MJ-12: Endgame

by Michael J. Martinez

  Khrushchev eyed the couch along the far wall longingly. Being caught napping would not perhaps be best, but tonight had already been long, and the morning too close by half. Instead, he joined the others in discussing the Korean question, which allowed them all to enjoy debating a topic that had little overall relevance for their careers.

  Stalin joined them an hour later and was in far better spirits—and had better spirits with him as well, in the form of top-shelf bottles of Stolichnaya. Drinks were poured, toasts were made again. Someone produced a phonograph so that Stalin could play Ukrainian folk songs, and he tried to get Khrushchev to dance, repeatedly poking him in the stomach and singing, “Nichik! Nichik!” over and over. Finally, Khrushchev rose from his seat and—once the room stopped its alcohol-fueled spinning—tried a few moves from his youth. Stalin was pleased, the others laughed along, likely enjoying his embarrassment. But then it was done, and Stalin moved on to pick on someone else. Khrushchev slumped down upon the sofa and tried to stay awake.

  Finally, at four in the morning, Stalin arose and wobbled toward his rooms, bidding his compatriots good night. With a sigh, Khrushchev hauled himself up off the couch and staggered toward the door. It was early, for once, and he might catch a couple hours of sleep in his own bed before tomorrow’s meetings. A luxury, to be sure.

  Within minutes of driving off in the limo with Bulganin, Khrushchev’s head was up against the glass of the window. He wouldn’t even remember dozing off.

  He most certainly did not remember Lavrentiy Beria staying behind at Stalin’s dacha.

  But he clearly remembered the call that shook him out of his afternoon nap the following day. He’d remember it for the rest of his life.

  March 6, 1953

  “So, Uncle Joe is dead, and good riddance. First order of business, who’s got their nukes?”

  The President of the United States folded his tall frame into the leather chair in the Oval Office and looked expectantly at Air Force General Hoyt Vandenberg, who felt that, at best, the nukes were the second-biggest open question facing the United States.

  The first, well … most of the other men in the room weren’t cleared for that. And even Dwight Eisenhower was still not a hundred percent sure of all the things he’d heard about the MAJESTIC-12 program. But Vandenberg was—he’d seen it. And Russian nukes were absolutely a secondary concern.

  Yet there remained a game to play. “Right now, Mr. President, the Soviet nuclear arsenal, such as it is, remains in the hands of the military. Marshal Vasilevsky remains defense minister for now.”

  Eisenhower nodded thoughtfully. Vandenberg couldn’t help but smile a bit, reminded of a time less than a decade ago when he was side by side with Ike, planning Normandy. Vandenberg had been responsible for the air cover for the invasion, and had the job of telling Eisenhower that the Germans were too entrenched to decimate via air power. The beaches of Normandy were a fortress, and there was only so much the Army Air Force could do. All Eisenhower did was nod gravely and go ahead with the invasion, hellish meat grinder that it was.

  Being president was a cake walk compared to overseeing D-Day, it seemed.

  “I know Vasilevsky a little bit,” Eisenhower said. “Good man. Sober. Won’t let anybody get too crazy. John, what news on the diplomatic front?”

  Secretary of State John Foster Dulles sat up a little straighter in his chair. “There is, of course, a period of mourning, and then we’re looking at a big state funeral. So far, it looks like the speakers will be Georgy Malenkov, Vyacheslav Molotov, and Lavrentiy Beria. We’re invited to send dignitaries, of course. Any thoughts, sir?”

  Eisenhower waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t care, so long as I don’t have to go to that bastard’s funeral. Let the chargé d’affaires go if that’ll be enough. Worse comes to worse, send Dick Nixon. Put him to good use for once.” A chuckle arose around the room; there was no love lost in the political marriage between Eisenhower and Richard Nixon. “What I really care about is who’s next. There’s going to be a lot of instability and a lot of infighting over there. I see opportunity, gentlemen. Not just to contain the Soviets, but to roll ’em back. Buy space for Eastern Europe to breathe, maybe get back some of their independence. Reunify Germany under a democracy? Maybe. But I want to press. Hard. Wring everything we can out of them.”

