MJ-12: Endgame

by Michael J. Martinez

  “Will he do it?” Danny asked.

  “So long as he doesn’t call tonight, we’re good, right?”

  Danny nodded. Here we go. “Been thinking about the solution for these guys, Frank. I think there’s another option.”

  “Dan, I’m sorry. Really. But you gotta expect at least one of these guys made Katie on that train. She says one of the Variants there recognized her and called her by name while there were still guys standing. So if even one says, ‘I got beat to shit by a teenage girl,’ and another says, ‘I heard someone say Ekaterina,’ then Katie’s been made as active here in the Soviet Union. Right here and now. She doesn’t leave. These guys can’t be allowed to go back.”

  “And what if Maggie’s already told Beria about all of us?” Danny shot back. “What if Katie’s already been made? Killing these guys isn’t going make that better, Frank.”

  Ekaterina quickly moved herself between the two men, facing Frank. “Wait. You want to kill all these men? There are twenty of them!”

  Frank put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Katie, honey, I’m sorry, but Beria really can’t know you’re around. Do you know what he’d do to get you back?”

  “I don’t care!” Ekaterina said, shoving Frank’s hand off her hard enough to stagger him backward. “You’re so worried about ‘Katie, honey,’ so why am I here then? I will not have these men die just because they may tell Beria something about me he likely already knows!”

  Danny stepped forward again and looked Frank squarely in the eye, even though the latter had a couple inches on him. “Frank, get the Russian Variants secured. Decision’s been made. Time to move out.”

  Frank stared hard at Danny for what seemed like an eternity, but Danny stood his ground, relying on their shared history and, yes, the privileges of rank. Finally, Frank stalked off toward the truck, and everyone else relaxed.

  “What was that about?” Sorensen asked.

  “Stress, probably. Let’s go,” Danny replied, hoping it was true.

  Five minutes later, the unconscious Variants were piled into the car—two pretzeled in the trunk, one propped up in the back seat—and the keys to the Red Army truck were flung deep into the woods. Frank took the wheel and, with everyone else piled in tight, sped off into the night, headlights still doused.

  Two minutes later, Danny saw a flash of light in the rearview, accompanied by a loud boom a second later.

  He quickly turned to Frank, who just stared straight ahead on the unlit road. “What the hell did you do?”

  There was an excruciating moment of silence before Frank replied. “I did what I had to.”

  From the back seat, Ekaterina screamed and lunged forward, her hands going for Frank’s throat. Thinking quickly, Danny flipped on the null-generator before she could snap Frank’s neck and send the car careening off the road.

  “You killed them! Those men! Murderer!” she shouted as Sorensen held her back—successfully, now that her strength was gone.

  Frank said nothing. He kept driving.

  When Ekaterina’s shrieks had died down to mere sobbing, Danny turned to Frank. “Why?”

  “Because you were wrong, Dan. Every single expert jammed in my head agreed—they couldn’t live. We need the extra time, and we need to keep our covers secure. Simple as that.”

  “Because of your voices? I outrank those voices!” Danny shouted. “You killed twenty men!”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Frank snapped. “You think I like doing this shit? But if we’re gonna get Maggie back and win this thing, we have to do it right.”

  Danny turned toward the darkness outside again and mulled it over for a few minutes. Finally, he made a decision.

  “Major Lodge, for violating a direct order from a superior, you’re hereby relieved and confined to quarters until further notice,” he said calmly. “At the earliest possible date, you will be transferred back to the United States to face disciplinary charges. Now get us the hell home and don’t say another goddamn word.”

  Frank said nothing. He just kept driving.

  CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET-MAJIK

  DATE: 14 Apr 53

  FROM: DCI Dulles

  TO: CMDR Wallace USN

  CC: GEN Vandenberg USAF, DR Bronk MJ-12

  RE: Operation Report of 13 Apr

  National Command Authority commends you and your team on your successful operation. Extraction of Soviet Variants not advised at this time. Border controls around USSR have been upgraded as of 13 Apr. Shelter captives in place.

