Hopefully, Schreiber wouldn’t try to kill anyone else. At least the executive order had been clear on that.
Danny continued on down the hall and up a flight of stairs, heading toward one of the smaller labs and looking through each glass-paned door until he spied Bronk talking with Mrs. Stevens in her lab. Danny smiled; nothing put him in a good mood like being around her quirky genius.
“How’s my world-conquering super-laser coming, Mrs. Stevens?” Danny asked as he entered the lab—the cleanest and most neatly organized laboratory west of the Mississippi. Everything had a file folder, every file had a neat stack or a cabinet. Every piece of equipment was in its place, every pen neatly lined up in a row on a worktable. Everything—right down to the blank notebooks and paperclips—had a designated location, cleanly labeled in a crisp, elegant hand.
“Commander!” Mrs. Stevens said, her pearly white smile broad. “I’d hoped you might stop by. I was just telling Dr. Bronk here how much I’m enjoying my time these days. So many fun little challenges you’ve given me lately! Why, I could be in here all day if I didn’t have to head home to make Mr. Stevens dinner!”
Mrs. Stevens was thin and blonde, hair perfectly coiffed and pinned into an elaborate updo. She wore a red-and-white dress that had a distinct “alpine maiden” look to it, with poofed-up sleeves and broad skirts, matching it with sensible two-inch patent leather heels and a string of pearls. Danny had been invited over for a dinner party once, and he knew full well that Mrs. Stevens could turn Army rations into a gourmet feast if need be.
She also happened to be an off-the-charts, genuine genius, courtesy of her own Enhancement. She was a Variant as well and, for the past year, an engineer and inventor of the highest caliber.
“How is Mr. Stevens getting along?” Danny asked as he gently took her extended hand. The only way to get Mrs. Stevens to work for MAJESTIC-12 was to allow her to continue to mother-hen her husband and two kids. So, Danny had hired the husband to do maintenance around the less-secure parts of the base, and the two kids had joined a handful of others—children of other scientists and officers—as playmates and classmates in a tiny one-room school near the administrative building.
“Oh, he likes it fine, just fine, Commander. It’s far more interesting than his old factory job. He likes that he’s thinking on his feet every day, solving all those little maintenance problems. It’s so good for him!”
Danny wondered for a moment just how a sturdy, working-class man like Mr. Stevens was coping with his wife’s newfound intellect, but knew far better than to ask. “I’m glad, Mrs. Stevens. So, what are we up to today?”
She dashed over to a cupboard near her worktable and withdrew a neatly folded bundle of cloth. “Well, I think I might have a solution for you on those Variants with those pesky cellular-matter reactions,” she said, unfolding the cloth.
“Come again?” Danny asked.
Bronk took pity on him. “Julia and Tim. The ones who have to be naked for their abilities to function properly.”
“Oh, right. You know, I only asked you about that a couple days ago,” Danny said.
“Well, Mrs. Stevens here thought it imperative that we protect the modesty of our fellow guests, especially poor Julia,” Bronk replied, a half-grin on his long face. “Besides, it’ll help with operational readiness.”
“Fair enough. What’cha got, Mrs. Stevens?”
Danny saw that the lady was blushing slightly as she began; she occasionally got flustered with certain language like, apparently, the word “naked.”
“Well, as you know, the null-field devices we got from the Soviets use a mix of radio and non-ionized radiation across a broad spectrum to create pockets of space in which Variant Enhancements don’t work. So, that was my first idea—gosh, if we can stop Enhancements from happening, can we create matter that works with Enhancements as well through the same methods? I mean, it seemed so simple!”
“Sure,” Danny said slowly, playing along as if he followed purely for her benefit. He wasn’t a physicist and knew only that the null-field devices worked. Bronk had tried to explain it once, and Danny had quit on him after five minutes.
“So, here you have a cloth with some insulated metallic threads running through it,” she went on, holding up a two-foot-square piece of dark fabric. “I went ahead and compared the data we got on those vortex emissions—you know, when it acts all funny—and cross-referenced it with the emissions from the null-field device. Well, I asked one of the boys to do that. I don’t like being around those things, you understand.”
“Of course,” Danny assured her. “Nobody does.”
“Anyhoo, I hypothesized that if we altered those emissions and then channeled the energy into a more contained matrix—this cloth—we might have a material that would actually adopt the characteristics of a Variant’s enhancement. Now, it wouldn’t do me or Mr. Hooks any good, of course, but for Mr. Sorensen and especially poor Miss Meyer, well, it might help them out a lot!”