  John Dulles shook his head sadly. “Mr. President, there are very, very few men in the Politburo with whom we could reasonably deal. Maybe Khrushchev, Bulganin … just maybe Mikoyan if we’re lucky. But that’s it. And they’re all pretty junior compared to Beria and Malenkov.”

  Next to the Secretary of State, Director of Central Intelligence Allen Dulles—the secretary’s brother—spoke up. “Probably not Mikoyan. And even if we like Khrushchev or Bulganin, it’s not like we can prop ’em up or anything. This isn’t Iran or Syria. Soviet Russia’s a hard nut to crack. There’s more political capital to be gained from hanging our men out to dry than doing a deal with us.”

  “Well, it’s not like we’ll show up with a briefcase full of cash or anything,” Eisenhower joked, and there was another murmur of laughter around the room. “But gentlemen, let me reiterate, I want to take maximum advantage of this. We have a chance to defuse this Cold War before it gets hot again. We can wrap up Korea and not get caught up in proxy battles all over the world. Let the Soviets see what we can accomplish with peace.”

  Vandenberg couldn’t hold his tongue any longer. “If their people see what we’re doing here in the West, they’ll want it back home. The Reds can’t afford to let that happen.”

  “Depends how they handle it,” Eisenhower said, his hands wide. “We need to try, don’t we? John, Allen: How do we start?”

  John Dulles shuffled his papers around until he found the right one. “First, we have to see how it all shakes out. You’ve got eight or nine men splitting up the government right now. Malenkov appears to have the top seat, but we think that’s a consensus move, and everyone’s gonna try to pull his strings. Beria, Molotov, Bulganin, and Kaganovich are the deputy premiers, and that’s the real competition. Beria has state security again, and that’ll make him first among equals. I’d also say Khrushchev has an outside shot—they’re having him work to recentralize and refocus the Party committees. He’s a sharp guy. He’ll wheel and deal his way up.”

  Eisenhower looked squarely at Allen Dulles and Vandenberg. “Beria?”

  The two men traded a look before Allen spoke. “Yes, sir.”

  The President’s mood changed abruptly. “John, everyone. I have to talk with Allen and Hoyt here alone. Let’s get everything written up and get our act together on the funeral, then start with the outreach to the individual satellite nations. Let’s get ’em thinking that there’s enough of a change going on in Russia that they can start taking chances—and we’ll be right there for them when the time comes. Thank you, everyone.”

  John Dulles shot his brother a look, which was returned with an arched eyebrow. Vandenberg figured the DCI and the Secretary of State probably talked a lot more than their predecessors, but it seemed Allen Dulles could still keep secrets from his brother. The Secretary of State and the assorted aides and deputies filed dutifully out of the Oval Office, leaving just Allen Dulles and Vandenberg sitting across from the President.

  Eisenhower didn’t waste any time. “So you’re saying that Lavrentiy Beria, a man who can literally shoot flames out of his hands, is head of state security and has the inside track on leading the Soviet Union, yes?”

  Dulles gave a grave nod. “I’ve seen the reports, Mr. President. I’ve personally interviewed every single American who survived the Kazakhstan incident. I’ve seen every single aspect of the MAJESTIC-12 program, both here and out at Mountain Home. I even had a chat with Admiral Hillenkoetter about it last month. This is very, very real.”

  The President turned to Vandenberg. “Hoyt?”

  “I’ve seen it firsthand, Mr. President. I’ve worked alongside our own Variants. They’re good, patriot
ic Americans. I believe them when they say that Beria’s a Variant as well. And we’ve seen enough intel on his private training camps, the Bekhterev Institute in Leningrad, all of it, to know that he’s been running a Variant program of his own. He calls them ‘the Champions of the Proletariat.’ We think he’s very much capable of grabbing power, for starters, and maybe even putting other Variants in top positions of power in the Soviet Union.”

  Eisenhower leaned back in his seat and ran a hand across his face. “I need to get out to Mountain Home. I need to see these things myself. Talk to these people. I mean, what’s keeping our own Variants from trying to do exactly what Beria’s doing over in Russia?”

