MJ-12: Endgame
Page 1
“Quiet!” the Russian shouted. It didn’t take an Enhancement to see that the guy was agitated as all hell. “Get on the ground! Now! Both of you!”
Sighing, Frank did as he was told. “I’m telling you, Comrade, this is gonna really blow up in your face. I mean, we have diplomatic immunity.” Frank kept talking, stalling for time while trying to come up with a way out of this. Without the breadth and depth of expertise available to him through his Enhancement, he was left only with memories of past accomplishments and his own instincts—just like normal people.
But as he got on his belly, he saw that the goon next to him—the one who now just had one eye and was now out cold—had a small device clipped to his belt. It wasn’t a gun or a radio, and there was no sign of the Russian Variant who naturally generated null fields. So that meant, just possibly …
“Hey, honey pie, it’s gonna be okay,” Frank called out to Maggie, using the pet name he knew would annoy her the most. “It’ll be over in an instant. Like flipping a switch. It’s gonna be fine.”
“I’m so scared, Frankie,” Maggie fake-sobbed. “How you gonna make this okay? How?”
“Shut up!” the Russian yelled toward Maggie, then began shouting in Russian. There was no time left.
Frank reached for the device quickly, feeling for a switch. It was a toggle. Whatever. He flipped it and prayed.
The scream behind him was like a Beethoven symphony.
Praise for the MAJESTIC-12 Series
“A smart look at a Cold War in many ways even colder and scarier and deadlier than the one we barely survived.”—New York Times bestselling author Harry Turtledove
“A heady blend of super-spies and superpowers, MJ-12: Inception is Cold War-era science fiction done right. A taut thriller, and skillfully evocative.”—New York Times bestselling author Chris Roberson
“X-Men meets Mission: Impossible. Martinez takes a concept as simple as ‘Super spies that are actually super’ and comes away with a hit. Filled with compelling, well-rounded characters, MJ-12 is my new favorite spy series.”—Michael R. Underwood, author of Geekomancy and the Genrenauts series
“The Cold War becomes even more chilling as super-powered Americans are trained to become super-spies in Martinez’s new alternate-history thriller. It’s morally complex, intense, and so steeped in the 1940s, you can smell the cigarette smoke.”—Beth Cato, author of Breath of Earth and The Clockwork Dagger
“MJ-12: Inception is a thriller that blends the best elements of Cold War-era spy stories, supernatural fantasy, and splashy pulp comics.”—B&N Sci-Fi & Fantasy Blog
“MJ-12: Inception is Michael J. Martinez doing what he does best: taking a selection of great genres and mashing them up into something fresh and exciting, and quite unlike anything you’ve read before…. Or to put it another way, it’s like the X-Files and Heroes went back in time, dressed up in dinner jackets, lit a fuse, and jumped through a window to the theme from Mission: Impossible. Absolutely loved it.”—Fantasy Faction
“Martinez made a point to recognize the sacrifices made by those in the intelligence community to protect their nation…. the characters were all well-developed, their powers were imaginative, the twists weren’t obvious, and Martinez did a good job capturing the setting…. MJ-12: Inception was an enjoyable twist on the superhero genre and I look forward to seeing what happens next.”—Amazing Stories
“With MJ-12: Inception, Martinez weaves an intense tale of patriotism, Cold War politics, the U.S. spy network, and the nuances of human relationships which I simply couldn’t put down.”—The Qwillery
“Martinez has me hooked, and I’m anxiously awaiting the next book in the trilogy; I imagine more Variants, more subterfuge, and more world-ending risks are to be revealed. It’s good stuff.”—GeekDad
“MJ-12: Inception is both a complete stand-alone adventure and a thrilling introduction to a richly reimagined Cold War spy-fi series. I eagerly await Michael J. Martinez’s next novel featuring the Majestic 12.”—Mutt Café
“So good, in fact, that it makes you wonder why all sequels can’t be this good … a fun, inventive, action-packed exploration of super spies operating in the shadows of history, and an almost perfect sequel.”—Fantasy Faction, 10/10
“A satisfying sequel to Inception … If you like superhuman operatives fighting the weird fight in the shadow of nuclear war, then go check out the Majestic-12 series.”—Amazing Stories Magazine
“Martinez is just really good at hitting the ball out of the park when he writes a sequel…. A great spy novel…. may well rank as his best work.”—InfiniteFreeTime.com
Books by Michael J. Martinez
The Daedalus Series
The Daedalus Incident
The Enceladus Crisis
The Venusian Gambit
The Gravity of the Affair (novella)
MAJESTIC-12
MJ-12: Inception
MJ-12: Shadows
MJ-12: Endgame
Copyright © 2018 by Michael J. Martinez
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Night Shade Books, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.
