MJ-12

by Michael J. Martinez

  “To a point,” Copeland replied. “We shouldn’t be seen as being overly involved. You’ll need someone within your government to manage that.”

  Za’im looked thoughtful for a moment. “What about al-Barazi?”

  Zippy remembered the name: Muhsin al-Barazi. He was an advisor and minister under al-Quwatli, the old president, and Za’im had kept him on to help with the transition.

  “Do you trust him?” al-Shishakli asked, his brow furrowed. “He worked for al-Quwatli, after all!”

  “I trust him enough to do this,” Za’im replied. “He has served faithfully. A government is a large thing, Adib! Muhsin has been faithful in keeping everything running. Mr. Copeland, tell your contacts in Jerusalem that al-Barazi is your man.”

  Copeland nodded, then turned to Zippy. “You know, we can do a little something in the Post about this, too. Place an article there about unnamed Syrian government officials hoping to discuss an armistice. Something that will make Syria look good and start driving public opinion there.”

  “I can do that,” Zippy said. “Without anything official or quotable, I don’t think it’d make the front page, but if I had to rely on unnamed sources, I could get it in the first five or six pages, I’ll bet.”

  Za’im nodded. “I like this.”

  Zippy smiled. “Then, President Za’im, what does your government have to say officially about a possible armistice with the state of Israel?”

  “No comment,” Za’im said. Everyone laughed. “All right, there is one other thing, Mr. Copeland, but I will discuss it with you alone. Thank you, Miss Silverman.”

  Zippy rose and shook hands with all three men, her gloves off. It was her way of keeping tabs on them, what they’d seen and done lately.

  First, al-Hinnawi. She clasped his hand and saw flashes of arguments and anger, of time spent at a firing range to relax, of yelling at his wife, of getting drunk. This wasn’t particularly new—al-Hinnawi was volatile. But it seemed he was getting worse.

  Next, al-Shishakli. These images and sounds were more soothing, at least. Reading, smoking cigars, conversations with other officials, and the boy, always the boy, talking to him and taking care of him. If nothing else, Adib al-Shishakli was a doting father.

  Finally, Za’im. She smiled as she clasped the President’s hand, excited to be part of something that might turn out to be historic—peace and security for Israel. They weren’t her people, per se, but yes, they really were. And it was powerful stuff.

  Then the images came.

  Darkness. Crying out. Feeling trapped. Powerlessness. Clawing at air. A man gasping to breathe. No … gasping to be heard. To exist.

  Zippy managed to keep her smile on as she dropped Za’im’s hand. And with a quick “thank you,” she made a beeline for the door.

  It was only when she reached the outer hall did she realize Copeland had followed her. She nearly jumped out of her skin when he put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Hey! Whoa! Sorry! Take it easy there. What’s going on? What happened?”

  He doesn’t know about Variants, she reminded herself. “I just … I’m getting the sense that Za’im is a little … off. Not himself. You getting that?”

  Copeland put his hands on his hips and regarded his shoes for a long moment. “Yeah, I suppose, maybe,” he finally said. “He’s been eccentric lately. This al-Barazi thing isn’t sitting well with the other two in there. They want a completely new government, and they think al-Barazi may undermine them. Assigning him this new portfolio isn’t going to help.”

  “What else?” Zippy pressed.

  “Well, he’s erratic, like I said. Named himself marshal. More medals. He’s been throwing some pretty big parties. Delegating a lot of important things to unimportant people. I think he’s just tired, you know? Been going hard at it ever since March, without a break. I don’t think it’s serious.”

  Zippy eyed him closely. “I do. Call it years of training and careful observation, call it a gut feeling, women’s intuition, whatever. Maybe it’s my psychic powers, right?” This got a smirk out of Copeland, as intended. “But something’s wrong with Za’im, and I don’t know that it’s gonna get better any time soon. You better be ready to jump in.”

  Copeland nodded wearily. “I hear you. I am. It’ll be OK.”

  Zippy nodded and, with a pat on his arm, left. She didn’t have the heart to tell him just how much she disagreed with the notion that it’d be OK.

