MJ-12: Endgame

by Michael J. Martinez

  “Did they catch a glimpse of Beria?” Mrs. Stevens asked.

  “No, but the report says all NKVD officers were summoned to headquarters before the caravan arrived, and stayed there all night. But it gets better,” Danny said. “Four hours after the contingent left, an entire Red Army battalion roared into town and headed straight for the NKVD, setting up a perimeter and everything.”

  “That’s our boy,” Frank said. “Anything else?”

  “Nope, that’s it. But it’s consistent with what I’ve been sensing, that they’ve been heading east for the past three days. Vladivostok is as far east as east goes. So now they have to make a decision,” Danny said, laying out a map of eastern Asia on the conference room table. “Thoughts?”

  Everyone stood to get a look at it, but as had become habit, they waited for Mrs. Stevens to speak first. “He’s not hiding, that’s for sure,” she said after a while. “Russia’s a big place. If he wanted to hole up somewhere and hide, you don’t go through Vladivostok to do that. You go to Siberia, somewhere you can set up shop with nobody caring. He’s got a lot of Variants with him. He could have easily taken over a small town and built up a power base out there, or just waited until things cooled down. It’s a huge country, and he went to a major population center instead.”

  “And then left,” Sorensen noted.

  Frank paced around the table. “So you have a traveling menagerie of at least a dozen Variants, some of the most powerful people on the planet, and you’re not holing up anywhere—you’re at the ass end of the Soviet Union. If you came in from Chuguyevka, that’s, what, four hours north of the city? So they weren’t heading back north. And you’ve got two major borders within a short drive from there—China and North Korea.”

  “Maybe he’s going to hand everything off to Mao,” Danny said. “Convince the chairman that Russia’s fallen to rogue elements, and that the Chinese have to help him?”

  “That’s a tall order,” Sorensen quipped.

  “Beria does not ask for help,” Ekaterina offered. “He is … pig-head. Stubborn.”

  “Arrogant,” Frank added.

  Mrs. Stevens nodded along and pointed again to the map. “And you don’t need to go all the way to Vladivostok to get to China. You go through Kazakhstan or Mongolia. And you could’ve been there by yesterday.”

  “So he’s going to Korea,” Danny said. “But why? If you’re trying to protect your Variants—the only real resource he has left—do you drag them into a war zone?”

  “Maybe he’s doing a deal with the North,” Sorensen said. “You know—we’ll win your war for you, you give us a home for a while. Or maybe he thinks he can just take over or something.”

  “That’s assuming his goal really is to just protect his Variants,” Mrs. Stevens said. “It’s a priority, sure, but again, if that’s the sum total of his plan, he wouldn’t have been seen. So there’s something else up his sleeve, and yes, I think he’s going to North Korea to do it, whatever it is.”

  Ekaterina studied the map and thought back to her time at the Bekhterev Institute, and the creepy man who could shoot flames from his hands and called her “daughter” in a very disturbing way. She was sure Beria was as sick as he was arrogant. He would not run and hide. He would run and do something else, but what could he do with three cars full of Variants and ….

  “Excuse me,” she said. “But do we know what’s in the truck?”

  Danny, Frank, and Mrs. Stevens traded looks around the table. “Red Army cargo truck,” Mrs. Stevens said. “The Red Army isn’t just going to up and give that to him.”

  Frank nodded. “Dan, maybe see if our man in Vladivostok can take a little drive north to Chuguyevka, see what that place looks like. Meanwhile …”

  Danny finished Frank’s sentence for him. “Pack your things. We’re out of here in two hours. Move.”

  * * *

  Night gently descended on the forested mountains around Songbul-sa, punctuated by the growing sounds of cicadas in the trees. Cal had just finished another meal with Hei Feng, and now walked slowly around the temple courtyard, with Kim in tow to translate and a couple guards keeping a respectful distance. Yamato and Padilla had joined them for dinner, then begged off on the walk.

  Honestly, if it wasn’t for the two guards shadowing each of them, weapons at the ready, Cal would’ve really enjoyed the stay. Well, that and missing his family. And failing in his mission. But Cal was always one to make the most of it, and while the Variants waited for the Reds to slip up and give them a window to escape—and maybe rescue those POWs before they were all killed in retaliation—he’d grown to appreciate the slower pace. Especially as his own pace had slowed.