Night Shade books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Night Shade Books, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or info@skyhorsepublishing.com.
Night Shade Books™ is a trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.
Visit our website at www.nightshadebooks.com.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Martinez, Michael J., author.
Title: MJ-12: endgame: a Majestic-12 thriller / by Michael J. Martinez.
Other titles: MJ-twelve | Endgame
Description: New York: Night Shade Books, [2018]
Identifiers: LCCN 2018016048 (print) | LCCN 2018019371 (ebook) | ISBN 9781597809719 (Ebook) | ISBN 9781597809702 (pbk.: alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Paranormal fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3613.A78647 (ebook) | LCC PS3613.A78647 M545 2018 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018016048
Cover design by Lesley Worrell
Printed in Canada
This one’s for Sara.
Thanks for believing.
Author’s Note
As with the other books in the MAJESTIC-12 series, this novel includes viewpoints and commentary in keeping with the early Cold War era of the setting. Thus, you’ll find characters dealing with casual sexism and racism here that may, at times, seem disquieting to the modern reader. This isn’t meant to endorse such views in any way—quite the opposite. These views are included to honor those who suffered through such shortsighted times, and to remind ourselves today of where we’ve been, and perhaps how far we have yet to go.
Likewise, you’ll encounter historical figures who may hold different views than they did in reality. Given that these figures are reacting to the presence of superhumans in their lives—or in one case, that they themselves are superhuman—some departure from the norm should be respected. This is not in any way designed to malign those all-too-human figures, nor to justify their behaviors in real life. Dwight Eisenhower was a good president but had his failings. Nikita Khrushchev was the head of an antidemocratic Soviet regime, and he signed off on a variety of policies we would deem criminal today. And yet he wasn�
�t as bad as, say, Lavrentiy Beria, who does not need to possess superhuman abilities to earn history’s condemnation.
Long story short, this is a work of fiction. Please enjoy it as such, and if it gives you things to think about afterward, so much the better.
February 28, 1953
Three limousines sped down the two-lane road in the cold night, headlights illuminating the piles of dirty snow on either side, the work of the plows creating a canyon for the cars to slalom. Dark trees loomed on either side, but to one of the limos’ occupants, the destination loomed larger.
For Nikita Khrushchev, dinner with Josef Stalin was always a fraught affair. No matter how many times he went—and it was indeed a terrifying privilege he was granted with increasing regularity—he would never get used to the high-wire act they were all forced to perform.
When Stalin said dance, you danced. And for his four most trusted advisers, there was a great deal of dancing to do at these things. Khrushchev glanced at his watch, noting it was half past eleven at night. They wouldn’t eat before midnight, undoubtedly, and would be expected to drink for hours afterward. And even as they drank, they would somehow need to be in full control of their faculties—one misstatement could mean demotion. Or worse.
Khrushchev looked over at his companion in the limo, Nikolai Bulganin, the new defense minister, who was dozing in his seat, his head propped against the glass of the window beside him. Khrushchev wished he could sleep so easily; he imagined it would do well for his fortitude during the night ahead. But no, the head of the Communist Party for Moscow and one of the top advisors to Stalin himself had to settle for a solid afternoon nap, one that kept him from his wife and daughter more often than he liked.