  June 30, 1949

  Danny Wallace reviewed the reports from Lebanon and Syria with pride—the Variants were doing a fantastic job. Frank and Cal were busy keeping the U.S. one step ahead of the Reds in Beirut, and Zippy’s concerns about Za’im were getting the attention they deserved. The two OPC men in charge, Copeland in Damascus and Meade in Beirut, were downright effusive in their praise for the “elite operatives” provided by CIA. Hillenkoetter had given all three of them citations on their records and ensured Truman got a copy.

  Sadly, that latter bit was necessary. Maggie and Mrs. Stevens were busy tailing J. Edgar Hoover and Frank Wisner around Washington, and had just added Joe McCarthy to the list. They’d tried asking for more resources but were turned down flat—CIA really shouldn’t be in the business of domestic activity to begin with, they were told, and the kind of surveillance they were doing was of questionable legality even for law enforcement. Sure, they were ostensibly “Secret Service agents” by order of the President, but Danny knew Truman would revoke that at the first sign of trouble.

  Danny knew that between the two of them, they were well equipped to sniff out all the leaks in MAJESTIC-12 and plug them up. He trusted them. Besides, he couldn’t spend too much time worrying about them; he had bigger fish to fry.

  Danny and Bronk had spent weeks poring over Schreiber’s notebooks, but it was only in the past few weeks, at Hillenkoetter’s urging, that they had looked at the idea of shadows. It seemed to be a recurring theme lately—shadows in Damascus, in Bethesda; the guards watching over POSEIDON had even mentioned that the Russian was talking to himself so much that he seemed to be having conversations, complete with pauses for responses. Plus, there was Schreiber’s “Vanda” to contend with, too.

  So they went over the notes again, and found several instances of the words “schatten” and “schemenhaft” in Schreiber’s notes—particularly in dealing with experiments on the vortex.

  Shadows. Shadowy.

  They pulled out their German-English dictionaries again, going over each note in minute detail, trying to parse out every possible meaning. Dictionaries were shit for colloquialisms, but the two of them were getting pretty good at it after a while. And that was when they found the connection in a couple of sentences that took fifteen painstaking minutes to translate.

  “When we conducted the latest experiment with the blood, not only did the data appear shadowy, but I actually saw what I believed to be shadows within the vortex. I would swear that they were human shadows.”

  Now, Schreiber wasn’t the most reliable of sorts, but he’d have to be some kind of criminal mastermind to put a bunch of red herrings in scientific notes, just on the slim chance they’d be read by someone else. Both Danny and Brock agreed that there was something about the blood—they assumed it was POSEIDON’s blood—that had prompted a unique reaction within the vortex.

  They just needed to confirm it.

  Danny started by going back to Schreiber, who seemed to be enjoying his enforced vacation. His house arrest seemed to look homier each time Danny visited. There were books everywhere now, from scientific treatises to something called Rocket Ship Galileo by Robert A. Heinlein. There was Nabokov next to Mickey Spillane, Agatha Christie next to Einstein. His phonograph record collection was getting extensive as well, with everything from jazz to opera. The German had also asked for, and received, a set of dumbbells, and Danny could see more sinew on his thin frame.

  “How are you getting all these?” Danny asked incredulously as he leafed through a short story col
lection by someone called Ray Bradbury.

  “You mean you don’t know?” Schreiber chided. “How interesting. When I was first brought here through your PAPERCLIP program, I also asked for permission to relocate my mother to America. She’s now in upstate New York, and she mails me books and records—almost every other week, in fact. Normally, when I’m finished, I deposit them in the camp library. But seeing as I no longer can leave, I keep them here.”

  That jogged Danny’s memory; both Hamilton and his traitorous predecessor had mentioned it, and each package—funneled through three other military installations around the United States to protect Area 51’s security—was thoroughly inspected, the letters translated from German. “Right. You want someone to come take these out of here for you?”

  “You’ll forgive me, Commander, if I am feeling less than generous toward my fellow man these days. I am content to leave them here at the moment.”