  Cal was very much feeling his real age—for the first time in years. In fact, he swore he felt older now. He should have been around fifty-seven, in a body that had seen a lot of miles and hard work and was getting a little arthritic before his Enhancement took hold. But today he felt—and looked—older than that, maybe early sixties. A little more gray, a little stiffer and achy. The thought worried him slightly, but given that he’d always kept himself younger and healthier than his real age, who was to say what his real age should be?

  His captor noticed. “Your ability keeps you younger. And without it, you grow old,” Hei Feng said through Kim. “Is that true?”

  Cal smiled as they walked past some kind of statue or stele in the middle of the court yard. It wasn’t the first time Black Wind had asked about their abilities, and he wasn’t sure if the young Chinese was probing again or just being kind. “Well, seeing as we’re not really on the same side, and with all due respect, I don’t feel right talking about it.”

  Hei Feng nodded. “If you hold to our agreement, I may be able to let you slaughter some of the chickens we’ve gathered for food. Would that help?”

  That sounded really, really good to Cal, and he was sorely tempted. But … “No, that’s all right. Appreciate it, though.”

  “I understand. Your loyalty to your people is admirable, especially when … well, your people, Africans, they are not treated as well as they should be, yes?” Hei Feng asked.

  “Nobody’s ever treated as well as they should be, but yeah, we have a ways to go. But I’ve been a lot of places, and I can tell you that if you look different, no matter how it is that you look different, people gonna treat you different. Black folk in Africa, they don’t like white folk much at all. Understandable. Indian folk don’t like Chinese folk. Arabs don’t like Jews. The French, well, they don’t like anybody. But America’s home. And I think it’ll get better, as long as we keep at it, keep trying to make a difference.”

  Hei Feng took all this in as Kim translated, then pondered it for several paces before replying. “And how do they feel about Chinese people?”

  Cal could only shrug. “I don’t rightly know. Most Chinese folks I know of tend to stick to their own kind in the cities. I don’t think they have it as bad as black folk in the South, but I really don’t know.”

  “I have no family left to speak of, and the farmers and peasants are treated as well as you can expect, I suppose,” Kim translated. “Perhaps—what’s that?”

  Cal turned to look at the Korean, pretty sure that he wasn’t translating anymore, and saw why a moment later when three Chinese Army jeeps sped into the tiny courtyard, filled with soldiers and at least three ranking officers.

  “Friends of yours?” Cal muttered.

  “No friend,” Hei Feng replied—in English.

  One of the officers, dressed to the nines with enough brass for a tuba, got out and marched straight toward Hei Feng, who saluted smartly. The officer began pointing and shouting, and soon soldiers were spreading out into the rest of the temple, while three of them trained their guns on Cal.

  “He is here for you,” Kim whispered. “You and your friends.”

  Cal raised his hand slowly. “I thought Hei was keeping this quiet.”

  Kim also raised his hands, out of caution if not solidarity. “He
can be independent, but he still answers to people. Those people may have told his secret to someone else.”

  Padilla and Yamato were brought into the courtyard at gunpoint, hands on their heads, while the officer continued to shout at Hei Feng. “What’s going on, boss?” Yamato asked.

  “Think the vacation’s over,” Cal said.

  Then the officer reached out and relieved Hei Feng of his sidearm and rifle, and Hei Feng raised his hands as well.

  “Oh, shit,” Cal said. “This is bad. Ricky, light ’em up. Time to go.”

  A moment later—nothing.

  Cal turned to look at Yamato, who had a pained expression on his face. “It’s not there.”

  “What do you mean, ‘It’s not there’?”

  “I mean, it’s like a null field or something. I can’t call it up.”

  “But the Chinese don’t have generators!” Cal hissed. “How the hell did—oh.”

  Cal had missed the face when the jeeps first drove into the courtyard, probably because it wasn’t so different from the other Chinese and Korean faces he’d seen. But now, the person was unmistakable, the same one Cal had first seen in a European forest six years ago.

