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

rings of security infrastructure surrounding the Groom Lake complex. If you were to look at a top down image of the complex, and highlight the outer security infrastructure, you would see a series of concentric rings. These were divided into quadrants, the outer rings were the electronic sensors and Wackenhut security teams who now have started to refer to themselves as camo-dudes, the term pinned on them by the UFO watchers who stalk the area in the hope of seeing little green men. If someone managed to get past them, they would then face the striker teams, squads of twenty per quadrant, backed up by Black-Hawk choppers, and these shots first and asked no questions. More striker teams who patrolled the complex itself covered the innermost rings, also there were numerous electronic, and chemical deterrents the like of which Morgan was not sure of.

“Let’s take a look see at their security in action,” Morgan said.

He walked over to what he had termed the captains chair, from here, he could operate the numerous video screens, and access the hubs powerful computer. He freed the control terminal from the arm of the chair, with a whir of hydraulics the screen positioned itself in front of his face. The keyboard extended to an ergonomic position in front of him.

A few deft clicks brought the big wall screens to life, he tapped a few more keys, and they were into the Groom complex external security cameras, piggy backing without leaving a traceable signature.

Trotsky sat at the computer array in front of the captain’s chair.

“I managed to wing one of the fuckers before I bugged out,” he said.

“Score one point to the home team then,” Morgan said as his fingers danced over the keys.

The main screen melted into sections showing images of all the security cameras on the Extraterrestrial Highway side of the complex.

“Back gate cam is out,” Morgan noted.

He zoomed in to the Groom Road security cam, and expanded the image on the big screen. A large white bus was passing through the now raised barrier, exactly the same model as the ones used to ferry workers back and forth from the complex. The only difference with this bus was the line of small parabolic dishes along the roof of the bus. Morgan shifted through the other gate cams; they saw similar busses passing through the other gates. Only the others had a convoy of four busses at each gate; all fixed with the same dishes.

Trotsky activated the hubs radar screen.

“I have four bogie's holding position at all points five miles outside the restriction box,” he reported.

Morgan’s hairs stood up on the back of his neck as he realised the significance of the dishes.

“The busses have EMF transmitters fitted.”

“I noticed that, I have a bad feeling, boss.”

“Me too, let’s see if I can get eyes on the bogie's.”

His fingers danced across the keyboard again.

One of the mini pictures expanded to show an area beyond the Timpahute Mountain Range, East of Rachel. They could see two V-22 Ospreys and two AH-1 Cobra attack helicopters holding formation near Penoyer Springs. The Ospreys were, quite simply, aerial beasts. With tiltable rotors, they were capable of both swift aeroplane-like flight and helicopter-like hovering. And these Ospreys were the variant known as the ‘Warbird’: they were armed to the teeth. They each had not one but two 20mm six-barrelled M61 Vulcan cannons, door-mounted .50 calibre AN/M2 machine guns, and missile pods slung under both wings. The Warbird was the mother of all gunships—big and strong, yet also fast and manoeuvrable—The two Cobras weren’t shy either: they carried slightly smaller M134 six-barrelled miniguns underneath their sharply-pointed noses. Morgan replaced this image with the one of the bus on Groom Lake Road. As they watched, the bus jolted to a stop. Several armed figures seemed to materialise from the landscape to surround it. This was Striker Force. Morgan zoomed in. The figures, in desert camouflage, approached the Bus. They looked on in horror as the men of Striker Force dropped their weapons, and clutched their heads, dropping to their knees. The windows on the bus opened. Striker Force was cut down in a hail of automatic gunfire.

“Trotsky, contact Penn station, I think we have a major shit storm about to go down.” Morgan whispered, giving the code name for Edwards Air Force base. He had the sinking feeling that it would be awhile until he saw his wife again.

 

Bane sensed the blade, and reacted out of instinct born out of the thousands of hours he spent with his unarmed combat instructors. Unlike many of his fellow agents who put their faith in a gun, he believed there would always come a time when the gun would let you down from jamming or some other reason. So he had immersed himself in the knowledge of all his instructors. He dodged back, and to the side. The hooded figure stumbled forward under the force of his own momentum. Bane hit the side of the man's head with an open palm before planting a stamping kick into his rib cage. The man grunted. Flying back, he crashed against the metal railings surrounding the park. He was tough, recovering quickly. The man drew a Browning pistol from under his hooded top. Bane went for his own, realising too late he was not carrying. Time seemed to slow down as the assassin’s gun arm rose for the killing shot.

PHUT! PHUT!

The assassin was thrown back with the force of the bullets striking him in the chest and face.

Bane spun in a crouch to see a dark coloured Saab pull up at the kerb. A grinning face at the end of the gun arm poked out of the passenger window.

“Hurry, get in,” the man said.

