MJ-12

by Michael J. Martinez

  “What if we need more?” Bronk asked. “I’d like to replicate the experiment a few times.”

  Danny gave him a sidelong glance. “Gee, wherever might we find another Variant who won’t ask questions about getting blood drawn?”

  Bronk smiled; he was the only other person currently at Area 51 who knew that Danny was the famed “Subject-1,” the first identified Variant and the key to finding other Variants. “Right. Sorry. Let’s get to it.”

  Now it was time. Danny walked out of the administrative building and to the massive hangar where the vortex was kept. He’d given three vials of blood—enough for now—but they would use the last vial of POSEIDON’s blood first. After they analyzed the data, they would conduct the experiment again, after a few days, to see if Danny’s blood had a similar reaction.

  Once Danny got through security—three separate checkpoints that involved photo identification, passwords, and a thorough frisking—he entered the lab to find Bronk scurrying around the various control panels, getting all the equipment up and running. Typically, there would be several other technicians present, but Hillenkoetter had insisted that only Danny and Bronk be present, even though the other scientists on base had been thoroughly vetted and cleared several times over. Schreiber, to his credit, had likewise kept his experiment on POSEIDON’s blood limited to one other person, and they were able to confirm this by having Hamilton thoroughly question the staff as part of a “regular security review.” Schreiber’s assistant was undergoing debriefing; he’d never hold a security clearance again.

  “How are we doing?” Danny asked.

  The biophysicist gave a wan smile. “Took me a while to figure out how to turn everything on, but I think we’re good. Just start the camera when you’re ready, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Danny walked over to the massive film camera and, after puzzling over the controls for a moment, got it up and running, the soft whir of the film confirming his efforts. He then stepped in front of it. “This film is classified TOP SECRET-MAJIK, eyes only. Any personnel sharing this film with others of lesser clearance will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.” It seemed dopey, but Danny wanted to cross all his Ts and dot his Is on this one.

  He then took the vial of Variant blood from Bronk’s outstretched hand and placed it on the wheeled cart, a standard government-issue cart most commonly found in mess halls and hospitals. Slowly, he wheeled it over to the vortex, which was spinning languidly in the middle of the room, about three feet from the ground. It looked exactly like it had the first time Danny had come across it in the ruins of Hiroshima, a pure white swirl of wisps and eddies, reminding him of a hurricane as seen from the air. It gave off a white but subtle light, not enough to be blinding but enough so that other lights in the cavernous room weren’t needed.

  Then it started to change.

  “You seeing this, Det?” Danny asked as the vortex seemed to speed up, the currents and tendrils of light becoming more animated.

  “Confirmed,” Bronk replied quietly. “Looks like we’re getting some increased radiation readings too, wide spectrum, non-ionized.”

  “It knows,” Danny said. “It can sense the blood or something. Sweet Jesus.”

  After pausing for several moments, Danny pushed the cart farther, until the vial of blood came into contact with the edge of the vortex.

  The vortex, for want of a better word, went nuts.

  The eddies of light swirled violently, and the wisps and tendrils snaked out across the room. It seemed the vortex had grown bigger, slightly brighter, and much more animated.

  And then Danny felt something.

  Normally, his Enhancement was subtle. He would “feel” the presence of another Variant in a city, as if that person were somehow an extension of his five senses. Once he was locked on, he could then, slowly but surely, find his way to that Variant, even if the other person was moving around, or even got on a bus. It was an instinctual knowledge, deep inside, a subtle pull that seemed to tug at his core.

  This, though … this was more. A lot more.

  Danny felt the tug of hundreds—thousands—of others within him, all coming from within the vortex. It was as if an entire army of Variants were somehow inside it, making themselves known to him. He closed his eyes as a subtle jumble of voices encroached on the edges of his hearing, as if trying to listen to a crowd of people from three rooms away.

  They were there, wherever there was. And they seemed to know he was there, too.

  Without any conscious thought, Danny reached up with his left hand toward the vortex.

  “Dan!” Bronk shouted. “What are you doing?”

  Danny barely heard him. Before he knew it, he had touched the vortex—and a thousand voices exploded in his head, a thousand yearning invisible hands grabbing at his very soul.

