MJ-12: Endgame

by Michael J. Martinez

  Max had a young wife and a baby boy, Lucas, who slept in his mother’s arms as she hosted six burly, sweaty iron workers, sitting around the tiny apartment wherever they could find room—the little kitchen table, the ratty couch, the floor. Cigarette smoke filled the room, and Frank couldn’t help but worry for the baby’s lungs. Blessedly, Max’s wife put the little one down for the night after about a half hour.

  “So what do we do if they raise quotas again?” Max asked. “All of you heard the news. They are now talking about pay cuts if we don’t meet quotas. I can barely afford to feed my family as it is.”

  There were nods around the table, and many swigs of Radeberger beer—a surprisingly good pilsner, despite the brewery being nationalized by the East German government shortly after the war. “What do you mean, ‘what do we do?’” answered Ernst, one of the grizzled old hands in their work group. “We work harder to make sure we meet the quotas. There’s nothing else to do.”

  Frank sized up the group—nobody was really happy with that answer, even Ernst. “Are we not the workers?” Frank said when nobody else spoke up. “All of this talk about Communism, where the workers are in charge of the means of production. Doesn’t that mean we’re in charge? That we’re the ones they have to listen to?”

  Ernst shook his head and took a long drag off his cigarette. “You look too old to be so stupid, Franz. The Party says the workers are in charge, but these are the same bureaucrats who ran the Nazi government. They answered to Hitler, then rolled over, and now they answer to Stalin—or whoever replaces Stalin in Moscow now. Those bureaucrats haven’t worked a day in their lives. They sit in offices and write reports and have meetings and make all the decisions, and then hope and pray Moscow allows them to do what they planned. Or they figure out how to make Moscow’s demands work. We don’t matter.”

  “We should matter,” replied another young man named Manfred, a wizard with rivets who almost singlehandedly boosted them over their quotas each day. “If they could just see how bad things are, maybe they would adjust the quotas, or increase pay, or fix things. Maybe they just don’t know what it’s like.”

  “So how do we show them?” Frank prodded. “We are the workers. We’re the backbone of the State. ‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs.’ Our abilities are stretched to the limits, and our needs aren’t being met!”

  The youngest of their circle, a fresh-faced boy named Gunter, shifted in his chair uncomfortably. “Comrades, we know the Americans and their allies brought us low during the war. We had nothing after Hitler was removed. Don’t we all have to make sacrifices in order to bring our Fatherland back? We are starting from nothing. And there are still those far worse off than we are, those who can’t even afford beer!”

  There were nods around the table at this, and Frank saw the power of propaganda at work. Tighten your belts and work for each other, not for yourself. Work toward equality for the collective. Even if we’re all starving, we’ll be equal. “The bureaucrats can afford beer. They get more ration stamps and better pay, and they skip the queues at the stores to get the best cuts of meat and the best produce for their families. How is this a sacrifice?”

  There were more nods now, more grimaces and grumblings, and Frank knew he had them. He might not have had Maggie’s emotional manipulations, but experience certainly counted for something. By the time the beer was gone and the men were stumbling out of Max’s flat, their rage was well stoked. Frank walked old Ernst to his flat, then walked another mile to his temporary home. Danny was already there, and there was a plate of potatoes and a bit of sausage waiting for him.

  “Actual meat?” Frank asked. “Where’d you get that?”

  “The students sometimes use ration stamps when they’re playing doppelkopf. I had a good hand tonight,” Danny said. “Where’ve you been?”

  Frank plopped down at the tiny table and tucked into his food. “Fomenting dissent. You saw the news this morning. The workers are pissed. Quotas are going up, and they’re worried that the pay cuts are gonna follow soon. If that happens, well … these people are strapped, Dan. I blew most of my wad on beer to get them loose and talking. They can barely feed their families, and if they get their pay cut for failing to meet quota, I think that’s our shot.”