  Extracting MAJ Lodge for disciplinary action is likewise not advised at this time. Maintain confinement at safe house until Lodge is required in an operational capacity. Further disobedience should be remedied in the field, up to and including elimination, at your command discretion.

  Request for Operation SATCHMO clearance granted. Proceed with all due caution.

  Per your information request, Agents Hooks and Yamato failed to make check-in and, at the moment, are unaccounted for in Korean theater. Search continues. You and your team are to remain in place and continue operations.

  /s/ Dulles

  April 15, 1953

  Five days can seem like an awful long time when you’re a prisoner of war. Especially in Korea. Especially during a cold and wet spring. Especially when they took your shoes and coats and rain gear.

  Calvin Hooks marched up the muddy track, shivering and hugging himself to conserve what little warmth was left in his bones. His body ached all over—from the ten miles of daily marching, from the cold and the damp, from the old age that was catching up to him rapidly now that he was expending life energy just to stave off total exhaustion.

  Along with Kim, Padilla, and Yamato, Cal was one of fifty or so prisoners of war rounded up after the North Korean and Chinese offensive that horrible night up on the hill. They were shoved around, punched, kicked—standard fare, he figured, Geneva Conventions be damned—then stripped of everything valuable. Coats and boots and ponchos were handed out by the Chinese to their North Korean allies, who would occasionally fight over who got what. So much for the glories of socialism, Cal thought. Of course, he kept that thought to himself. Keep walking.

  Kim and the South Koreans were quickly separated from the Americans and other U.N. forces; Kim looked back plaintively as they marched him away, and Cal figured it wasn’t going to go well for the poor fellow. In his briefing papers, Cal had read that captured South Koreans weren’t considered prisoners of war, but rather “liberated soldiers” rescued from oppression, or some damn fool crap like that. So the South Koreans would be put to work in mines, or construction, or other hard labor jobs, and forced to undergo all kinds of Communist indoctrination.

  The Americans, of course, were bargaining chips. But since nobody really had a clear picture of just how many were captured, they could afford to lose a few along the way.

  So there were twenty-two U.S. and U.N. troops that started marching three days ago. They were already down to eighteen. The four that died—dysentery, exposure, whatever got ’em—were left on the side of the road. Everyone else was told to keep walking. Keep walking.

  To Cal’s surprise, he and Padilla were treated a little bit better than the rest—fewer beatings, a little extra food here and there. Nobody really told them why, but then, nobody really spoke English either. A couple times, some Chinese fellow tried to talk to Cal in Chinese, and apparently in French, but Cal couldn’t get his meaning. All he got was a nod and a small smile from the guy, followed by a shove in the back from another, less pleasant one. Keep walking.

  Yamato, though, was treated far worse. The Japanese hadn’t been kind to the Koreans or Chinese during World War II, and it seemed like the North Koreans and Chinese were more than willing to take it out on Yamato, despite the American uniform. Either that, or they saw what Yamato could do with the lightning and didn’t want a repeat. Either way, they beat the poor kid so badly right off the bat that he was completely out of it, totally incoherent, and Padilla h
ad to help him walk.

  Keep walking.

  At least it wasn’t raining today, though the sun was having a devil of a time cutting through the clouds hanging over the hills and forests. Fog clung to the higher trees and hills, and the buds of spring were just starting to emerge from the bare trees. It would’ve been pretty, almost, under other circumstances. Then again, any kind of sign of life, of the world at large, of hope … any of it would’ve seemed pretty.

  A Chinese jeep honked behind them—jeep, truck, whatever they called ’em here—and Cal moved to the side of the road as quickly as possible. The traffic today was getting more frequent, and all heading in the same direction they were marching. At this point, that seemed like a good thing, since there might actually be a destination in store.

  Back on the road, he found himself next to Padilla and Yamato. “How’s he doing?” Cal whispered. Speaking out loud wasn’t in the cards, not unless they all wanted a good, solid beating.

  “No good,” Padilla replied. “They beat him bad last night.”