  That was the last thing he remembered.

  FROM: DETLEV BRONK

  TO: DCI HILLENKOETTER, POTUS

  CC: LCMR WALLACE USN

  DATE: 1 JULY 1949

  RE: VORTEX EXPERIMENT FOLLOW-UP

  CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET-MAJIK

  LCMR WALLACE IS AWAKE AFTER 17 HOURS UNCONSCIOUS. HE SHOWS NO SIGNS OF MENTAL IMPAIRMENT FROM HIS ENCOUNTER WITH THE VORTEX. HOWEVER, HIS LEFT HAND REMAINS SEVERELY INJURED. THE APPROPRIATE SECURITY-CLEARED MEDICAL PERSONNEL REPORTED THAT ALL FOUR FINGERS, HIS THUMB, AND TWO-THIRDS OF HIS HAND HAVE BEEN SEVERELY WITHERED, AS IF PREMATURELY AGED TO THE POINT OF DECREPITUDE--MUMMIFIED IS PERHAPS THE BEST WORD FOR IT. HE IS UNABLE TO USE OR EVEN MOVE THE HAND AT THIS POINT. PHOTOS OF THE INJURY WILL BE SENT VIA SECURE COURIER AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.

  I INTERVIEWED WALLACE AFTER HIS MEDICAL EXAMINATION. HE IS OBVIOUSLY TROUBLED BY HIS PHYSICAL INJURY, AND EXPRESSED HOPE THAT MR. HOOKS MIGHT BE ABLE TO ASSIST WHEN HE RETURNS FROM ASSIGNMENT. OTHER THAN THIS UNDERSTANDABLE CONCERN, WALLACE APPEARS TO BE LUCID AND IN CONTROL OF HIS FACULTIES. THE FOLLOWING IS A SUMMARY OF HIS REPORT. HE IS COPIED HERE FOR HIS FUTURE REFERENCE.

  WALLACE REPORTS THAT HIS ENCOUNTER WITH THE VORTEX WAS SIMILAR TO THE USE OF HIS ENHANCEMENT, IN THAT IT WAS A SENSORY EXPERIENCE NOT UNLIKE HIS ENCOUNTERS WITH OTHER VARIANTS. (REF. REPORTS #21, #37, #84, AND OTHERS IN HIS FILE.) HOWEVER, HE SAYS THAT THE EFFECT WAS MULTIPLIED A HUNDRED- OR EVEN THOUSAND-FOLD IN HIS ENCOUNTER, AS IF THERE WERE NUMEROUS VARIANTS INSIDE THE VORTEX.

  WHILE WALLACE REMEMBERS REACHING OUT, HE MAINTAINS THAT THIS WAS NOT A VOLUNTARY ACTION, BUT MORE AKIN TO A REFLEX. “LIKE GRABBING FOR SOMETHING THAT YOU’VE DROPPED.” HOWEVER, HE ALSO RAISED THE QUESTION OF WHETHER THAT IMPULSE WAS HIS OWN, OR HE WAS UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF SOMETHING ELSE. HE SAYS HE CANNOT BE SURE, AND WAS VISIBLY DISTURBED WHEN CONTEMPLATING THIS.

  THIS PROMPTED ME TO ASK WHETHER HE BELIEVED THAT HE WAS IN CONTACT WITH OTHERS WITHIN--OR ON THE OTHER SIDE OF--THE VORTEX. AFTER SEVERAL MOMENTS, HE CONCURRED THAT THIS WAS A POSSIBILITY, AND AGREED AS TO THE PROFOUND IMPACT THIS MAY HAVE ON ALL VARIANTS AND THE MAJESTIC-12 PROGRAM.

  CONCLUSIONS AND RECOMMENDATIONS

  PREVIOUS WORK BY DR. SCHREIBER’S TEAM SUGGESTED THAT THE VORTEX MAY BE A GATEWAY TO ANOTHER PLACE, OR DIMENSION, AND GIVEN WALLACE’S ENCOUNTER, WE MUST TAKE THAT POSSIBILITY SERIOUSLY. WE CANNOT KNOW HOW TO EXPLORE THIS OTHER SPACE, AND WALLACE’S ENCOUNTER WITH THE PHENOMENON SUGGESTS IT MAY BE HAZARDOUS TO DO SO.

