Chapter 22: Chapter twenty-one

Twenty-seven years ago

 

Dean Harris sat on the U.N Strategic Operations Subcommittee. That the initials spelled S.O.S was lost on no one. They were tasked with finding solutions to terrorism, warlords, organized crime and anything else that was deemed a threat to world security unlikely to respond to sanctions or negotiation. Which covered just about every threat to world security. On the S.O.S with him were representatives of each of the other four permanent members of the Security Council; France, Russia, China and the U.S, as well as two strategic advisors, a financial advisor and a man named Kessington Smythe, a great bullfrog of a man who seemed to possess the relevant skill set of looking like the cat that ate the canary while shooting down every idea posed by one of the committee members.

Which in fairness, weren’t very good. So far, a lot of tired ideas had been put forward and discussed ad nauseam. Everything from stronger military connections between member nations to appointing good will ambassadors to setting up a task force to investigate global security threats. They were mostly well-meaning, but none of them was useful.

The subcommittee had an unprecedented opportunity. With the Cold War over, people were starting to think idealistically again. World peace, an end to crime, all those good things. That, combined with a few horrible incidents that almost nobody knew about but that had hurt some Security Council members deeply, led to the S.O.S being given a large, untraceable budget and authority to enact any solution it saw fit. And the others seemed satisfied to waste that opportunity with the same crap that was already being done and wasn’t working.

Dean had a different idea. One that he had been trying to think of the right way to phrase for the past three days. The right way that would stop everyone else on the S.O.S from laughing him out of the room. In the end he didn’t think of the right way to say it so much as he got frustrated with listening to the same old bad ideas.

“We need superheroes,” Dean blurted as Smythe was smugly taking apart the French member’s half-baked trade agreement proposal.

“What we need are individuals not associated with any country,” Dean continued, “who can go into dangerous situations and resolve them without causing an international incident or radicalizing the locals. We need people that can put the fear of God into criminals and terrorists, no matter where in the world they are. More than that, we need men and women that set an example for others, make them want to be better, make them aspire to something greater than a bigger house and a nicer car. In short, we need superheroes.”

“What we need are practical solutions,” The U.S member started.

“No,” Dean interrupted. “I have listened to you lot bat around the same old ideas people have been trying for years. I’m bloody well sick of it. Now I am going to say my piece by God. This is a practical solution. I’m not talking about magic powers, I’m talking about highly-trained, unattached agents with access to the best intelligence and the newest technology. But by being superheroes instead of special agents, they can be met with admiration and not suspicion. In the forties, the Superman radio show featured a story where Superman fought the Ku Klux Klan. Before then, it’s membership was skyrocketing. Within two weeks of the broadcast, recruitment was down to zero. People like superheroes. They want people who do what’s right because it’s right, not because a government pays them to.”

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The others weren’t convinced. Cynicism had gotten into their bones and it would take more than a few well-chosen words to get it out. He could see any interest they might have had leaving them as they considered how they would sound to the others and dismissed the idea as ridiculous.

Then Kessington spoke, his piggy eyes gleaming.

“That might be the first good idea I’ve heard in a long time.”

The subcommittee listened to Kessington and, over the next several months, Dean saw his idea flourish into being. Any resistance it met with seemed to melt away once Kessington started applying pressure. Before he knew it, the United Nations Superhero Program had not only taken over the full operating budget of the S.O.S, but also obtained several million more from various sources that Kessington had found but that Dean had never heard of. It wasn’t until it was being established in earnest that Dean realized his mistake.

His had been a noble goal. Do good, inspire hope, make a difference. But Kessington was more interested in the idea of unattached agents that could do wetwork in any country without state sanctions or restrictions. Dean had known from the beginning that Kessington wasn’t a particularly good man, but the extent of his ruthlessness wasn’t obvious until it was too late.

And then one night, Dean came home to find Kessington in his living room.

If he had been a dramatic man he might have told Dean about the fundamentals of operational security and explained how a secret program to create international operatives could be compromised by a bunch of bureaucrats knowing about it, particularly naïve ones like Dean. But Kessington Smythe was no B-movie villain, and instead he shot Dean twice in the head.

Over the next few months, the other members of the S.O.S died in accidents, muggings gone wrong and a bombing for which a terrorist group took responsibility.

Kessington was also reported as among the dead. The S.O.S budget was never recovered.

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