“Ladies and gentlemen I give you Ranger, Patriot, Bell and Mercury!”

            It was exactly the type of thing Belle Campbell hated, standing up on a stage while reporters fire inane questions about how it felt to be a Meta human.  She could already hear the stupid dripping off the packed humanity that crowded Washington’s Mall.  Three days before, on July 4^th, 2009, the President of the United States had introduced the ten members of the new Minuteman Team to the world on the steps of the U.S. Capital.  The reaction from countries around the world had been mainly negative, the fear being the U.S. would use her newly collected Meta human team to operate as peacekeepers in such hot-spots as Darfur and the Middle East.  Even the President’s assurances that the team was strictly for Homeland Security had done nothing to ease the concerns of even supposed allied nations.

            The media had done a fine job of stoking international fears of this newly emergent ‘threat’ from the United States and a number of nations had already made it clear they, too, were assembling such teams.  'A new arms race was underway', the media across the globe announced and Belle wasn’t sure they hadn’t gotten it right.

            “Do not answer any questions about the extent of your powers,” Special Agent Reginald Miller, their team liaison, had reiterated over the last hour.  “Keep to the quotes that have been provided for you and everything will be fine.”

            Fine, her ass.  This was gonna be a cluster fuck.

            “Bell, Bell, what are you powers . . .”

            “Can any of you fly?”

            “Who’s the strongest in the group and how strong?”

            “How do you feel about being the only Black woman in the team?”

            July, they had to do it outside in July.  Why not some nice air conditioned building someplace?  It was already into the high 90’s and the stupid costume they had her in was some kinda bullet-proof shit that was like wearing wool.  She had to fight the urge to pull the material away from her chest.

            Something flashed in the corner of her eye and as she turned to try to pick it out, Ranger, three feet to her left, exploded or rather the rocket that hit him did.  The world spun crazily as she was hurled over the right side of the stage into a knot of onlookers that had ignored police lines and clustered tightly up to the edge of the platform.  The crap she was wearing might be bullet-proof but the shit burned!

            After bouncing off at least a dozen people she landed in a heap on the grass and immediately began to roll, hoping to extinguish the fire.  Legs got in her way for the first few feet but quickly scrambled back as they realized she was on fire.  Panicked, she frantically pulled at the ‘costume’ and managed to rip off the top and toss it away.  Climbing to her feet in the tight crap they called pants, she stood for a long moment looking back at the stage grateful she’d chosen to wear a sports bra under that fuckin’ fire hazard.  Mark Law, Ranger, was nowhere to be seen nor was Q Hinton’s distinctive Japanese Manga combat suit but Rachel, Mercury, was on her feet looking for something to fight, and looking scary pissed.              Breaking into a run she bounded over the railing to the stage and landed beside Mercury, a tiny cacophony of bells surrounding her as she remember to throw up her force field.

            “Where’s Ranger,” she snapped at the other girl.

            “Blasted all over the rear of the stage I imagine,” Mercury replied.  “You see which way Patriot went?”

            It was amazing they were using code names.  Bell had always thought them pretty stupid.

            “I was too busy puttin’ the fire out on my boobs to worry about that little shit,” she replied.

            The crowd had broke the instant the explosion nailed Ranger and now the whole Mall was in chaos.

            “Any idea where it came from,” Mercury asked.

            Belle pointed to the east.

            “Up there!”

            There was a buzz, like ripping canvas and a line of tracer bullets walked up the stage at them from the west.  Mercury did a series of handsprings off the back of the stage and disappeared; Belle growled and faced her attacker.

            Church bells from all around the city began to peel and the sound concentrated in a line before her, harmonious until that first bullet hit, then discord join the chaos as Depleted Uranium Core, DUC, shells stuck the nearly invisible wall of sound.  It held for several long seconds then collapsed, leaving Bell exposed to the full furry of the onslaught.  Five shells struck her, lifted her off her feet and hurled her from the stage for a second time.  As she hit the ground her last thought was ‘that was fucking stupid.’

            They found Ranger embedded in the front of limo that had been standing by to whisk them away after the event.  His injuries put him in the hospital for six weeks.  He suffered numerous lacerations, four broken ribs and a broken left leg but was fighting the therapist to let him do more within days.  Belle wasn’t as lucky.  The five rounds of heavy metal slugs punctured neat holes all the way through her and it was only the skill of an EMT that saved her life.  She was out of action for nearly a year and had a lot to say to the ‘fuckin’ idiot’ that invented flammable Kevlar.  Mercury escaped unscathed not because of any superior protection but simply because she was almost impossible to hit.  She kept the guy with the man-portable mini-gun so engrossed in her acrobatic antics that he failed to notice the Apache helicopter that took out the entire top floor of the building he had selected as his firing position.  They didn’t find Patriot.