  Dulles sat up a little straighter. “I trust Hoyt, and if he’s vouching for them, that’s a start. But we’re conducting our own security review as well. I don’t want to say Harry Truman played fast and loose with these Variants, but they were given a wide degree of latitude in operating as covert agents on behalf of the United States government.”

  “And they’ve done an amazing job,” Vandenberg said quickly. “Never had one wander off the reservation while on assignment. Time and again, they’ve proven their loyalty as well as their abilities. Honestly, they’re the best covert agents we have right now.”

  “That true, Allen?” the President asked.

  Dulles grimaced a bit, but nodded. “They have an excellent track record, sir.”

  Eisenhower pondered this a moment before shaking his head. “Either way, we have a situation in Russia. Variant or not, Beria’s a bastard. He was Stalin’s hatchet man. Hundreds of thousands of people killed or imprisoned—his orders. And if he really is a Variant, and believes in this Champions of the Proletariat nonsense, we need to do something about it. Options?”

  There was a deep silence for several long moments before Vandenberg spoke. “We need a fresh assessment now that Stalin’s gone. We need to figure out just how powerful Beria will get in the new order over there. And if need be, we need to take steps to—”

  “That’s enough, Hoyt,” Eisenhower said, his hand raised. “I get the rest. First, assess. We need the lay of the land. And I really want to know if he’s placing other Variants into government. How do we do that?”

  Vandenberg smiled slightly and looked over at Dulles, whose grimace got deeper. There was only one way anybody knew of to ferret out Variants around Beria.

  “Subject-1,” Dulles said finally.

  Eisenhower leaned forward, his face registering surprise. “From what I’ve read, Allen, Beria knows Subject-1. Beria knows several of our Variants. That’s not exactly covert.”

  “Actually, I like it,” Vandenberg said. “I think it sends a message.”

  “Being what, exactly?” Dulles asked peevishly.

  “That we know what Beria is. That we’re not afraid of him. That if he tries something with Variants, we’ll return the favor,” Vandenberg said.

  “Deterrence,” Eisenhower said. “Just like with the H-bomb.”

  “Exactly.”

  Eisenhower clasped his hands in front of him on the desk and looked down a moment. Vandenberg didn’t envy him one bit. The President had only been told about the MAJESTIC-12 program the day after the inauguration, and it had taken him weeks to wrap his head around the entire concept of superpowered humans, everyday people given abilities by some kind of intelligence via an interdimensional portal that defied all known physics. There were a lot of meetings and a lot of talks, and Eisenhower remained skeptical of the whole thing—especially since they were being particularly cautious with the transition from Truman’s administration. With Hillenkoetter out as DCI—and seemingly grateful to be back at sea after navigating political waters—Vandenberg was one of the very few men left in the MAJESTIC-12 program who had been there since the beginning. He’d come to appreciate the talents of the American Variants—and their patriotism. But Eisenhower had his doubts—and had not yet had the time, nor the inclination it seemed, to actually meet some of the Variants or head out to Mountain Home himself. Thus, Beria’s ascension would only confirm the President’s worst fears about Variant ambitions.

  Finally, the President looked up. “Okay, do it. Send them in.”

  March 9, 1953

  Russians in dark suits and coats shuffled by the bier at the front of the Hall of Columns, where the body of Josef Stalin lay in state, the ornate hall within the House of the Unions belying the drabness of the mourners’ clothes. Attitudes, too, were drab and colorless; emotions were muted. Frank Lodge had been expecting more from the death of the Soviet Union’s supreme leader, given the emotions he knew Russians could display when properly motivated. Maybe there just wasn’t enough vodka in ’em yet—it was half past nine in the morning, after all.

  There is too much uncertainty. And Stalin was feared more than loved, even by the Georgians, came the voice of the late Grigory Yushchenko, a colonel in the MGB who attempted to capture Frank and his fellow American Variants in ’48. Like all who died around Frank, Yushchenko’s memories and personality were embedded in Frank’s mind—the ability granted by his Variance. Since 1945, Frank had absorbed the memories, abilities, and talents of dozens of individuals; he now spoke north of twenty languages, and in any given moment could be a doctor, mechanic, soldier, acrobat, thief, military strategist, or academic in half a dozen fields.

