MJ-12: Endgame

by Michael J. Martinez

  Beria stood with Maggie, watching the soldiers carefully place the large wooden crate onto a rolling pallet. “The more I think about it, Margaret, the more I realize just how important it is for things to have happened this way,” Beria said quietly.

  What a self-aggrandizing prick, Maggie thought. “What makes you say that, Comrade?”

  “We tried to work within the power structure, to ease our way into positions of authority, so as to keep our blessings secret and ensure we were protected,” Beria said. “We were fools. We are Empowered. The proletariat does not need to be coddled, nor should we coddle them. Each according to his ability—and we have such ability. It is only natural we should lead, and now we will.”

  Maggie nodded slowly. “A lot of people are going to die.”

  “There is no greater tool of revolution than death,” Beria said simply. “Regrettable, but it is true. The world must be shocked out of its complacency, and we must take our positions as their Champions when that happens.”

  The crate was wheeled into the factory building, and the two Variants followed it inside. The future awaited.

  * * *

  Detlev Bronk ran a hand over his face, resisting the urge to check his watch. He knew it was well past midnight, and any greater precision on that account was unnecessary and likely depressing. But the work needed to be done. Vandenberg had been absolutely clear on that point, and with good reason—there was something new going on with the vortex.

  Bronk looked up at the impossible fissure in space-time, swirling three feet off the ground like a milky whirlpool. The unnerving thing was, no matter which angle you looked at it from, the center of that vortex was always within line of sight. It was an utter paradox, a thing that modern physics simply could not explain. The greats in the field—given only enough information, and through subtle means—all agreed that the vortex should not be. The very few who were cleared to see it firsthand were uniformly confounded. Einstein himself grew visibly angry and agitated after watching it for just a few minutes.

  The new sensors were doing their job. They continued to confirm a steadily increasing pattern of low-level radiation coming out of the thing, going in various directions, though mostly to the west and north. Tracing great circle routes on a globe found that many of the bursts were headed for Moscow, before suddenly shifting toward the Pacific.

  What’s more, the equipment was detecting even fainter, yet similar, patterns all around the vortex. They didn’t seem to be coming from the phenomena, but were received nonetheless. They were coming from somewhere else, but were too faint and diffuse to triangulate.

  “Dr. Bronk?”

  Bronk looked up to see Kurt Schreiber at the door to his office, a large sheaf of papers and readouts in hand. In the days since his forced rehabilitation—during which time he had been under constant armed guard—Schreiber had reviewed reams of data and observations about the vortex, with an intensity that Bronk found utterly scary. The German had to be reminded to eat and sleep, and at one point had literally pissed himself because he’d forgotten to go to the bathroom in the midst of his work. He was absolutely nuts, completely certifiable. And yet Vandenberg insisted he be allowed to analyze the work, to seek out patterns that perhaps only his disjointed mind could see.

  The excitement on the former Nazi’s narrow, gaunt face was evidence he’d found something.

  “It’s about timing,” Schreiber said, entering the office and dropping his papers all over Bronk’s already cluttered desk. “The new patterns we’re detecting. We needed to look at the timing. That’s the key.”

  Plucking two separate wave patterns off the desk, Schreiber circled the time stamps above each. “This one came from the vortex yesterday at 2:37 a.m.,” he said. “And this one was found in the radiation background at 2:38 a.m. Look at the patterns.”

  Bronk leaned in and put on his glasses. “They’re different patterns, Schreiber.”

  “Not entirely!” Schreiber used his pen to circle similarities within the two patterns, snippets within the wavelength that looked similar. “There are pieces that are nearly exactly alike amidst the differences. It is like a call and a response. I’ve seen this in nearly every time stamp pairing I could find within the data.”

  “And how many was that?” Bronk asked tiredly.

  “One hundred seventy-three.”

  That got Bronk’s attention. “You went through all these and found a hundred and seventy-three pairings like this?”

  “Of course. That is only over the past three days.”

  Call and … response. “My God. It’s communication.”

  “Exactly!” Schreiber said, actually jumping in the air slightly in celebration. “Directionally, the vortex is sending these pulses to specific places, because the vectors are highly similar. Until recently, they were largely going east and north. Now, they’re more concentrated toward the east. Where are our Variants now?”

  Bronk frowned. “They’re ours, not yours, doctor. And that’s none of your business.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, fine. But it is easy for me to surmise that there is a large concentration of Variants at the other end of these pulses, and that these responses are coming from the Variants themselves.”

  He really, really wanted to dismiss the motion out of hand, but the sick feeling in his stomach told Bronk that Schreiber might be onto something. “None of our Variants have reported any kind of communication attempts with any intelligences that may or may not be inside that thing,” Bronk countered.

  “Do you control how you dream?” Schreiber asked. “Does your mind wander from time to time? Of course it does. The human mind generates electrical impulses that can be detected, does it not? If the beings from beyond the phenomena have gifted our Variants with Enhancements, they may also have implanted something in their minds as well.”

  “Like what?” Bronk demanded.

  “I don’t know, but if I were to speculate, I would say that these Enhancements may have come with a piece of the consciousness inside the vortex. Something that might respond appropriately to these communications.”