            The Air Force G5 touched down at Andrew’s Air Force Base at 2 a.m. the next morning and taxied to a distant section of runway where is was met by a black SUV.  Three people descended the steps and were hustled into the vehicle and whisked away.

            “You are to be on your best behavior,” Miller commanded to the trio.

            “Has he actually met us?” Wren Collins asked her tall male companion with a smirk.

            “Slow learner,” Nathaniel Ryan replied.

            Chris Gilchrist, the third member of the team, grinned.

            “It’s the President of the United States, damn it!” Miller’s face had turned blood red.

            “Calm down, Reggie,” Nat said purposely using the Agent’s given name.  “We are not children.”

            “I can assure you, Agent Miller, that I am perfectly aware of protocol,” Wren added.  “Besides, this isn’t exactly formal.”  She indicated the black leather trench coat she wore.  It was identical in cut and style to those worn by her two teammates.  All three had been ordered into their costumes prior to boarding the jet at Coronado but the coats had been their own collective choice.

            The SUV rolled to a stop before a set of steel gates and the driver powered down his window to present the approaching guard with a set of orders.  The man scanned them quickly then stopped and began to read them over carefully.  His flashlight came up and he checked each face in turn.  The three of the four passengers in the rear appeared to be in some type of costume.

            “Pull in and park to the right,” he said.

            The driver did as he was told and before the vehicle came to rest, the door was pulled open and an authoritative voice growled “Step out, slowly.”

            Nat glanced at Wren and gave her a grin then ducked his head and stepped out onto the sidewalk.  Straightening to his full 7’ 3”, he towered over the four Secret Service Agents waiting to receive them.  Though the trench coat had been tailored for his huge frame, it naturally hung open to reveal the nearly skin tight costume of red, white, and blue beneath.

            “Step over here,” one agent commanded.

            As Nat did so, Wren emerged in much the same fashion and where his costume displayed muscle, her tight costume displayed the svelte body of a dancer.  All four agents could have been dead in that moment, Nat knew, if he’d had evil intent.

            “Over there,” the agent in charge pointed to a spot several meters from Nat. 

            Where Wren was slender and elegant, the next to emerge, Chris, was like a deadly big cat and two of the agents actually reached for their weapons.  She might have had the wholesome looks of a cheerleader but when she moved that image was quickly dispelled.  Chris Gilchrist was every bit a dangerous as any tiger.  She didn’t wait for direction but moved to stand between Wren and Nat.

            Miller’s exit was a huge let down.

            The Agent in Charge produced a handheld metal detector and stepped over to Nat who smiled then slipped the trench coat off and let it fall to the ground.  As if by cue, Wren and Chris did the same leaving the trio with no place to hide a weapon, not that Chris wasn’t armed.

            “Still gotta pat you down,” the agent was beginning to look uncomfortable.

            “Look, buddy,” Nat said ducking his head a little.  “First, I don’t need weapons since I could just swat you with that truck.  Second, if you touch either of my two companions, I will swat you with that truck.”

            “Agent Miller,” a female voice broke the spell.  “Agent Carlson, there’s no need to search our guests.  The rather large gentleman is not exaggerating.  He could swat you with that truck.”  She stepped forward and offered Nat her hand.  “Goliath, I believe, I am Marion Morris, the President’s Chief of Staff.”

            Nat took her hand.

            “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he said.

            She turned to Chris,”You must be Huntress,” she said shaking her hand.  “And Giselle.”  She took Wren’s hand.  “Welcome to the White House.  If you will come this way.”

            Nat had never been to the White House but it was everything he had expected.  As they passed from room to corridor, their guide set a brisk pace.  By habit, Nat fell behind his teammates and ended up just in front of Miller.  Through the White House proper and out to the portico they entered the West Wing and stopped at a door.

            “Agent Miller, if you will please wait here,” Ms. Morris indicated a chair.

            “I am the Project Director,” Miller began.

            “The President wishes to speak to them privately,” Ms. Morris said.

            A moment later, she pushed open the door to the Oval Office.

            The President rose from one of the two couches and met them just inside the room, his hand shake firm and his smile welcoming.

