandestine means, and then sabotage what ever factories or labs they uncovered. All made to look like accidents of course.

Omega consisted of an investigation branch, a scientific branch, and a direct action branch. In their first operational year, they proved to be immensely successful. The problem was, if information about Omega were to become general knowledge, this would cause huge problems for Moon and the UN, their activities being illegal under the UN charter. Omega was cut loose, became autonomous. Still funded under the covers by the UN, and their base of operations moved to the most secret of locations in the western hemisphere, Area 51.

Omega was a multi-national unit from the beginning, all but the investigation and direct action operators were on temporary contracts, some did not know they were working for the unit, employed by shell companies whose ultimate management terminated at Omega.

“They are hidden so deep. They don’t even leave a paper trail.”

“No wonder I’ve never heard of