  Danny nodded and cracked open a beer. “There’s a lot of sympathy for the workers among the students. They’re sitting in classes all day, getting an earful about the proletariat and the nobility of work and all that, then see all the bureaucrats walking by in good clothes and full bellies. They’re starting to whisper, but I don’t think they’ll take the lead. The Stasi is pretty well entrenched in the schools.”

  “But if it starts up elsewhere? You think they’ll play ball?” Frank asked between bites.

  “Some of them, sure,” Danny said. “Sure would be nice to know the whens and wheres, though. Hard to plan a rebellion when we don’t have control over when it kicks off.”

  “Probably when they announce the pay cuts for not meeting quotas,” Frank replied. “That’s the rumor, at least. But there’s no telling when that will be.”

  “Be nice to know. We could coordinate with Mrs. Stevens and try to pull something in Moscow at the same time. A revolt here and a black eye there would really whack Beria good. Latest intel reports say he’s struggling to keep up with Malenkov and Khrushchev. Starting to look like he might be outmaneuvered.”

  Frank leaned back and ran a hand over his tired face. “If they’re not careful, Beria will go for broke. Unleash his Variants. Kill ’em all and just take over.”

  You should’ve killed him when you had the chance, said one of the voices in Frank’s head, and a few others echoed the sentiment. Frank closed his eyes and willed them back into the dark corner of his mind.

  Danny noticed. “More voices?”

  “Opinions,” Frank said. “They’re second-guessing now. I’m really not listening to them much anymore.”

  “Have your language abilities been affected?”

  “Nope. Things like languages, skills that rely on muscle memory, that sort of thing—those kinds of natural, subconscious abilities, those aren’t really affected. Just don’t ask me to fix a car or perform surgery. I’d have to let them in to do that, and I honestly don’t know at this point how they’d react.”

  “You think they’d refuse you?” Danny asked, eyebrows raised.

  Frank just shrugged. “They never have, after nearly eight years of this. But then again, they’ve never really offered up opinions outside of a crisis situation. Now, though, it seems like they’re restless. Pushing. It’s really not fucking helpful at all.”

  Danny took another swig of beer and looked Frank in the eye. “I gotta tell you, Frank, I don’t know what the powers that be will say to all this when we’re done. They’ve been conspicuously silent on our reports around our Enhancements. I can’t get any word on what the vortex in Idaho is doing. We’re in the dark here.”

  “So what? You think they’ll put us under arrest when we come back?” Frank asked. “I mean, me, sure. I bombed that truck and went to see Beria on my own. I figure I’m in trouble when everything settles out. But you? Rose? Katie?”

  “I’m the deputy director of MAJESTIC-12. I’m the operations guy. And they’re telling me nothing about the other Variants, about the vortex, no word on any new studies based on what Beria told you. We have a new administration now. We’ve been so busy, I’ve only met Eisenhower once, back in January, when we briefed him up. Can’t honestly say how he feels about us.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We do the job,” Danny replied. “We get Beria out of there. After that … we’ll have to see how things go. But if you don’t have contingency plans, maybe think about that.”

  Frank just smiled. “I’m forty-seven different people, Dan. I speak twenty languages. I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about Katie. And Cal. And Maggie, if we can ever get her back.”

  “So maybe those are
your contingency plans, then.”

  Frank nodded and finished his food in silence, the wheels spinning in his head. He could feel opinions from the others bubbling up, but he quashed them before the thoughts were fully formed. This was something he had to figure out on his own.

  And he knew, if nothing else, how to get started.

  * * *

  June 2, 1953

  “How was your weekend, Franz?”

  Frank smiled at Max as they walked toward the worksite. “Quiet. How is your little boy?”

  Max just shook his head. “We can’t sleep. He’s up at all hours, always wanting to be fed.”

  “This is good! He’ll grow up big and strong like his father!” Frank said, slapping Max on the back. “I hear they eventually sleep through the night. You’ll get there.”