  Danny smirked. “Spoilsport.”

  Schreiber frowned slightly. “And so what brings you to my home today?”

  “Shadowy data,” Danny replied. “It was something you mentioned in your notes, along with seeing actual shadows in the vortex during one of your experiments with Variant blood. Care to elaborate?”

  The German stared at Danny for several long moments before issuing a reply. “No. I do not.”

  It took Danny a bit to recover from that; usually, Schreiber was at least willing to play word games or mock Danny. Not this time. This time, he just shut the hell down. “Interesting. I guess we’ll just have to see what our comparison studies come up with, then. Shame, though. You could’ve saved us a lot of time.”

  “Again, Commander, I am not feeling particularly generous,” Schreiber said, ice in his voice.

  Danny nodded and headed for the door. “Well, by the way, we’ve got a bit of POSEIDON’s blood left.” He turned to face the scientist again. “Hate to let it go to waste. Anything we should know before we throw it in there?”

  Schreiber tensed at this, his whole body coiling up as if he were ready to leap out of his chair to … do something. Attack Danny? Run? Ask to join up again? But nothing else came of it, and he settled back into his chair without a word, turning his attention to the window overlooking the Nevada desert.

  “Well?” Bronk said as Danny left the apartment block where Schreiber was kept under house arrest. “Anything?”

  Danny smiled up at the tall, lanky scientist, who had stood waiting in the hot desert sun. “Nothing and everything. We’re absolutely on to something. He clammed up so tight, he won’t shit for a week. Let’s get to the data.”

  That was the problem, of course, and why they’d approached Schreiber in the first place. They’d been recording data on the vortex almost continuously since Danny discovered it in Hiroshima in late 1945. Even with all of the “no event” days removed, there were still thirty-two known spontaneous emissions from the vortex, along with 117 different experiments conducted at Area 51 since 1947. Furthermore, each experiment and event was recorded on at least two dozen different pieces of equipment, measuring more than a hundred different factors. There were audio and film recordings, broad-spectrum radiation readouts, seismographic tracks, you name it.

  The files on each event were the size of a New York City phone book, and that didn’t count the film or audiotape.

  And so they got started. Instead of investigating each and every event, they began with those spontaneous emissions and experiments where Schreiber was not present. It was easier to create a baseline that way, a bias-free look at what the vortex could and would do.

  Danny and Bronk had considered bringing in a handful of scientists—Schreiber’s assistants, by and large—to assist, but the request to do so was knocked down by Hillenkoetter; it didn’t seem that he’d even run it past Truman, given the rapid-fire response. Bronk’s specialty was in the new field of biophysics, and his role in MAJESTIC-12 was to evaluate and study the Variants themselves, not the vortex. Meanwhile, Danny had been a mere low-level intelligence analyst during the war, and his knowledge of physics was much more on-the-job than anything else.

  So, it was slow going. But ultimately, they recreated and confirmed much of what Schreiber had found. And the implications were frightening.

  Any experiments with non-living matter or energy—heating or cooling the vortex, launching various objects into it, adjusting the lighting, broadcasting radio waves or other energy into it … none of that mattered. It was as if the object or energy in question wasn’t even there. The vortex spun on.

  In 1948, the MAJESTIC-12 team had authorized Schreiber to take the vortex to a point just miles away from an atomic test on an island in the Pacific. The island itself—a lush little speck of land, full of trees and plants, birds and lizards—was leveled. And for the first time, the needle had moved. The energy signature around the vortex had changed, edging closer to the readings it gave off when it made a spontaneous emission—and, apparently, created a new Variant.

  The movement wasn’t much, but it was enough for Schreiber to try new avenues. He sent lab rats, cats, dogs, even a chimpanzee through the vortex. While the animals came out unharmed, there were miniscule changes in emissions—in a few cases, just a microsecond burst along one narrow band of radiation—that seemed to imply that the vortex was reacting to the presence of life.