Was this, then, what the October Revolution had wrought? Grown men performing for a puppet master in the middle of the night, their livelihoods and lives on the line, all for … what? A chance to succeed Stalin as the puppet master? Or maybe, just maybe, a chance to do what could be done to fulfill the goals of the Revolution, to improve the lot of the workers and peasants. Perhaps to preserve them as much as possible from the increasingly erratic dictates of their glorious leader.
Khrushchev’s silent musings—a death sentence if spoken aloud—were interrupted as the ZiS limousine ground to a halt in the snow outside a beautiful, ornate house. They were in Kuntsevo, at the Old Man’s dacha. It was a rare thing for Stalin himself to enter Moscow except to entertain himself, so the business of government was handled here now, awash in wine and vodka, rich sauces and obsequiousness.
Khrushchev poked Bulganin in the arm. “We’re here.”
The other man stirred and stretched. “Time to play the game, then.” With a yawn, Bulganin opened the door and braved the cold outside. Khrushchev followed suit. Behind them, the third limo was just coming to a halt. The doors opened and out came Georgy Malenkov, deputy chairman of the U.S.S.R.’s Council of Ministers, and Lavrentiy Beria, the first deputy premier and, many believed, the next supreme leader of the Soviet Union.
There was, of course, no finer mind for it, Khrushchev thought. Beria had the mind of an academician and the guts of a back-alley brawler. He looked like nothing more than a shopkeeper, with his balding pate and spectacles; only his piercing eyes betrayed this facade. Beria was, in Khrushchev’s opinion, the most ruthless man in the Soviet Union. Even more so than Stalin himself.
It was a good thing, then, that most of the Politburo was scared of what Beria might do should he take such power. If Khrushchev had anything to do with it, he would ensure that the cost of such power would be too high for Beria to bear.
“Where is Comrade Stalin?” Bulganin asked.
Khrushchev turned to see the limo in front of him had already sped off, and he caught a glimpse of the supreme leader already inside the foyer of his dacha. The Old Man could still move at a decent clip, at least when it came to getting out of the cold.
“He’s hungry,” Beria said. “Perhaps he’ll be easily sated tonight.”
“Wishful thinking,” Khrushchev said with a smile. “Come, let us see what he has for us.”
The four men entered, their coats taken by Stalin’s servants, a relic of the bourgeoisie that still troubled Khrushchev. Were they all not capable of managing their own coats? Or having their own wives cook their food? An army of servants, even for those of the proletariat honored with the heavy mantle of leadership, seemed counterrevolutionary.
Of course, Khrushchev wouldn’t say no to them, either, should he eventually ascend to Stalin’s position. Human nature would remain what it was.
The four—sometimes even referred to as “The Four” in the halls of the Kremlin, signifying their importance to the Soviet State—knew their way through the house and proceeded to the dining room. At least Stalin had opted to take in the picture show in Moscow, rather than here at the dacha, where the sound quality was bad and the movies were often Westerns smuggled in via diplomatic pouch from America. For some reason, Stalin loved Westerns. But since they weren’t subtitled, the Old Man would ask someone in the room to make up the translation as the movie played. It was, of course, another test. Stalin could easily have employed a translator, but he wanted to see how his protégés handled the duties. A fine story would bring toasts to your health and playful banter. A poor one would earn a stream of profane invective if you were lucky. The unlucky might be frozen out of the Soviet Union’s political structure for weeks at a time, and the other vultures would move in quickly.
But tonight was just dinner and drinking. Stalin’s dining room was a relatively modest affair—a table for twenty, another along one side for the buffet, couches on the other side for relaxation, a warm fire, wood-paneled walls, and fine carpets. Tonight was Georgian food, which Khrushchev didn’t particularly care for. He heaped food on his plate regardless.