  IN THE INTERESTS OF NATIONAL SECURITY, WALLACE AND I AGREE THAT UNTIL OTHER EVIDENCE IS FOUND TO THE CONTRARY, WE MUST ASSUME THAT THERE IS AN INTELLIGENCE, OR MULTIPLE INTELLIGENCES, WITHIN OR ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE VORTEX PHENOMENON. WALLACE POINTS TO HIS EXPERIENCE AS ONE POINT OF EVIDENCE, AND POINTED TO LT. LODGE’S POST-MORTEM RETENTION EMPOWERMENT--IN WHICH HE INTERACTS WITH THE RECENTLY DECEASED IN HIS MIND--AS ANOTHER POSSIBLE PIECE OF EVIDENCE.

  FINALLY, GIVEN WALLACE’S PARTICULAR ENHANCEMENT AND HIS REACTION TO IT, I MUST RAISE THE QUESTION AS TO WHETHER VARIANTS HAVE BEEN CONTACTED BY, OR ARE EVEN UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF, UNKNOWN INTELLIGENCES. WALLACE DISAGREES STRONGLY ON THIS POINT, STATING UNEQUIVOCALLY THAT HE HAS NEVE
R FELT UNDER SUCH INFLUENCE. I AM CURRENTLY WORKING TO DETERMINE WHETHER THERE IS AN EXPERIMENTAL PRAXIS POSSIBLE TO DETERMINE THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER.

  HAVING BEEN IN CHARGE OF THE STUDY OF VARIANTS SINCE THE BEGINNING OF THE MAJESTIC-12 PROJECT AT AREA 51, I HAVE PERSONALLY SEEN NO EVIDENCE OF ANY KIND OF POSSESSION, FOR WANT OF A BETTER WORD, OR INFLUENCE BY AN OUTSIDE FORCE. WE HAVE DONE MULTIPLE, CUTTING-EDGE STUDIES ON THE VARIANTS, AND ASIDE FROM THEIR ENHANCEMENTS, THEY SHOW NO OTHER MENTAL OR PHYSICAL ABNORMALITIES. FURTHERMORE, THEY HAVE PROVEN LARGELY TRUSTWORTHY, AND THOSE CURRENTLY ON ASSIGNMENT HAVE SERVED WELL.

  THAT SAID, GIVEN THESE NEW POSSIBILITIES, I BELIEVE WE MUST CONSIDER A SUSPENSION OF ACTIVE DUTY FOR ALL VARIANTS CURRENTLY IN THE FIELD AND RETURN ALL OF THEM TO AREA 51 FOR FURTHER STUDY AND REVIEW. CMDR WALLACE WISHES IT KNOWN THAT WHILE HE SHARES MY CONCERNS ABOUT THE POSSIBLE INTELLIGENCES WITHIN OR BEYOND THE PHENOMENON, HE DOES NOT FEEL THAT IT IS NECESSARY TO CURTAIL THE CONTINUED SERVICE AND LIBERTY OF VARIANTS.

  (SIGNED) DETLEV BRONK

  MR. PRESIDENT—ONLY TWO TEAMS OF VARIANTS ARE CURRENTLY ON ASSIGNMENT, IN SUPPORT OF THE DAMASCUS OPERATIONS AND IN THE FORRESTAL MATTER. THE REST CONTINUE TO TRAIN AT AREA 51. I’VE ASKED VANDENBERG TO STEP-UP SECURITY THERE. IN ORDER TO PRESERVE THE SECURITY OF BOTH MJ-12 AND THE DAMASCUS MATTER, I SUGGEST THE VARIANTS IN THE FIELD BE ALLOWED TO COMPLETE THEIR ASSIGNMENTS. WE CAN WATCH STEVENS AND DUBINSKY EASILY ENOUGH HERE AT HOME. I RECOMMEND FLAGGING COPELAND AND MEADE TO HAVE THEM KEEP AN EYE ON THE OTHERS ABROAD. WE CAN COUCH IT HOWEVER YOU LIKE—STRESS ON THE JOB, PROBLEMS AT HOME, EVEN SUSPECTED COMMUNIST INFLUENCES FROM THE HOUSE UN-AMERICAN ACTIVITIES COMMITTEE (WHICH WE CAN OF COURSE DENY). BUT IF WE PULL THEM NOW, I THINK IT’LL CREATE MORE PROBLEMS THAN IT SOLVES.—HILLENKOETTER