  Cal frowned, nodded, and went back to walking. If he could just get some juice, he could fix up Yamato and, at that point, they could easily head for the hills. Cal had healed far worse than what the kid had suffered, even to the point of brain damage. But there was nothing for it—the opportunities were just too scarce, and nobody really wanted to touch the prisoners, all caked with mud, soiled from the lack of bathroom breaks, cold and probably sick with the flu or whatever the hell was gonna get ’em.

  Sally and Winston occupied a lot of Cal’s thoughts. He had little whispered conversations with them, telling them all the things he wanted them to know. He prayed to Jesus that they’d somehow hear him, and dared to hope that his prayers would be answered, because faith was all he really had left going for him at this point. He thought of Frank and Danny, that poor girl Maggie, and whispered some thoughts to them, too. Just in case.

  Cal wasn’t planning on dying, of course. He was still looking for the escape route. But nobody gets to choose when they’re called home, so best to make peace when you can.

  Finally, around the next bend, Cal saw some better odds.

  They had arrived.

  The camp was large—much larger than the little cluster of buildings he’d stayed at back at Area 51, but not so large as, say, Mountain Home. He figured it was maybe half a square mile, surrounded by a pair of barbed wire fences. There were wooden watch towers set up here and there, seemingly at random, and Cal immediately wondered if there was a blind spot in the sightlines. Something to check out later, if given the opportunity.

  The POWs were marched through the gates and into a courtyard surrounded by tents, huts, and sheet metal buildings cobbled together from scrap. The nicer tents had Chinese and Korean labels on them—Cal was getting better at telling the two languages apart, if not actually understanding any of the characters—while the sheet metal buildings seemed to be for the actual prisoners. A few groups of POWs were being marched to and from some of the buildings, no more than four or five at a time.

  And God, they looked horrible.

  Most of them were skinny to the point of emaciated, practically rattling around inside the uniforms hanging off their bony bodies. Scraggly beards, sunken eyes, unkempt hair … Cal was aghast at the treatment, and couldn’t help thinking it was likely a preview of what might be in store for him soon. He thought back to the American camps where they questioned the Korean and Chinese prisoners—was that just last week?—and seeing the difference in treatment was a real punch in the gut.

  “Wha ….what ….?”

  Cal turned and saw Yamato looking up, half-dazed but trying to figure out where he was, what was going on. Stepping over to him, Cal whispered, “Hey, buddy. Keep your head down. We’re at a camp. We gotta try to stick together. Remember our capture plans from the briefing, okay? We’re gonna be okay.”

  Anything further was cut off as something hard smashed into the back of Cal’s head, sending him to the muddy ground, dazed. Looking up, his vision blurred, Cal saw a soldier standing over him, with something … yeah, a rifle … carrying a rifle. Probably had taken the butt to the head.

  Without really thinking about it, Cal reached out and touched the man’s ankle. Just a little. Just enough.

  It was more than a little.

  The man cried out as he aged suddenly, the scream piercing through Cal’s haze just as surely as the life flowed out of the soldier and into him. Stronger and surer, Cal flipped onto his back, still grasping the Korean man, and grabbed Yamato’s leg with his other hand.

  “Give ’em hell, son,” Cal muttered.

  Rick Yamato needed no encouragement.

  Cal’s eyes were blinded by white-hot lightning, which seemed to erupt from all around Yamato’s body. There were screams and shouts, quickly joined by the sound of gunfire. Cal rolled onto his stomach and saw lightning arc toward four soldiers, all with rifles pointed at them. They spasmed and fell immediately.

  “Get your ass down, Rick!”

  Yamato looked down at Cal and just smiled. “No.”

  More shots popped off, and Cal watched helplessly as Yamato took a hit to the shoulder. The Variant staggered, but turned and let rip a half dozen bolts of lightning, one of which caught a jeep and turned it into a fireball that sent everyone ducking for cover.

  “Okay! We go! We go now!” Padilla shouted, hauling Cal up by the arm. “Come on!”

  But the gates were closed now, and it seemed like every goddamn Chinese and Korean Red was running toward them with guns aimed, shouting. But Yamato’s lightning was getting less impressive with each arc. The kid was nearly spent.