  Mikhail Tsakhia, the original null-Variant, saw Cal looking over at him … and gave him a winning smile. Next to him, a human-shaped shadow coalesced from the darkness briefly, then disappeared again.

  “What is it?” Padilla asked as they began to lead Hei Feng toward one of the jeeps.

  Cal sighed. “We’re in trouble.”

  June 22, 1953

  Lieutenant General Bill Harrison was on the short side, compact, and seemed to wear a permanent scowl. Surprisingly, it made him the perfect negotiator at the armistice talks with North Korea in the contested village of Panmunjom. Danny Wallace thought Harrison would make one hell of a poker player, though word was that the general was quite the upstanding Christian, and would probably frown on gambling.

  He was certainly frowning at Danny at the moment.

  “Commander Wallace, I recognize you have orders here from General Vandenberg. I know Hoyt. Good man. But what he’s asking me to do is next to impossible,” Harrison said from behind his desk at U.N. Command Headquarters. “Those Koreans, they notice everything. They’re gonna notice new faces at the table. I don’t care how good your Major Lodge is. I’m sure he’s a damn fine negotiator, though nobody I know seems to have heard of him. We keep track of people in the Army, you know. We know the good ones.”

  “Yes, sir. Major Lodge has been on detached duty for some time,” Danny responded, standing ramrod straight in his Navy whites, even though he stuck out like a sore thumb on the nearly all-Army base.

  “And I can imagine to whence he’s been detached,” Harrison replied, carefully enunciating each word. “I’m well aware what happens to good military men on detached duty. And I remember when Hoyt was over at CIA. I can put two and two together just fine, Commander. But let me tell you, we are so close. So close to an agreement that could stop the fighting here and maybe get our boys home. If you and yours get in the way of that, I swear to God Almighty himself, you’ll spend the rest of your days in Leavenworth.”

  “Sir, with respect,” Danny began, “we’re here because there’s a chance that someone else may try to get in the way of that agreement. We want to prevent that from happening.”

  Harrison held up Vandenberg’s orders again. “So I see. ‘Rogue elements from the Soviet Union.’ I didn’t know the Soviets had rogue elements to begin with.”

  “It’s a new development, sir.”

  “And I suppose you’re not at liberty to tell me who or what these rogue elements are?”

  It was all Danny could do to keep looking Harrison in the eye. “Sir, no, sir. I am not.”

  “And the rest of your people will be off doing something else, which you’re also not at liberty to disclose.”

  “Correct, sir.”

  Harrison threw the paper down on the desk again. “I mean it, Commander. We’re trying to stop a war here. If you mess this up with your antics, I’ll have your head. I don’t like saying it, but by God, I mean it.”

  Danny straightened up even further, so much so it felt like his spine would independently launch itself toward the ceiling. “Understood, sir.”

  “Have Lodge and this other person—Stevens, is it?—report to the staging area tomorrow at oh-seven-hundred. Dismissed.”

  Giving his best academy salute, Danny turned and walked out of the office, allowing his back to relax only when he left the building entirely. Outside, the rest of the Variants were waiting for him, all dressed in U.S. Army uniforms. Even Katie had been made a rather young-looking private, with a secretarial post as cover.

  “Well?” Frank asked.

  “You and Rose are reporting for duty with the delegation at 7 a.m. You remember how to spit-shine and polish, right?” Danny asked with a smirk.

  “Like riding a bike. What about the rest of you?”

  Danny pulled a map of the area from his pocket and unfolded it. “I’m getting the biggest concentration of Variant activity from somewhere in this direction,” he said, drawing a line with his finger to the north and east. “I’m thinking they’re near Kaesong. It’s only seven or eight miles from Panmunjom, where they’ve been holding the talks. If they’re going to disrupt things, it’s a good staging area.”

  “What’s the plan?” Sorensen asked.

  “Russian observers,” Danny said. “We still have some uniforms we can use, and the motor pool here has a couple Chinese jeeps to choose from.”

  “And the language barrier?” Frank asked. “Maybe I should come with you instead.”

  “No can do. You’re the only one here with real military experience, and this is a high-protocol thing. And if shit happens, nobody’s gonna listen to Rose here, sad to say.”