  FINE, BUT LET’S GET DAMASCUS WRAPPED UP ASAP, IF POSSIBLE, AND GET EYES ON OUR TWO INVESTIGATORS AT ALL TIMES FROM HERE ON OUT. THE IMPLICATIONS OF THESE “UNKNOWN INTELLIGENCES,” IF THAT’S WHAT THEY ARE, ARE PROFOUND. ARE THEY EVEN HUMAN? THIS IS TERRIFYING TO THINK ABOUT—AND IF IT GETS OUT TO THE PUBLIC, THERE’LL BE A PANIC LIKE WE’VE NEVER SEEN. ESPECIALLY IF THEY’RE IN CONTROL OF PEOPLE WITH DAMNED SUPERMAN POWERS. DIVERT WHATEVER YOU NEED TO FIGURING OUT WHAT’S GOING ON AND WHETHER OUR PEOPLE ARE UNDER ANY KIND OF INFLUENCE. MEANTIME, GET THE REST OF THEM LOCKED UP FOR NOW.—HST

  July 4, 1949

  Stephen Meade reached across the café table and handed Cal a telegram paper. “You care to tell me anything about why I should be keeping an eye on you?”

  Cal took the paper and gave it a quick read. The wording was clipped and awkward, but the gist was clear: We don’t fully trust Hooks and Lodge. Watch them carefully.

  “Well, I don’t rightly know,” Cal said with a sigh, putting the paper down on the table. “I suppose maybe something’s going on back in D.C., some kinda turf war between your folks and mine?” It was a bit of a gamble, pinning it on squabbling between bureaucrats at CIA and OPC, but it was the first thing that came to Cal’s mind—other than the truth.

  Meade frowned as he folded up the paper and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. “I suppose. But I guess I gotta keep an eye on you regardless. Try not to do anything too scary, OK?” The words came with a smile, but Cal could tell the former soldier—officer, he remembered—had a little bit of fire in his eyes about it.

  Obviously, the good Lord thought Cal didn’t have enough going on as is.

  “I’ll do my best to behave, sir,” Cal replied. “Besides, I just had a call with my wife this morning. My boy did well in his first year of school, so I’m not of a mind to mess that up any time soon.”

  Meade’s eyebrows went up. “College?”

  “Grambling,” Cal said. “Though he’s looking to transfer to Howard so he can be closer to home when I’m away.”

  “Agency set that up for you?”

  Cal stirred a little in his chair and tried not to feel too defensive. “Boy got in on his own. Agency just made it possible to pay the bills.”

  Meade smiled, and this time it seemed genuine—though he looked a little puzzled, too. “Well, that’s pretty swell. Hope he does well. Though I gotta say, you look awfully young to have a boy in college.”

  Inwardly, Cal cursed himself for sharing too much with Meade, even if it was to get his suspicions back down; he’d forgotten how young and strong his Empowerment made him. Some mornings, he even startled himself when he looked in the mirror, in those moments before he remembered the strange journey he’d been on the last few years. “Well, I’m gonna take that as a compliment, sir. Started young, hard work kept me strong.”

  Thankfully, Frank Lodge arrived at that moment, preventing Meade from asking any more questions. Frank plopped down a package of the doughy, sweet, sticky batlaywee snacks that Cal had taken a shine to while in town. Cal in turn waved over the waiter to bring a coffee, while Meade excused himself to use the facilities.

  “Meade got a cable from his bosses,” Cal said quietly. “Said to keep an eye on us, like they don’t trust us.”

  Frank frowned. “Think it’s because of the program?” The program was their shorthand for MAJESTIC-12 and all things Variant that were too classified to discuss aloud.