  “Aw, no,” Cal said, shrugging off Padilla. “No, we ain’t going nowhere. Rick, let it go. Bad idea.”

  By this point, Yamato was on his knees, still trying to pull the lightning out of him, but getting weaker by the second. There were dozens of Reds on the ground, but the ones most recently hit were shaking off the shock and getting back up. Cal put his hands up, and Padilla followed suit. Finally, Yamato fell over on his side, spent, and the Chinese and Koreans approached slowly, still shouting, weapons raised.

  This beating’s gonna hurt, Cal thought. This is what I get for getting angry, for not planning. Stupid. So stupid.

  “Tíngzh!”

  With a single shouted word from somewhere behind Cal, all the soldiers stopped shouting and advancing, holding their positions. They were still aiming their guns at the three Variants, but it was an awful lot of improvement for just one word. Cal turned to see who it was.

  The first face he recognized was Kim, their translator, looking none the worse for wear. Did he turn? Was he a spy to begin with? He didn’t look happy, but he wasn’t doing a comic book villain smile, either. And he was standing next to—a step behind and to the left, really—a rather short, skinny Chinese fellow in a Red Army uniform with sergeant’s stripes. And even though that fellow, who looked to be maybe twenty, was thoroughly outranked by half a dozen officers in the mix, they all immediately seemed to defer to him.

  “Black Wind,” Padilla whispered. “Is that him?”

  Cal shrugged. “We’re gonna find out, I guess.”

  The Chinese sergeant approached and started speaking in rapid-fire Chinese, which Kim began to translate. “The sergeant wishes to apologize for the inconvenience of the past several days. There was an error in sorting through the captives from the battle, and the sergeant was called away to attend to other matters before he could return to you. You will be treated with respect and comfort now and in the future.”

  Cal looked squarely at Kim. “That’s nice. That who we think it is? Hei Feng?”

  The sergeant scowled at this and immediately started in again before Kim could translate back. “The sergeant’s name is Chen Li Jun. The name Hei Feng is one given to him by others, and he would prefer a simple address as Sergeant Chen,” Kim said.

  “And how you doing, Kim? They treating you well?” Cal asked, trying his bes
t not to sound too suspicious.

  Kim offered up a small smile. “I wish I were home, Captain Hooks, but I have been treated well. I have a skill, and the sergeant here thinks I will be useful in finding out more about you.”

  Yamato finally staggered to his feet again, prompting a wave of murmurs from the soldiers surrounding them. Cal held out his hand, motioning for the young man to save his strength, but it wasn’t necessary. “It’s okay, I’m out of it for a while,” he said. “So, Kim, did you sell us out? Told ’em everything?”

  The Korean translator grimaced and turned slightly red. “I have family in the North, Sergeant Yamato. I was assured their safety would be guaranteed if I cooperated.”

  Cal nodded. “What’s done is done, Kim. Ask Sergeant Chen here what’s gonna happen to us.”

  Kim and Chen had a brief conversation in Chinese before the translator responded: “The sergeant has brought with him your confiscated possessions, including the electric generator you possessed which keeps his … blessings? … his ability from him. You will now be housed along with this generator to keep your own abilities from you. You will be given coats and boots, and the opportunity to bathe and eat well. Then the sergeant wishes to talk to all of you about your own blessings. Abilities. What do you call them?”

  “Enhancements,” Cal said. “In America, we call ourselves Variants. We’re different. But we’re good together. Tell the sergeant we’d welcome all that. We’d like to talk to him, too.”

  There was more conversation in Chinese, a few quick queries in English, and then the party broke up when Chen turned on the backup null-generator Cal brought with him. Immediately, Cal felt the years begin to pile back onto his body, though it would still take about an hour to get him back to his early sixties, age-wise. It wasn’t going to be pleasant.

  But a shower and some food and some warmth was a good start, and if that Chen fellow wanted to have a chat, well …

  Not every escape opportunity had to be a shoot-out, even if it might take a while longer to pull off.