He was a big bear of a man with skin as dark as a moonless night. His accent tinged with a South African twang. Before Bane could react, the squeal of tires signalled the arrival of another car, a Ford, at the end of the street. The man pushed open the rear passenger door, and Bane dived inside. The driver, a thin man with a Clark Gable moustache expertly threw the car into reverse. The other car was nearly upon them. They reversed at speed along Herrick Street. The other car almost bumper to bumper.

“Welcome to Omega, Adam,” the man fired at the pursuing car, “You can call me Conda, this here is Gladius.”

The newly introduced Gladius threw a 360 manoeuvre. They were now facing the right way.

“What the fucks going on? ” Bane yelled over the noise of the cars engine.

“The SAS team who partnered you on the op have been taken out on their way back to Hereford, the science lab where the 525 was taken to, was broken into, the stuffs been taken, we figured you’d be next on the list, so we came to give you a hand.”

Bane was shocked at this news, who ever these people were they were good, and must have had eyes on the plot to locate all involved in the take down.

They had travelled for several streets, and the car was still hanging on like a limpet. Luckily, traffic was light now but the direction Gladius was travelling would take them to the heart of London, which would then be a problem.

Bane gave directions, which would carry them away from heavy traffic and take them back towards the docklands.

They swerved around a corner into Fynes Street, travelling at nearly fifty miles an hour. The far end blocked by a Black cab and a delivery van that appeared to have crashed; the two drivers were out in the street arguing.

“Fuck this, hold on boys.”

Gladius slammed on the brakes before putting the Saab into reverse. They flew back, smashing into the Ford as it appeared around the corner. Bane was thrown to one side by the impact. Conda leaned out of the window and got off a couple of shots. Gladius shifted into first and they shot forward. Bane heard glass smashing as Conda’s bullets found a target. He sat up. Gladius threw him a Glock 17.

“Make yourself useful, spy boy.”

Bane turned to fire out of the rear window, which had been destroyed at some point. He had only seconds to register the missile flying from the hand held rocket launcher on the shoulder of the man who had got out of the vehicle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Mother fucker! ” Trotsky said as he slammed down the phone. Morgan had only been half-aware of the heated conversation between Trotsky and Penn Station, as he had been focussed on the events unfolding before him. The buses had cut through the inner security rings like a laser through sheets of paper. Each Striker team had been slaughtered with clinical efficiency.

“They said they had never heard of Omega, there was no base out at Groom Lake, and if I didn’t get off the line they would trace my number and have me locked up, I even gave our rec code.”

Trotsky went over to the water tank and filled a cup, almost downing it in one long swallow.

Morgan blew out a long breath then activated his coms, dialled into the main telephone system before keying the direct number for Colonel Jim Drake.

After a couple of rings, a gruff sounding voice picked up at the other end.

“Colonel, this is Morgan, rec code Alpha Omega 123/344A, I have a black situation here.”

There was a pause at the other end. He heard the colonel ushering someone out of his office.

“Morgan, how the hell are yah? What’s going down?”

“It’s bad, Jim, the Complex, incursion by an unknown force, with precision, skill and overwhelming violence, strength unknown, automatic weapons, and sonic weapons seen in play. I’m sending you the cctv feed we got from here ” Morgan’s fingers were a blur over the keyboard.

“I’ll get back to you.”

The line went dead.

“That’s how you do it, you rang the main office didn't cha?”

He sat back down, “They’re fucking morons.”

“You better send out the recall, I want every available man back here like yesterday. Also work up some facial recognition when these mothers finally show their faces.”

Trotsky turned back to the console in front of him, and went to work.

 

Bane had less than a second to respond. Calling out a warning, he opened the car door next to him and threw himself out, rolling as he hit the road. He did not see the missile hit but heard the explosion, and felt the heat from the fireball that engulfed the car.

Flaming debris clattered down all around him. He pushed himself to his feet. Unconsciously he had retained his hold on the Glock, which he now raised and aimed through the smoke that shrouded him.

For a second a gap appeared, he saw the missile man about to climb into his car. They must not have seen him dive out of the vehicle. He pulled the trigger. The man was knocked forward. Blood spurting from his mouth.

Bane stumbled through the smoke, and fired several times at the driver’s side. His bullets starring the glass.

In the distance, he could hear the sound of sirens approaching. Keeping the car covered with his weapon. He looked around to see if Conda and Gladius had made it out. They had been unlucky; he could see through the flames their bodies burning.

Cursing, he moved towards the car. He saw his bullets had found their mark. The driver was dead.

He checked the dead man on the road. He had no identification on him. Bane also noticed the labels on his jacket, and shirt had been cut off. There seemed to be something peculiar about his hands too. On closer examination, he saw the finger and palm prints had been burnt off probably with acid.

He knew now this had been a professional hit team. The sirens were closer. He decided now would be a good time to leave the area.

 

The phone on Colonel Stephen Fairfax’s desk trilled sharply. He picked up the handset, noticing the light on the base set telling