Danny reached out and felt the fabric between his fingers. “So, you’re saying that when Tim camouflages or Julia walks through a wall, this would go with them?”
“Well, we’d have to test it, but sure. I think so,” Mrs. Stevens said brightly. “That’s the idea, anyways. In fact, we might even be able to make pockets to allow Miss Meyer to carry things with her. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Danny smiled broadly. “That it would, ma’am. That it would. Tell you what—why don’t you take this down to the training area where Tim and Julia are. Tell Major Hamilton I sent you. Let’s give it a whirl and see if it works. Sound good?”
Mrs. Stevens looked at the clock. “Hmmm … sure, Commander. I can scoot down there and back before dinner, I think. But I should get going! If you gentlemen will excuse me?”
The two men agreed, and Mrs. Stevens carefully packed up the cloth and an altered null-zone generator before heading out the door, her heels clicking smartly down the hall.
“I love that girl,” Bronk said after she was gone. “I want to put her and Wernher von Braun in a room together for a day or two. We’ll be sending men to Jupiter inside of a week.”
Danny smiled at that but quickly turned serious. “We might have a problem. Montague just showed up, and he’s sniffing around POSEIDON. He knew I was leaving.”
Bronk scowled and ran a hand across his balding gray head. “Well, nelly. That’s a problem. You think he’s going to try to pull rank again?”
“I don’t doubt it. I’m going to talk with Hamilton, too, but between the two of you, I want to be damn sure that Montague doesn’t go near POSEIDON. More importantly, I don’t want Schreiber near him, either. If anything goes squirrelly, you get on the horn to Foggy Bottom and let Hillenkoetter know ASAP. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Bronk said, leaning up against a worktable with a sigh. “You know, we gotta get Mrs. Stevens on the vortex. Think about what she could do with it. We’d have the damn thing cracked in a week.”
“I know, but we can’t,” Danny said. This wasn’t the first time Bronk had brought up the idea. “Direct presidential order: no known Variants are to be in the same room as that vortex. Period.”
“All right, but can I at least show her some more data? You saw just now what she did with the numbers I gave her.”
Danny thought about this for a moment, then smiled. “Well, it’s not a direct violation of any orders. Just keep it under your hat. Let’s see what she can do.”
FROM: DCI HILLENKOETTER
TO: LCMR WALLACE USN, LT LODGE USA, MR. HOOKS CIA, MISS DUBINKSY CIA, MISS SILVERMAN CIA
CC: MR. COPELAND OPC, MR. MEADE OPC
RE: DAMASCUS OPERATION
CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET
YOU ARE HEREBY ORDERED TO TRAVEL TO DAMASCUS, SYRIA, AS PART OF A CIA-OPC JOINT OPERATION UNDER COMMAND OF MR. COPELAND. THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERATION IS:
- TO DENY PORTS OF CALL TO SOVIET FORCES ALONG THE EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN COAST.
- TO SECURE OIL RE
SERVES FROM TRANSJORDAN, IRAQ, AND SAUDI ARABIA TO MEDITERRANEAN PORTS UNDER NOMINAL U.S. OR ALLIED CONTROL.
YOU WILL ASSIST MR. COPELAND AND MR. MEADE IN ENCOURAGING THE CURRENT PRESIDENT OF SYRIA, SHUKRI AL-QUWATLI, TO CLOSE OFF DIPLOMACY AND TRADE WITH THE U.S.S.R., AND TO APPROACH ISRAEL FOR POSSIBLE PEACE TALKS.
BARRING THIS, YOU WILL SUPPORT MR. COPELAND AND MR. MEADE IN PROVIDING ADVICE TO SYRIAN COL. HUSNI AL-ZA’IM, ONE OF THE COUNTRY’S MILITARY LEADERS AND A LEADING CANDIDATE TO BECOME THE NATION’S NEXT PRESIDENT.
UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ARE YOU TO PROVIDE ANY DIRECT SUPPORT TO EITHER AL-QUWATLI OR AL-ZA’IM, OR BE IDENTIFIED AS WORKING FOR THE UNITED STATES IN ANY CAPACITY BEYOND DIPLOMATIC.
YOU WILL BE PROVIDED WITH DIPLOMATIC CREDENTIALS AT THE LEGATION IN DAMASCUS, AND WILL BE REQUIRED TO REPORT TO JAMES KEELEY, HEAD OF THE LEGATION, AS REQUIRED. KEELEY IS CLEARED FOR ALL OPC ACTIVITY, BUT IS NOT WITHIN THE CHAIN OF COMMAND.