Then he felt a jab in his stomach from a thick finger. “You eat too much, Nichik.”
Khrushchev allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment before turning to address Josef Stalin with a smile. “You provide us with such food, Comrade Stalin, how can I not? You shall make all of us expand with your generosity.”
At this, the Old Man laughed, and Khrushchev sighed with relief. Stalin was aged now, his hair and iconic mustache well grayed and heading for white, and his frame under his military fatigues had grown somewhat over the years. But he was still a commanding presence, and the worst part was that Stalin knew it—and knew he had the power to back up any commands he gave.
Soon the plates were filled, the wine was poured, the toasts to Stalin’s health were duly made by each man present. While the supreme leader was arthritic and had slowed, each one of The Four remained disappointed in Stalin’s continued good health, despite their toasts. They all knew that the Soviet Union was stagnating. The global post-war economy was booming, but the Soviet economy was well behind. This was, of course, largely due to the staggering losses suffered by the Motherland during the war, both in lives and resources. But it was also leadership, for how can an economy truly grow if one’s economic solutions are to simply send managers and foremen to the gulag? Khrushchev had grand ideas, and had begun to slowly—so very carefully—implement them. But it was a drop in the bucket, and the bucket was vast and full only of need.
Khrushchev listened as Bulganin discussed the stalemate in Korea between the Chinese Communists and the U.S.-led United Nations forces. The heady successes of late 1950 were a distant memory; the fighting had largely bogged down as the Americans and their allies flowed additional men and materiel to the front.
“Advise Chairmans Mao and Kim … oh, what Kim is this? Korea is full of Kims!” Stalin said, laughing at his own joke. “Anyway, tell them to negotiate. Communism will be happy to settle for half a country rather than none. When the Koreans in the south see the workers’ paradise we will create in the north, they will knock down the borders and send the Americans home. Now, Comrade Beria, tell me of the doctors.”
The Doctors’ Plot was one of Stalin�
�s pet peeves, one that Khrushchev felt had been concocted by Beria simply to keep the Old Man distracted. In short, it was an alleged plot by counterrevolutionary elements within Moscow’s medical community—largely Jewish as well, which was convenient—to spread lies about Stalin’s health—or even assassinate Party leaders—in an attempt to destabilize the Soviet Union.
“It fares well, Comrade,” Beria replied smoothly. “Comrade Ignatiev has been doing fine work, and several will soon crack. And I have it on good authority that Dr. Vinogradov has quite the long tongue, and has been reported spreading scurrilous rumors about your fainting spells. Such nonsense, of course.”
“Right, what do you propose to do now?” Stalin asked crossly after downing a shot of vodka. “Have the doctors confessed? Tell Ignatiev if he doesn’t get full confessions out of them, we’ll shorten him by a head.”
“They’ll confess,” Beria replied. “With the help of other patriots like Timashuk, we’ll complete the investigation and come to you for permission to arrange a public trial.”
“Arrange it,” Stalin said. He then paused to look around the table. “You are my most loyal and effective comrades. Some of you have done fine work and continue to do fine work on behalf of the State.” Stalin’s face grew redder and he stood from the table. “But there are those in the leadership of the Party and the State who think they can somehow get by on past merits! To sit in fine offices and enjoy their apartments in Moscow and their country dachas without continuing to do fine work! They are mistaken.”
At this, Stalin strode from the room, and The Four were left to look at each other awkwardly, and to make small talk for the benefit of anyone else surely listening in. These sudden outbursts were becoming more common, as were the abrupt departures. Sometimes, Stalin would come back into the room after just a few moments, likely having gone to take a piss, and would either continue on his rant or change the subject entirely. Sometimes, The Four would be left to their own devices for hours, only to be told by a servant that Stalin had gone to sleep. Unfortunately, Stalin never really slept until just before dawn, so they would have to wait until he either came back to join them or was off to bed.