            “That will be all, Marion,” he said to his Chief of Staff.  “Give us fifteen minutes.”

            She pulled the door to as she stepped back.

            “Please, have a seat,” the most powerful man in the world said, gesturing to the couches.  He sat in an arm chair strategically placed to give him access to either couch.  From a side table he retrieved a file folder and flipped it open.  “Nathaniel Ryan, Goliath.  Wren Collins, Giselle.  Christiana Gilchrist, Huntress.”   He closed the file and laid it on the table.  “I have files on all of you but that really doesn’t tell me what I want to know.”  He looked at each for a long moment.  “Why did you join the Minuteman Project?”

            Nat and Wren exchanged looks.  She gave him a small nod and Nat faced the President.

            “One thing you need to know, Mr. President, if you don’t want to know the truth, don’t ask me,” he said.

            “I understand,” the President replied.  “I expect the truth.”

            Nat and Wren exchanged looks again then Wren said “Simple blackmail.”

            That surprised the man.

            “Blackmail?”

            “If we did not join, my assets inherited from my parents were to be frozen,” she replied.

            “And the government would have taken my cottage through eminent domain or some such ploy,” Nat added.

            “What about you, Ms. Gilchrist?”

            “I was offered a chance to hunt vampires,” she said.  “That’s why I joined.”

            “Vampires?  Have you found any?” the President asked looking amused.

            “Yes,” Chris said flatly.  “Seven.”

            “But there is no such thing,” the President protested.

            “Your information is sadly lacking, sir,” Wren said.

            The President looked thoughtful then asked, “And who was responsible for this blackmail and this license to kill vampires?”

            “That would be Agent Miller,” Wren said, her voice dripping with scorn.

            “I see,” the man said.  He tented his fingers against his lips elbows on the arms of the chair. “This program was to be voluntary.”

            “It may have been so for Team Red,” Nat said “But Team White is another matter.”

            “So, you want out,” it was a statement rather than a question.

            Nat surprised him a second time. 

            “No.” he said.

            “No?  Why not?”

            “We help people, Mr. President,” Wren said.  “And it is easier to help if we have a government blessing.”

            “So you do this for the cover?”

            “Regardless of ‘cover’, sir, I’d be doing it anyway,” Nat told him.

            “Just as I would be hunting vampires,” Chris added.

            “You see, sir, no one ASKED us to join,” Nat said.  “That’s all it would have taken.”

            “Then let me ask you now,” the President said.  “Will you join the Minuteman Project and work for your country?”

            “I believe we have already answered that question,” Wren said.

            “I’ll have Miller replaced,” the President said, rising.

            “Please don’t do that, sir,” Nat said hurriedly.

            The President stopped and turned back.

            “Why not?  He coerced you, blackmailed you.”

            “Because he provides us with something any team needs,” Nat said.  “A common enemy.”

            “Besides, we rather enjoy belittling him at every opportunity,” Wren added.

            “We would ask one thing, though,” Nat said.

            “What is it?”

            “We never needed a ‘director’ or ‘handler’ so we would appreciate it if he were given to understand his role is liaison, nothing more.  We are tired of him trying to dominate us.”

            The President nodded then smiled.

            “On one condition,” he said.

            “That is?” Nat said.

            “Can you give me a little demonstration?”

            Wren made no gesture or sign but the President’s head bumped against the ceiling of the Oval Office.

            Miller sat silent in the seat beside Nat, his shoulders hunched.  His career was over, the metas had won.

            “Why didn’t you have me fired?” he asked Wren.

            “That would be petty,” she replied.

            “We don’t destroy a person who is doing his job as he sees it just out of spite,” Nat said.

            “But you only saw us as 'things' to be trained and bent to your will,” Chris added.

            “Did you ever consider just asking us back then?” Nat said.

            “I’ll quit then,” Miller offered.

            “Then we would have to break someone else in and that is so annoying,” Wren said.  “We will just hold on to you.”

            “You aren’t going to let a few metas get the best of you, are you, Reggie?” Nat grinned at him.

            Miller stiffened.

            “No, no I am not.”

            “Just so we are clear,” Wren said.  “We still don’t like you.”

            The Team Red had been installed in a purpose-build five story building on the grounds of the Pentagon itself.  When the SUV rolled to a stop, Nat looked up at the chrome and glass structure and shook his head.

            “The government has no style,” he groused.