  Bronk looked at the wave patterns again and tried to ignore Schreiber’s words. He couldn’t. “Then it’s possible this thing has an agenda,” Bronk said quietly.

  “I have no doubt it does,” Schreiber replied.

  After another minute or two of checking Schreiber’s data, Bronk dismissed the German and picked up his secure line. He hoped Vandenberg was an early riser.

  * * *

  President Eisenhower looked over the two-page, hastily typewritten report in his private study in the White House residence, his first cup of morning coffee untouched and growing cold by his side. His face looked lean, tired—and it wasn’t just because of the early hour.

  “Gentlemen, I have to ask. How solid is this?”

  Allen Dulles and Vandenberg traded a look. Dulles looked as disheveled as the President in a wrinkled suit and coffee-stained shirt, though Vandenberg, as always, looked ready for inspection in his dress uniform, the dark circles under his eyes the only evidence of the rude awakening he’d gotten hours earlier.

  “Sir, it’s a theory,” Vandenberg said. “But it does confirm our suspicions that there’s an intelligence behind this phenomena, given the wave patterns we’ve seen. None of our own Variants have reported any sort of communication, but there have been some slight alterations in the experience of their Enhancements. We can’t say for certain they’re related, but …” The Air Force general didn’t need to say anything more.

  “And Dr. Bronk and this Schreiber man think they have a way to stop the damn thing from transmitting?” the President asked.

  “Yes, sir. It would work much the same way as the electronic jamming systems used in our secure conference rooms, but extended into the extremes of the electromagnetic spectrum so that these additional wavelengths would be affected,” Vandenberg said. “I’ve worked with him on this project for years, sir. I think he can do it.”

&nbs
p; Eisenhower leaned back in his chair and nodded. “Do it. Now, Allen, we have to talk about our men in the field.”

  “Mr. President, this is a critical time. We have every reason to believe Lavrentiy Beria is in North Korea right now, and far too close to the armistice negotiations in Panmunjom for comfort. We have two teams going soon as it’s daybreak over there—one to hunt down Beria and his people behind the lines, and the other to protect the talks.”

  “Unless they’re already suborned and they’re going to sabotage the talks,” Eisenhower said. “That’s a possibility, isn’t it?”

  Dulles could only shrug. “It’s anybody’s guess. Yes, possibly. But these agents have proven their loyalty time and again.”

  Eisenhower looked down at the rest of his briefing papers, including the black-and-white images of the MAJESTIC-12 Variants in the field. He remembered Danny Wallace from his initial briefing on the project. Smart, calm, collected, repeatedly honored for his work. By all accounts, a loyal officer.

  “Okay, I need to make a call. Hoyt, get on the horn to Mountain Home and tell Bronk to shut that thing down. I don’t care if they have to blackout the West Coast to do it,” Eisenhower said. “Allen, head down to the mess and grab some breakfast. I’ll see you downstairs in an hour.”

  The two men departed, leaving Eisenhower alone in his study, feeling the weight of his office acutely for the first time since he was sworn in. There were only a handful of people who knew what it was like—and only one who had faced such a decision before.

  Eisenhower picked up his phone and dialed a number. It picked up on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Bess. It’s Ike. He up yet?”

  “Oh, goodness. Hang on. I’ll get him for you.”

  It took four minutes by Eisenhower’s count before the phone came to life. “Well, hell, that didn’t take long, Mr. President. Five months?”

  Eisenhower smiled despite himself. “How are you, Harry?”

  “I’m fine, Ike. Just fine,” Harry Truman responded. “I didn’t think we were on speaking terms after that election.”

  “Some things go beyond politics. This is one of them.”

  There were a few moments of silence on the other end of the phone. “This isn’t a secure line, Ike. Not sure how much help I can be if this is what I think it is. This is about that special project, isn’t it?”

  Eisenhower drew a deep breath. “It is. I just need to know … well, I need to know about the people involved. The ones on the ground. There’s a possibility that their, oh, hell, how do I say this? That their blessings may not be blessings after all. That they might turn.”

  “Have they wandered off the reservation?”

  “No, not yet. But there’s a chance they may have been influenced.”

  “And I assume they’re hip deep in something somewhere you can’t talk about?”

  “Neck deep. I need to know if I can trust them.”

  Truman took a deep breath. “Ike, at the end of the day, they’re people. They’ve been blessed and cursed in ways you and I can’t begin to imagine. Some of them manage real well. Others don’t.”

  “And?” Eisenhower said, his patience wearing thin.

  “Look, Ike. We use them, and they agree to it. If they wanted to, they could easily slip the leash. With their abilities, some of them, they could literally do anything, and nobody could stop ’em. It’s been five years since I approved that project. And in five years, they’ve been as patriotic as can be, most of them. Done everything we asked of ’em. The ones that didn’t play ball, well, we took care of those. So you got the best of the best, Ike. Now, I can’t say this influence or whatever is gonna affect them or not. We just don’t know. But if they have any say about it, I think they’ll pull through. Besides, can you even reach them right now?”

  The President hadn’t thought of that. “Some of them, yes. Others … no, I don’t think so.”