  Mrs. Stevens harrumphed at that, straightening out her uniform. “Well, you made me a major. Doesn’t that count for something?”

  Frank smiled at her apologetically. “Not when you’re a woman, and not in a room full of generals. Sorry. In that room, a major is the one getting the coffee, man or woman.”

  Mrs. Stevens opened her mouth as if to say more, but thought better of it. Danny knew she’d quickly weigh all the angles before doing anything—which made her a good counterpoint to Frank’s impulsiveness. Frank’s plethora of talents, combined with Mrs. Stevens’s genius and caution, should put them in position to handle anything that might threaten the armistice talks.

  “Just remember, you two—you’re there to observe, and only intervene if there’s an absolute direct threat,” Danny said. “And if things really go south, you make sure you save the North Korean delegation—and ideally, get seen doing it.”

  * * *

  Maggie looked out the window from the back seat of the sedan at the pines and mountains surrounding the roadway. Here and there, signs of war were evident—a crater in an otherwise pristine farm field, a hulked-out tank by the side of the road, a series of graves marked by little more than piled rocks and bits of wood.

  Next to her, Beria read through a series of documents in a plain folder provided by Chinese intelligence. It was a testament to Beria’s charisma and manipulation, and the sway the Soviets still had over the Chinese and North Koreans, that they’d gotten the full cooperation of the officials in charge of the war—and the peace talks. By all accounts, they had complied with Beria’s resource requests—demands, really—and also his admonition that they not communicate his presence in North Korea to either the Chinese or Soviet governments. They were on, he said, a most sensitive mission to uphold Communism against these heathens, and his actions could help bring the war to a rapid and victorious end.

  That last part worried Maggie—and had a similar effect on the Koreans. It took quite a bit of emotional manipulation on Maggie’s part to keep the government officials in Pyongyang compliant. But she was good. Very good, to the point where she could play a person’s emotions like a violin, an
d she was getting to be quite the Mozart. The personalities of those she affected blurred together by now, remarkable only for a pang of fear here, an unusual bout of courage there, a little bit of extra resistance or a surprising degree of compliance.

  It was easy. The sheep, it seemed, really wanted to be led by a shepherd.

  Maggie thought she had ingratiated herself well into Beria’s circle, but there were still things the former First Deputy Premier kept close to the vest—like the knowledge of other Variants in the Korean theater of war. She’d spent the last few days going out of her way to avoid being seen by Cal and Yamato, “until the time was right,” according to Beria’s orders. She wondered why she hadn’t been told to give her former colleagues the recruitment pitch, but she knew it would be fruitless. Yamato was too young and headstrong; he’d have told her to go to hell just for the fun of it. And Cal …

  She shifted uncomfortably in her seat as the pines began to give way to buildings and streets—they were entering the outskirts of Kaesong, a former capital of Korea and once a bustling center of commerce. The emotions lately were disconcerting. Maggie thought she’d become numb to her own emotions the more she played with those of others, but lately she’d fallen prey to pangs of regret and sadness that truly unnerved her. Cal was just another sheep in need of a shepherd, and yet she wished she could just send him back home to his wife and kid and let them live out a simple, peaceful, long—very long, in his case—life.

  That just wasn’t in the cards.

  Beria knew Cal, of course, having held him prisoner in Kazakhstan four years ago, and they had a decent dossier on Yamato as well. The Koreans and Chinese gave up the Chinese Variant easily enough—he was a kineticist, focused on pushing things away, to the side, etc. Nobody was a hundred percent sure about the Latin guy, other than he was said to be an excellent shot. Maybe another kineticist, like the Black Wind guy.

  Their caravan—now ten vehicles strong, including a full platoon of North Korean infantry—drove through the largely empty town and finally stopped at the site of a bombed-out factory complex. Beria apparently had extensive contacts within the Chinese and North Korean governments, because the area was already under guard by a squadron of soldiers, several of whom saluted crisply when they got out of the cars. A relatively undamaged building with a loading dock had already been prepared, and the cargo truck that had been with them since Chuguyevka backed up to it. Inside was Beria’s biggest play yet, a Hail Mary like none other.