  That was when Schreiber’s efforts grew darker. The results of the research correlated well to the timing of Montague’s decision to allow Schreiber his nuclear test—the one Danny had stumbled upon when he came back from Vienna. The one where a man died.

  This lit up the data more than any other single experiment. There were several spikes in broad swaths of the radiation spectrum, and even some grainy visuals of the vortex itself behaving oddly, its rotation changing, new eddies within it. Danny and Bronk watched the film together, slowing the projector and examining it frame by frame.

  From there, after Danny had left for Damascus, Schreiber’s experiments became more like pagan sacrifices. All those animals used in previous experiments were killed in the presence of the vortex. Once again, there were miniscule changes but more pronounced than when the living animals were used. Death, it seemed, had an impact on the vortex.

  Schreiber then introduced a new factor into the equation—blood. He placed a vial of his own blood on a cart and pushed the cart into the vortex. While the reaction wasn’t as pronounced as when he killed a man with an A-bomb, the vortex reacted strongly—far stronger than when animals were outright killed within it.

  Danny and Bronk had saved the POSEIDON experiment for last. The radiation data was all there—huge spikes, even bigger than the nuclear-fire death at the start of the year. There were even minute seismic changes, which absolutely defied any conventional understanding of modern physics. The vortex, after all, was a creation of pure energy, and with the amount of energy needed to create a seismic event, well … Area 51 should’ve been vaporized. And yet it wasn’t.

  Even more interesting—the spikes in radiation emissions almost perfectly mimicked a spontaneous event, even though they were perhaps only 75 to 80 percent of the energy usually released. And unlike a spontaneous emission, this one was more diffuse—not “launched” in a given direction.

  They also discovered the “shadowy” part after some intensive analysis. Not only were there spikes in certain kinds of radiation and in the seismograph, but other parts of the radiation spectrum were actually … obscured. Certain bands of radiation that, in “normal” events, were baseline or only slightly elevated had fallen precipitously, only to perk back up again to normal seconds later. The effect, Danny and Bronk agreed, was as if a shadow were flitting across the radiation spectrum.

  They confirmed it in both the audio tape and the film. There were strange high-frequency bursts on the tape—so high that they were barely detectable—and the film showed actual darkening along the disc of the vortex as it swirled.

  But even all that wasn’t the strangest thing. On fi
lm, they could see Schreiber placing a vial of blood—POSEIDON’s blood—on the cart used in their experiments. He then wheeled the cart into the vortex and walked out of the frame. Danny could see the visual shadows slip in and out around the ring of the vortex, and could even see the wisps of light becoming more … animated, somehow. It was disconcerting.

  And then it stopped.

  He could hear muted discussions on the audio portion of the film and see some movement around the edges. Finally, after about thirty seconds, Schreiber reentered the frame and pulled the cart away from the vortex. One of his assistants used a Geiger counter on the vial and, after a moment, gave Schreiber a nod.

  The German picked up the vial, examined it for a moment and then, smiling, turned to the camera with the vial in his hand, extended toward the camera.

  “The blood in the vial has been destroyed,” Schreiber intoned, looking into the camera lens. “It appears to have been corrupted or incinerated somehow.”

  This caused Bronk to start rummaging through his papers. “Which was it?” he muttered.

  “What’s it matter?” Danny asked absently, his mind preoccupied. If the vortex actually somehow destroyed Variant blood, what would it do to an actual Variant like himself?

  “Because of the energy,” Bronk said, still shuffling through reams of data and notes. “If the blood is incinerated, then obviously the vortex is emitting energy that only affects Variants—not surprising, given that the energy it emits creates Variants in the first place.

  “But if the blood was ‘corrupted,’ we need to figure out how. Because if it’s an entropic effect, that means the vortex is taking energy from the Variant blood in a more passive manner. And that’s a whole other set of questions.”

  Finally, Bronk threw up his hands in disgust. “Nothing. Whatever Schreiber found, he either didn’t write it down or he destroyed it. Either way, it’s likely significant.”

  Danny stood up. “Sounds like it could help crack something. And we have one vial of blood left. So, let’s get cracking.”