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

them. ” Bane knocked back the last of his drink.

“I think you will fit in very neatly with their way of working, they certainly are unique.”

“Area 51, eh, I bet the yanks are loving that?”

“It was at their invitation that Omega station there, they’re not on the base proper, an old mine up in the Groom mountains overlooking the lake bed has been converted into their operations centre, that’s where you will be going.”

“Oh goody, does that mean I get to find out if they have aliens there?”

Jennings laughed, “I have no doubt you will learn many secrets, but I do not think little green men will be one of them.”

“Thanks for this little chat, Bob, you’ve told me more than what was in the file they gave me. One last thing, do you have any idea why someone would be trying to buy red mercury, specifically a type called Xerum 525, we just took down a shipment being purchased by a guy called Mueller.”

A shadow fell across Jennings face, and Bane wondered if he’d asked too much. His friend looked around as if someone may be listening to their conversation.

“Xerum 525 was created in the labs of a Dr Hans Kammler, an SS general who was responsible for the construction of the extermination camps, gas chambers, he was also head of construction for the V 2 rocket programme. 525 was allegedly the integral fuel for a German wunderwaffen, a wonder weapon, one that would make the bombs that were dropped on Japan look like fireworks. It’s all supposition of course. I did hear this Mueller has hooked up with some shadowy figures connected to something called Geheime Staat, or Secret State. ”

Bane sat back, and pondered on what Jennings had told him. The information opened up more questions, why would Mueller be chasing a shadow.

"Geheime Staat?” Bane said,“I’ve never heard of ‘em.”

“Like Xerum 525, they are also a supposition, some say they are the sons and daughters of the Third Reich’s top echelon of leaders, the babies taken away at birth to be brought up in the Nazi ideology, one thing is for sure, they have a lot of money behind them, where it comes from no one has been able to trace, you wont have heard of them before as they have only just come to the surface.”

Bane looked at his watch then stood up.

“Sorry, Bob, I have to go, lots to do before I leave.”

Jennings held out his hand. Bane shook it.

“Don’t leave it too long, you hear, I hope I cleared a few things up for you?”

Bane took a breath, and rubbed the back of his neck, “You’ve helped, but also given me a few more questions.”

He again shook Jennings hand, then walked out of the pub. It was a pleasant evening so he chose to walk home.

Bane’s head was swimming with the information his friend had imparted, so, Xerum 525 was some kind of fuel component for something termed a wonder weapon. That would gel with what Colonel Montague said about a moab, a mother of all bombs. Still, it all seemed a little far fetched to Bane, his knowledge on German tech during the war was sketchy at best though. Hopefully more information would be available to him when he reached Omega’s headquarters. The file Montague had given him only contained back ground information about the two scientists, and a little about their disappearance, nothing on anything else.

He was so deep in thought he did not see the hooded figure step out of the entrance to Millbank Park.

“Bitter?”

Bane saw the man was holding up a cigarette. His brain registered the fact he had asked in German, his senses picked up on the flash of the blade as it came up towards his stomach.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trotsky put on a burst of speed, his leather shod feet pounding the sand and shale beneath him, his heart beating hard against his rib cage, and his breath coming fast. When he rounded the bend in the canyon, he could see the road leading to Groom Lake Road security checkpoint. A feeling of relief washed over him, his run had been particularly difficult today, and the heat coupled with the extra weight he had added to his rucksack had made it particularly gruelling. He was looking forward to reaching the shack and sharing a glass of cold orange squash with Gary Brook, the guard on duty. He liked Gary, a fitness fanatic like himself, when not operational he made the five mile run every day, then would chat for an hour or two with the guard before heading back to Omega Command in the old Silverstein Mine buried deep under the Groom Mountains.

He bursts out onto the hard packed road, as two gunshots from an automatic weapon bounced off the rock walls ahead. He reacted instinctively, diving to the cover of a large boulder. He landed on his back, the bricks digging into his flesh. He stifled a cry.

Now the sound of gunshots was common around Dreamland, as he preferred to call the area, it was the fact that the report was that of an AK-47, which sent him diving to the dirt. The snapshot scene he had of the guard shack was a 4x4 with tinted windows, and a man in desert camouflage clothes standing next to the vehicle aiming at the now deceased guard sprawled on the dusty track behind the red and white barrier.

He quickly shook off his rucksack and drew his Glock 17 from the holster under his tracksuit top. Risking a quick look, he saw there were currently two men standing next to the vehicle, one was on a mobile phone; the other was dragging the body of the guard to a ditch opposite the shack. Neither was looking his way. He took off at a run to the next bit of cover, another set of boulders. He made the cover as the man on the phone turned in his direction.