  Max just nodded wearily and trudged toward the ladders that would take him to the top of the building where they left off Friday. Excusing himself, Frank made for the latrine—which was right next to the shack the foreman used as an office. The foreman himself was by the ladders, checking people in and exhorting them, as always, to make their quotas and work hard for the glory of the proletariat.

  Frank ducked behind the building, rather than using the door, and looked up to see if the men were on the beams yet. They weren’t—but they’d be there in about three minutes, maybe less. Frank prayed the window at the back of the little shack was open—and it was. Deftly, he lifted himself through the window, diving into the office, landing on his hands and holding the position until he could safely place his feet back on the floor with a minimum of noise. It hurt—his arms protested greatly—but at least he retained a gymnast’s sense of balance. That gymnast was named Alan Reeves, and he had died in 1950.

  Frank made his way behind the desk and started flipping through papers and folders. There were work orders and personnel folders and delivery receipts, but nothing important. Frank checked the drawers and found the one that was locked. A paperclip and twenty seconds later, the drawer was opened and he found what he was looking for.

  Frank dove through the window head-first again, executing a perfect flip and landing on his feet. The conversation up on the steel would be a fruitful one today.

  CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET-MAJIK

  DATE: 4 June 53

  FROM: DCI Dulles

  TO: AGENT Stevens CIA, AGENT Sorensen CIA

  CC: CMDR Wallace USN, GEN Vandenberg USAF, DR Bronk MJ-12

  RE: Operation AERIE

  Intelligence indicates potential for disruption of East German political situation on 16 June. Begin planning for Operation AERIE immediately. Identify targets for maximum disruption and impact, particularly on primary target. Do not engage primary target.

  On 16 June, AGENT Stevens is to report to Station Chief Moscow for direct updates from Station Chief West Berlin. Should East German disruptions meet minimum operational requirements—deployment of armed police or military, use of deadly force, or widespread protests—launch AERIE on 17 June, or no later than 19 June.

  Extraction of Soviet Variants still not recommended. Continue holding until advised. Success of AERIE remains top priority.

  Per continued information request, AGENTS Hooks and Yamato remain missing in action.

  /s/ Dulles

  June 16, 1953

  Danny watched with a deep and abiding satisfaction as a throng of workers marched toward Potsdamer Platz along Leipziger Strasse. There were hundreds of them—thousands—and they even somehow managed to find the time and materials to create banners. “Lower work quotas!” “Listen to the workers!” “Unity is Strength!” Some bold souls were hoisting a bed sheet tied to poles that read “We want free elections!”

  This was, of course, far more impressive than Danny could’ve dreamed of, and he knew well enough that this wasn’t entirely due to their meddling. At best, he and Frank had simply given it a nudge, and fueled the rumor mill that made the coordinated effort possible. Frank had discovered the date for new pay cuts and higher quotas, and he and Danny had simply spread the word amongst the workers and students. When the cuts and quotas were announced, the construction workers at Frank’s site had rioted and began marching on the Free German Trade Union Federation, gathering workers from other worksites as they went. When the protests at the federation went unheeded, the throng then marched on the government itself at the Detlev-Rohwedder-Haus, just a handful of blocks from the East-West border.

  From Danny’s perch three stories above Potsdamer Platz, he could see both the protestors at the government building as well as a growing number of West Berliners gathering on the other side of the barbed wire and barricades that separated them from their former countrymen. Would the East Berliners try to break through? Would the West Berliners join them? The Stasi and East German military were conscious of both possibilities, reinforcing the barricades while sending troops to Detlev-Rohwedder-Haus as well. But they were already spread thin—the protestors were growing in number by the minute, and Danny could hear the volume of their chanting increasing as well. Before Danny headed up to his lookout post—a disused corner office of a faceless government building—he saw some of his student cohorts joining the crowd.

  It was exciting. It was freedom at work. He couldn’t help but be happy for the East German people, and could only hope that their numbers would be too big to ignore or suppress.

  Danny turned away from the protest to the other window, looking toward West Berlin. Off in the distance, he saw a window with an “X” taped on it. He backed away from the window toward the corner of the room and pulled a flashlight out of his satchel. He aimed it at the West Berlin “X” and began flicking it on and off.