THE SUCCESS OF YOUR MISSION WILL BE DETERMINED BY THE IMPLEMENTATION OF STABLE PRO-U.S. POLICIES BY THE SYRIAN GOVERNMENT.
(SIGNED) HILLENKOETTER.
ADDENDUM
TOP SECRET-MAJIK
MAJESTIC-12 EYES ONLY
FROM: DCI HILLENKOETTER
TO: WALLACE, LODGE, HOOKS, DUBINKSY, SILVERMAN
CC: POTUS, SECDEF FORRESTAL
RE: DAMASCUS OPERATION
COPELAND, MEADE, AND KEELEY ARE NOT MAJIK-CLEARED. ANY MAJESTIC-12 KNOWLEDGE, INCLUDING KNOWLEDGE OF YOUR ENHANCEMENTS AND YOUR NATURE AS VARIANTS, MUST REMAIN CONFIDENTIAL. ANY USE OF YOUR ABILITIES IN THE COURSE OF OPERATIONS IN SYRIA MUST BE DONE WITHOUT THEIR KNOWLEDGE.
FURTHERMORE, YOUR ABILITIES AND NATURE MUST BE KEPT FROM ALL SYRIAN NATIONALS, FROM OTHER FOREIGN NATIONALS, AND FROM ANY OTHER U.S. CITIZENS IN YOUR AREA OF OPERATIONS. CONTACT WITH AGENTS OF THE U.S.S.R. AND OTHER COMMUNISTS MUST BE KEPT TO A MINIMUM.
FINALLY, ANY VARIANTS ENCOUNTERED IN THE COURSE OF YOUR DUTIES MUST BE CONTACTED, ASSESSED, AND, IF POSSIBLE, BROUGHT TO THE UNITED STATES. THIS SUPERCEDES ALL OTHER ORDERS REGARDING THE DAMASCUS OPERATION AND ANY OPC AUTHORITY.
LCMR WALLACE IS ASSIGNED TO THIS OPERATION ONLY TO ASSIST IN THE SEARCH FOR UNKNOWN OR OPPOSITION VARIANT OPERATIVES IN THE DAMASCUS REGION. ONCE THIS SEARCH IS CONCLUDED, HE IS CLEARED TO RETURN TO AREA 51 TO CONTINUE OTHER MAJESTIC-12 DUTIES. IN HIS ABSENCE, LT LODGE WILL BE IN COMMAND OF MAJESTIC-12 ASSETS IN DAMASCUS, REPORTING TO DCI HILLENKOETTER AND LCMR WALLACE ON ALL RELATED MATTERS.
(SIGNED) HILLENKOETTER
February 22, 1949
Maggie stepped out into the cool afternoon air and was immediately grateful for the light coat she’d lugged all the way from Washington. All the photos she’d seen of Damascus showed men in Arab robes, camels, and palm trees, so she assumed that she’d be stepping into a sweltering desert, like something out of Lawrence of Arabia. Instead, like nearly every other airport she’d seen, she emerged out of customs and into a swarm of people speaking half a dozen different languages, all trying to find a ride into the city.
And it was chilly! She bundled her blue coat around her and adjusted the bright-red hat she’d bought for the occasion. She was posing as an American diplomat’s fiancée, excited to rejoin her love here at the edge of the Middle East, though thinking of Frank as anything other than a colleague was something of a stretch. Nice guy, sure, but a little too muscle-bound and meatheaded sometimes. Plus, she doubted any woman could compete with the ghosts in that man’s head.
She smiled as she walked out into the sun and saw a palm tree—finally!—and a horse-drawn cart being loaded with crates and boxes, fighting for space with cars and trucks of seemingly every vintage made since Henry Ford started production. Looking around, she tried to find her own ride, but found there were enough white faces mixed in with the Arab-looking folks to make it more difficult than she’d thought. At least they won’t be wearing fezzes or headscarves, she thought bleakly as she craned her neck to see above the crowd.
“Miss Jones! Miss Jones! Is that you?”
It look a moment for Maggie to register that yes, here in Damascus, that was her name—Maggie Jones. She’d have to work on that, she thought as she turned toward the voice. A somewhat short, round-faced man with dark round glasses and slicked-back hair ambled up to her with a genial smile on his face, one hand in the pocket of his rumpled, off-the-rack suit, the other hand extended. “Miss Jones! There you are!”
She smiled and turned, gently taking his hand in a way she hoped would be appropriately demure. “My hero! Thank you for rescuing me. You must be Mr. Copeland?”
“Yes, yes, Miles Copeland from the consulate. So glad you made it! Frank will be terribly pleased to see you again. How was the trip?” he asked, deftly grabbing her suitcase and motioning for her to follow as he made his way through the throng.