  “Then you let them do their jobs and hope for the best. A lot of being President is like that.”

  Eisenhower chuckled. “All right. Thanks for that, Harry. Give my best to Bess.”

  “If you need another opinion, reach out to Roscoe Hillenkoetter. I think he’s still up in New York, Third Naval District HQ.”

  “Will do. Thanks.”

  Eisenhower hung up the phone and downed his lukewarm coffee with one gulp. He’d need more before his day was done.

  June 22, 1953

  Danny was beginning to second-guess not having Frank around, now that he was staring down the barrel of a dozen Chinese rifles.

  They’d left the U.S. base just after midnight and made for the border—and for once, forward intel was right about a potential entry point between the lines. There was a crappy little road—little more than a wide deer trail—through no-man’s-land that snaked through forests and mountains and was generally undetectable from above. They’d driven for maybe ten minutes at a time, then stopped for at least a half hour so Sorensen could invisibly scout ahead for signs of trouble. Sorensen had encountered a patrol about two miles in, but used a few grenades and a well-placed fire on a nearby hillside to distract them long enough for the jeep to get by unnoticed.

  Dawn had made things more difficult, at least for Danny and Katie. They’d parked the jeep under a few low trees by the side of the road while Sorensen had scouted ahead at around 5 a.m., but Sorensen had failed to report back in time for them to hide from another patrol, commanded by a grim-looking Chinese officer who looked as hardened and battle-tested as Frank.

  Danny had thought to hide, but there’d been no time, so their ruse was on. Once the scout had seen their jeep and rushed back to his companions—all on foot, likely a rear-guard patrol—Danny and Katie had gotten out of the jeep and placed their weapons on the ground far from their feet. The patrol had rushed up, weapons at the ready. As expected, communication was a major problem.

  “W shì sūlián jūnguān! W shì sūlián jūnguān!” Danny repeated, his hands still up. I am a Soviet officer. It made sense, of course, that a Russian speaker might not know a lot of Chinese, and Danny had memorized a few key phrases before they left. But it was still a tough row to hoe.

  The officer—a lieutenant from his insignia—kept shouting in Chinese, a barrage of angry syllables that made zero sense to Danny. “Wmen yào qù kāi chéng. W shì sūlián jūnguān. Ràng wmen tōngguò,” he said, just about exhausting his vocabulary. We are going to Kaesong. I am a Soviet officer. Let us pass.

  That’s when the Chinese officer got on the radio, something Danny had fervently hoped to avoid. But before he could transmit, the group’s sergeant stopped him, and another rapid-fire exchange took place. Finally, the sergeant turned to Danny. “I study engineering in Vladivostok,” the sergeant said in halting Russian. “I talk Russian. You not be here.”

  Thank God. “Yes, Comrade, we know. We were part of the group that came in the other day and we were separated from the rest. We are heading toward Kaesong. Perhaps you can show us the way?” Danny asked in his best Russian.

  The sergeant and lieutenant conferred again. “Papers, Comrade,” the sergeant said finally.

  “Of course, Comrade,” Danny replied, handing over their forged documents, including a fake teletype from Beria himself authorizing their entry.

  This prompted more conferring—the sergeant could read well enough. “This girl. Young. Why here?” the Chinese asked.

  Danny put on his best smile. “Yes, she is a cadet in our academy. She is our best student, and is being given the opportunity to learn in the field this summer.”

  Danny turned to Katie, who gave the Chinese her best—and somewhat unconvincing—smile. She really needs a break after this one, Danny thought. Maybe get her into school in Boise or something. Let her live a little.

  More discussion followed, and Danny wished he’d decided to throw in Chinese and Korean translations of their fake identities and orders. But if they were separated from their comrades, as Danny claime
d, it would be a little too convenient for them to have a full suite of documents ready to go.

  Finally, the lieutenant stared hard at them, then barked a single word. “Xiūxí!” Danny winced, expecting to be shot, but immediately the Chinese lowered their weapons and relaxed.

  The sergeant handed their papers back, and unfolded a map. “You. Here. Kaesong there. Road.” He traced a winding path across the map—the city was just ten miles away, give or take.

  Danny smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant. You have been most helpful.”

  “Do you have food?”

  This took Danny by surprise, and he looked at the squad of men around him with new eyes, seeing their sallow faces and baggy uniforms. “I’m sorry, Sergeant. We don’t. Where are you based?”

  “Kagok-ri. Here,” the sergeant said, pointing to a dot on the map to the north. “No food. One week.”

  Christ. “When we get to Kaesong, I will personally make sure you’re resupplied, Comrade,” Danny said.

  The sergeant translated, and several of the men broke out into smiles. Even the lieutenant seemed to relax slightly. They took a moment to shake hands and exchange comradely greetings, and then Danny and Katie hopped back in the jeep and took off down the road.

  “Where’s Tim?” Katie asked when they were out of earshot.

  “Right here,” came a disembodied voice from the back of the jeep. “I was up a tree just down the road from you. Nearly went with a bit of a distraction before you went and made friends.”

  “Glad you held off,” Danny said. “Really don’t want to leave a trail of bodies between here and Kaesong.”