            Wren smiled.  That was something she’d never expected to hear from her massive lover.

            “I am sure Agent Miller will arrange more pleasing accommodations for Team White when the time comes,” she said.

            Nat climbed out and offered Wren a hand and then held on to it as they stepped into the utilitarian lobby of the building.  A Marine guard behind a reception desk stood to attention.

            “Mark’s been here,” Nat said dryly.

            “The Team is excepting you, ma’am, sir,” the guard said.  “Fifth floor.”

            The single elevator opened silently.

            “Thank you, Sergeant,” Nat replied, noting the stripes on the man’s sleeve.

            Miller hung back as the other three stepped into the brushed steel interior.

            “I have to report to my superiors,” he said, turning on his heel and almost marching back outside.

            The door slid closed.

            “I hope we didn’t break him,” Chris giggled.

            Wren looked up at Nat.  “We don’t want to break someone else in,” she said.

            “Devil you know, love, devil you know.”

            The elevator opened into a large common room furnished in the government style except for the five people lounging around in various degrees of funk.  Mal Tornquist came to her feet and greeted each with a kiss on the cheek.

            “Carin’s with Mark and Carlos is watching over Belle,” she said.  “I’m glad you’re here.”

            “We saw it on TV,” Nat said.  “How are they and any word on Q yet?”

            “Mark’s awake and mad as hell but Belle’s still out,” Mal said.  “She got hit really bad.”

            Nat instinctive put and arm around the Team Red leader.

            “Prognosis?”

            “She’ll live,” Mal said.  “But she’s out for a long time.”

            Nat nodded then scanned the room.

            “Shannon,” he picked out the tearful Glory.  “How are you doing.”

            She was seated on a couch leaning against Ern’s chest, her fist pressed against her lips.  Nat knew that of all the team, she was probably going to take it the hardest.  All she could manage was a dazed thousand yard stare through those glorious sapphire eyes that were normally alive with the excitement of her love for Ern.  He looked over and the newcomers and nodded slightly.

            Mari and Rachel were also sitting together, their bare feet entangled on a coffee table.  Each waved but said nothing.

            “Okay,” Nat said.  “What are they doing about Q?”

            Mal shook her head “They aren’t telling us anything.  They say the FBI is looking but I don’t think they have any idea.”

            “That changes now,” Nat said sternly.  He pulled his cell phone out and flipped it open.  Hitting the 2 he speed dialed a number.  “Reggie, got your first liaison job for you.  I want a report on what’s being done to find Q in an hour … Tell them if I don’t get it, I’ll be visiting FBI headquarters and getting it myself … Here and see if you can get the Agent in Charge to drop by, scratch that, tell him we want him here in an hour too.”  He flipped the phone closed.

            Mari shook her head.  “What makes you think they’ll listen to you?”

            “The hour and a half we just spent with the President,” Nat said.

            Nat flipped through the file, a page at a time, scanning each.

            “You think your gonna see something I missed?” Special Agent in Charge Burke scowled.

            “Did you speak to Q’s techs?”

            “What for, they weren’t there.”

            “They are in the building,” Mal offered.

            “Good, let’s get them up here,” Nat said.

            Blueprints were scattered over the conference table and four men in white coats were arguing theory.  Nat wasn’t listening.

            “Wait a sec,” he said, looking up at the techs.  “What was that last?  That intermittent thing.”

            “It’s been a problem since first assembly,” one said.  “For some reason at random times the unit will emit an electro-magnetic pulse.”

            “How strong?”

            The tech considered.  “Less than 10 watts,” he replied.

            “What kind of frequency and duration are we talking about with this pulse?”

            The tech shrugged.

            “Less than a microsecond and the longest recorded time between pulses was only about ten minutes.”

            “We can use that as a beacon,” Burke said.  “We just need detectors.”

            “Anyone with a cell phone that is within a couple hundred yards will hear it,” a tech offered.

            “What about traffic cams?” Nat said.

            The techs exchanged looks.

            “I imagine so,” one said.

            “Special Agent Clayton?” Nat looked down at the man.

            “We’ll get out an APB,” he said, pulling his phone.  “I’ll call you if we get anything.”

            Nat turned to the techs, “Thanks guys, you did a great job.”

            “Hey,” one shrugged.  “The kid’s a pain in the ass but he’s brilliant and working with him is exciting.”

            Mal touched Nat’s arm.

            “What can we do?” she asked.

            Nat smiled.

            “Something public,” he said.