“Oh, you know. Washington to Halifax to Iceland to Scotland to Paris to Venice to Istanbul to here. I surely hope I don’t have to travel in an airplane again anytime soon!” she said airily, slipping into the role a little better now. “Is the consulate far? I am hoping to freshen up.”
Copeland stopped next to a rather dispirited-looking Volkswagen, popping the front hood and heaving her suitcase inside. “Depends on traffic,” he said with a smirk. “It’s market day. But you’ll definitely get to see the sights.”
Maggie saw there were two others already in the car—one was a rather wiry, muscular man sitting in the passenger seat, and the other was Frank Lodge, in the back. She nonetheless waited for Copeland to open the door for her, as she imagined “Maggie Jones” would expect of any man.
“When’d you get in, Frank?” she asked as she settled in.
“This morning—went through Rome and had some delays. Maggie, this is Stephen Meade,” Frank said, nodding toward the front of the car.
The man in the passenger seat turned and extended a hand. He seemed compact yet strong, with a weathered, tanned face that could’ve been on a cigarette ad. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Dubinsky. I hear tell you’re quite the asset.”
Maggie shook hands—he had a strong grip that she could tell was held back for her expense. Through her Enhancement, she could also tell he already had taken a bit of a fancy to her, and she resisted the urge to tamp it down in his head. “I get by,” she said shortly. “And call me Miss Jones. I have enough trouble keeping the names straight.”
Meade nodded and turned back toward the front of the car without another word. Copeland got in, gunned the engine—“gunned” being a relative term for what surely had to be the sickliest vehicle in Damascus—and swerved into traffic with all the gusto of a practiced cabbie.
“Nice outfit,” Frank remarked. “You usually don’t get all fancied up.”
“Playing the part. I had a friend help me pick it out.”
Frank arched his eyebrow and smiled. “You have girly friends now?”
Maggie frowned. Frank didn’t need to know that it was really just a super-helpful girl at Woodward & Lothrop in downtown D.C. “You could use a good makeover yourself, pal. That suit of yours looks beat to hell.”
Frank smiled, and Maggie caught Copeland and Meade trading a look, their amusement palpable to her senses. She didn’t care; she wasn’t going to keep the lady act up for a minute longer than she had to.
“All right, mission briefing time,” Copeland said. “We know for sure nobody’s going to listen in on a moving car. You two all read up?”
Frank nodded. “Your buddy Colonel Za’im is trying to stir up opposition against President al-Quwatli, hoping he can take over. If we back him, he’ll then be in a position to clamp down on any efforts by the Reds to stick their noses in the Middle East.”
“And he’ll also approve the Trans-Arabian Pipeline project,” Maggie added. “That means a short trip to the Med for all that oil in Saudi Arabia. So, how’s your buddy making out?”
Copeland maneuvered deftly between a tram and a camel as the car entered the outskirts of Damascus proper. “He’s got enough of the army with him to mak
e a proper move, what with al-Quwatli’s mishandling of the war with Israel last year. But they need a reason. Al-Quwatli is still pretty popular on the street, even though the politicos wish he hadn’t run for reelection last year. He’s been cozying up to the Syrian Communist Party lately and, well, we can’t have that. But that doesn’t matter to the army—they need something more damning to hang their hat on.”
Maggie watched out the window as they drove, noting the beautiful array of stone buildings—some new, some looking as old as time—huddled together on the narrow streets. Colorful awnings stretched over stands of fruit and trinkets for the people strolling by. There were men in full Bedouin robes, men in dapper suits and fezzes, women in swaths of cloth that covered all but their eyes, and ladies in the smartest fashion this side of Paris. Signs in English, French, and Arabic all fought for attention amid the bustle. “And we’re here to give them the reason,” she said absently. “Without making it look like the U.S. is involved because, at the moment, most of the Middle East hates us for Israel.”
“And for all the colonialism,” Meade reminded her. “They hate the French and British far more, but we got lumped right in there with ’em. There’s a strong Arab nativist movement going on. Toss the Turks, toss the French, toss the British, toss everybody. Us, too.”
“And the Russians?” Frank asked.
“Different story there,” Copeland said, a touch of frustration evident in his voice. “The Reds are seen as being more like the Arabs—once ruled by elites, having taken power for themselves. There’s still some mistrust, but the Syrians just don’t have the bad history with Russia that they’ve had with the West.”
“And we’re sure that Za’im is gonna play ball?” Frank asked. “Seems like he’s going against the tide here.”
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