  A moment later, a series of dim lights answered from the same window.

  Contact.

  Danny began reporting in. He hoped Mrs. Stevens had everything lined up. It was time to make some noise.

  * * *

  “Ma’am, secure cable coming in.”

  Rose Stevens practically launched herself from the sofa outside the secure communications room at the American Embassy in Moscow. The Embassy had already received a handful of unconfirmed reports, mostly cribbed from radio and the wires, that something was going on in East Berlin. Mrs. Stevens knew full well that any spark Frank and Danny created might very well not catch. But her analysis of the economic and political environment in East Germany all pointed to opportunity.

  She dashed past the communications clerk and into the secure room, closing the door and flipping a switch. The teletype immediately burst into action, churning out line after line of encoded text. On the face of it, the string of letters and numbers meant nothing. But Mrs. Stevens had looked up the codes of the day and committed them to memory. The rest she did in her head, on the fly, which would’ve made the clerk faint dead away if he saw it.

  “AEGIS is go,” she muttered. “Situation optimal for immediate action. Revise timetable and execute ASAP.”

  She couldn’t help but smile broadly. They wouldn’t be asking her to speed things up if things were going badly, that’s for sure. Something had caught fire in East Berlin, and it was her job to fan the flames all the way to Red Square.

  Good thing she’d planned for this contingency.

  Turning on her heel, Mrs. Stevens strode out of the communications room and headed to the embassy’s secure conference room, home to every electronic countermeasure known to man. There, in the windowless room amidst the hum of signal jammers, Sorensen and Katie were waiting. “Good news and bad news,” she said. “Things are going well in East Berlin. Looks like our boys lit the fuse on something big.”

  Sorensen nodded. “Heard a couple of the embassy guys talking. UPI is reporting a large protest at the East German government building. Thousands of people. Pretty amazing.”

  “So what is the bad news?” Katie asked, nonplussed.

  “We’ve been asked to move things up. Tonight. As in right now.”

  Sorensen and Katie looked at each other i
n disbelief. “Right now? We only finished getting everything in place this morning.”

  Mrs. Stevens put her hands on her hips and gave them a tight-lipped smile. “Well, then we’re ready, aren’t we? Contingency plan Beta-Beta. Let’s move it!”

  Sorensen rolled his eyes and promptly disappeared, leaving only his civilian suit in place, which flopped to the floor seemingly of its own accord. Ekaterina, meanwhile, got up and dashed off to her embassy quarters to change into her outfit for the evening. Mrs. Stevens followed her to get into her own get-up, stopping by Jacob Beam’s office along the way. The chargé d’affaires wasn’t too pleased at being drafted into service with just two hours’ notice, but reluctantly agreed to the change in plans.

  “Espionage doesn’t keep schedules,” Mrs. Stevens said cheerily. “Get your tux on. We’re out in twenty minutes.”

  * * *

  Lavrentiy Beria put on a game face, for sure, but Maggie Dubinsky could feel the tension inside him, ready to boil over at a moment’s provocation. She just needed to make damned sure she wasn’t the source of the provocation.

  Instead, she hooked her arm into his and leaned over in the back seat of the limousine as they rode through the early Moscow evening. “Hey, it’s okay,” she said quietly. “Not your fault that the damn Germans can’t keep their own in check.”

  Beria turned to her and gave her a small smile. “I told Molotov. I told him. Their economic plan was completely unsustainable. One cannot create entire industries out of whole cloth in just a few years. But the Party overruled me and let the Germans try. And now those fools have an insurrection on their hands.”

  “Exactly,” Maggie said, watching his tension build further. “Not your fault, right?”

  The smile evaporated. “Tell that to those fools, Malenkov and Khrushchev. It’s been less than twelve hours and they want heads to roll for this. Now I have my entire staff working through the night to determine the right levers to pull to quell the situation. I almost canceled tonight.”