Trotsky was close enough to hear them now; the two men were speaking in German.

What the fuck, he thought.

“How long until the bus gets here?” One said, switching to English.

“Yeah, be here in ten minutes.”

“Good, they will not know what has hit them. Heil Hitler!”

This was not good; an armed incursion into Area 51, by men who spoke German, and used the term Heil Hitler, part of Trotsky admired the sheer balls of these men and by the sound of it, more big-balled men were on the way.

He knew when to pick a fight, and when to run away. Trotsky, real name Levi Davidovich Bronstein, was a former member of the Mossad, and before that Israel’s elite Sayerat Matkal, modelled on the British Special Air Service; even down to having the same motto, 'who dares wins’. Two years ago, he had been put on indefinite secondment to Omega, an expert marksman, and a demolition expert, when he joined the outfit he felt like he had come home. And home was where he needed to be now. He knew he could take the two gunmen but there was nothing he could do about the bus load of bad guys who were on the way.

He made to move quietly away, when out of the shadows of the rock wall, a rattlesnake shot out at him. Trotsky was like Indiana Jones in the fact that he detested snakes in the worse way. A scream escaped his throat and he threw himself backwards away from the snake and onto the track.

Shots rang out, kicking up dirt next to his head.

He rolled away. Coming to his feet, he returned fire. One of the men was knocked back, a hand clutching his shoulder.

The man swore at Trotsky in German. He suddenly felt mischievous.

“Eine Juden, you mother fuckers!” He yelled, while doing a little dance, and holding up the Star of David, he had hanging from a chain round his neck.

He fired again; making the men dive for the cover of their vehicle, before taking off at a zig zagged run back in to the canyon. He had about five miles to run, and he wished he had brought a radio with him now, or his cell phone. Still, without the weight of the rucksack he was soon flying, jumping rocks, and crevices.

Morgan would want to know about this, he thought, if they take the base they would have access to some scary shit, and no one would be able to take it back. He hoped the additional layer of security would be up to the job of stopping them. The defences the base possessed were incomparable with anything on the planet. A nice welcome the English man was going to receive.

 

Morgan was feeling irritated. He had another two hours to go until he handed over to Trotsky. He wanted to be away. Michelle was about to go into labour any day, and he wanted to be by her side. His real name was Terry Drake, but like all operatives in Omega Group, he was given the code name Morgan. He was the Chief operator of Omega’s Direct Action Force, a former Captain from Marine Force Recon, one of the United States Marine Corps's special operations capable forces (SOC) that provide essential elements of military intelligence to the command element of the Marine Air-Ground Task Force (MAGTF); supporting their task force commanders, and their subordinate operating units of the Fleet Marine Force (FMF). He had been with Omega for four years, and its DA Chief for one.

The operating remit had changed somewhat since its inauguration, but it did not matter a jot to Morgan, a bad guy was a bad guy, whatever the colour of the flag they sailed under.

At the age of forty he was the oldest of the men on his team, but was still as fit as any of them, and the one with the most battle scars, some visible some not so. Morgan was a brilliant tactician, probably the best on the team, which was the underlying reason he was given the job above Conda, his only opposition in the running for the job.

The Hub had to be manned 24/7, and all operators had to take their turn. Only one operation was taking precedence. The search for whoever was trying to purchase Xerum 525, and trying to locate the two missing physicists. The capture in London had been a very good one, but with no one to question, they had hit a dead end. Omega investigators were out in the world though making discreet enquiries, hopefully they may come up with a new angle, this Bane who was about to join them came with an excellent reputation as a hard nosed investigator, also he had combat experience so that was a plus.

He had just shut the file on the MI5 operative, when Trotsky almost fell through the hermetically sealed door to the control hub. Morgan got up from his desk and walked out of his office cubicle into the hub proper, he reckoned who ever designed their operation centre must have been a Star trek fan, as it looked like the deck of the infamous ship ala Pickard times.

“You’re back early, Trot, Gary run out of squash?”

“Boss, we got a big problem, well maybe,” he gasped between breaths. He was bent over, hands on his knees. Morgan thought he must have really pushed himself this morning. He became attentive though. Trotsky was not one normally to panic.

“What’s happened?”

“A couple of sauerkraut eating mother fuckers just took out Garry, and there’s a bus load of others on the way, looks like an armed incursion into Area 51 is about to take place.”

Morgan smiled at the look on Trotsky’s face.

“Relax, they won’t succeed, you know security is quad ringing the area, they may have got past the gates but they’ll be stopped before they reach the Ranch. Striker Force will take them down.”

Morgan knew Striker was comprised of elite operators, veterans to a man. They were a part of the inner