  It made Frank the perfect covert agent. It also made his mind buzz with conversations and opinions at any given time. Only tight mental discipline—along with more and more time alone with minimal outside stimuli—kept Frank sane.

  But Yushchenko and the handful of other Soviets he’d absorbed were handy at times like these. There was general agreement in his head that Stalin’s death would be a relief to many Russians, even with the uncertainty sure to unfold at the top of the Soviet power structure.

  The man beside him, a thin, nebbish, bespectacled diplomat, shook his head sadly. “I went to Pershing’s funeral in 1948, and there was more pomp than this,” he said. “This is sedate by comparison.”

  Frank turned to face Jacob Beam, the current chargé d’affaires at the American Embassy. The position of ambassador was open—the previous one had been kicked out of the U.S.S.R. last year for daring to speak out against the regime. Frank figured the guy was lucky he wasn’t arrested, even with diplomatic immunity. So Beam, a career State Department man, was the one who ended up representing the United States at the funeral. “You think they’re already distancing themselves from Stalin?” Frank asked.

  Beam smirked. “Absolutely. The cult of personality around Stalin was strong—though not as strong as they believed. But they still need the distance. It’ll be interesting to see how the speeches go, see who gets propped up as next in line. The chess game on this is gonna last months.”

  Frank turned to the woman beside him and leaned in close. “What are you getting?” he whispered so that Beam wouldn’t hear.

  Maggie Dubinsky narrowed her eyes and scanned the room. She was a fellow Variant; she could both sense and affect the emotions of those around her. The latter could be particularly brutal if she put her mind to it—Frank had seen her reduce grown men to abject fear, lust, or catatonia. And in the five years he’d know her, he’d seen her grow colder, more distant, her eyes taking in other people like a scientist examining a newt.

  “Going through the motions,” she whispered. “Resignation, mostly. A few of them seem happy to be here. That guy there,” she added, nodding toward a civil servant in a gray suit leaning over Stalin’s coffin, “he’s thrilled. Good riddance. A few others are afraid. But mostly, just another day at the office.”

  It’s in the Russian soul, said Kirill Suleimenov, a Kazakh soldier in the Soviet Army whom Frank had absorbed in 1949, on a mission that went so sideways he and some others ended up prisoners of the Soviets—and of Lavrentiy Beria. Suleimenov was just a farm boy, but Frank had found that of all the voices in his head, the Kazakh was one of the more even-keeled. The Russians, unlike my people, are used to s
eeing regimes change. First there is one boss, then another. Lenin and Stalin were tsars like any other. And so they wait to see who is the next tsar.

  Yushchenko couldn’t resist then adding his own opinion. So long as the next tsar isn’t Beria. The Soviet Union would fall and take the rest of the world down with it.

  Frank would never tell anyone this, but sometimes he would just sit and listen to the voices converse with one another. It was eerie and yet somehow soothing at the same time. He had no idea how it worked, and realized that his … relationship … to the voices was evolving over time. It was less about calling on skills or memories, more about juggling personalities.

  With a supreme act of concentration, eyes screwed shut and brow furrowed, Frank silenced the voices. As much as the conversations provided comfort—he was never truly alone, after all—it would sometimes feel like he lived in a giant dormitory where nobody slept.

  “Here and now,” Maggie whispered, breaking Frank’s concentration. “Look sharp. We got new faces.”

  Frank turned to see several groups of somber-looking men enter the room. First in line was a delegation from China, led by none other than Zhou Enlai, the premier of the relatively new People’s Republic of China. Then the rest of the satellite states came in, most of whom had sent their top leaders along. It wouldn’t do for Communist countries, after all, to place such an important event in the hands of a mere ambassador, even though the vast majority of Western nations had done just that.

  “This is a big deal for them, too,” Beam said, following Frank’s gaze. “With Stalin gone, they’ll be lobbying for more support, more freedoms, whatever. They’ll be working the system just as much as the internal folks.”