  “That’d be my guess, but I can’t say for sure. I just passed it off as bickering between the Foggy Bottom folks. Hope that holds, but I think he’s taking it seriously.”

  “Maybe it’s just that,” Frank said, shrugging. “I’ll send a cable to Danny and ask what’s up. Meantime, we—”

  He stopped short to watch Meade dash past. “I think it’s happening!” the man shouted as he ran out the door of the café and onto the street—where Cal could see several young men thundering by.

  “Here we go,” Frank muttered, downing his coffee in one gulp as he rose to his feet. Cal stuffed a piece of batlaywee in his mouth and shoved the rest of the package in his suitcoat pocket as he followed.

  Outside, Frank pointed to a satchel next to Meade. “You got your radio?” Frank asked.

  Meade nodded. “I’ll get the car. You find Saadeh and let me know where to go.” He sprinted off, away from the stream of men heading down the street. Frank and Cal joined them, going as quickly as possible and taking side streets wherever they could. Frank led the way—he’d sat with a dying Beirut deliveryman the week prior and now had a local’s map of Beirut in his head.

  Their route took them once again to Martyrs’ Square, where a large crowd had gathered and was chanting in what Cal took to be Arabic. Not only was Martyrs’ Square the central-most open space in the city, it was also just a short walk to the Lebanese Parliament building—and where else would you stage a coup, if not at the center of government?

  Given the line of heavily armed police Cal saw in front of the Parliament building, the government knew it too. He wondered if the growing mob was armed, or if they were getting reinforcements. And if so, from whom. Revolution, Cal thought in that moment, was one hell of a messy business.

  “Find Saadeh and stick with him,” Frank said as they pulled up and began surveying the crowd. “Tap in if you find him.”

  Cal nodded and felt for the small cigarette case radio in his pocket, then turned toward the edge of the square, where a number of streetlamps lined the edge of the walkways. He ran over and began climbing the pole, his long arms and ropey muscles making easy work of it. He couldn’t help but feel a little satisfaction at the way his rejuvenated body tackled the job, as easy as climbing a tree had been when he was a boy. A few moments later and he was hanging off the top, looking down on the crowd, searching for Saadeh’s gray, frizzy pompadour.

  There. Near the center of the square, slowly making his way toward what Cal assumed was his favorite park bench. Saadeh was waving and shaking his fist, and while Cal couldn’t hear over the crowd, he was pretty sure Saadeh was getting them good and riled up.

  Hanging off the arm of the lamppost, Cal reached into his pocket and pulled out the cigarette case radio, giving it two urgent taps. A moment later, a tinny voice came through. “
Where is he?” Frank said.

  “Usual spot. Crowd’s thick on him. You seeing weapons down there?”

  “Nothing useful. Only a few guns. Bunch of broom handles and tire irons. Some idiot brought a cricket bat.”

  “Cricket’s a dumb sport,” Cal remarked. “I’m coming down. Gonna make my way to him.”

  “Stay on him,” Frank said. “If he gets himself wounded, keep him stable until we can get him out of there. Don’t compromise yourself.”

  “Try not to. Out.”

  Cal swung down from the lamppost with all the vigor and nimbleness his youthful body could provide and started running toward the center of the square. The crowd was moving now, an undulating and living thing, pushing toward the line of police in front of the Parliament building. The cops had helmets and rifles like soldiers, but even as the crowd surged, they seemed unsure as to what to do—despite being armed to the teeth, they were severely outnumbered.

  Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, don’t shoot, please God, don’t let them shoot, Cal thought as he pushed and shoved his way closer to the center of the swirling mob, toward Saadeh. He had to be forcefully rude to a few people on the way as he cleared himself a path—even muttering “sorry” as he manhandled someone aside to push ahead—but he had orders. Za’im wanted Saadeh safe, and the U.S. wanted Za’im as a happy partner. Simple enough.

  Finally, Cal saw a familiar face, one of the goons from their little visit a few weeks back. “I’m a friend, I’m a friend,” he panted, getting up close. “Here to help. Keep him safe.” The goon had an automatic pistol in his hand and glowered at Cal with disdain but ultimately shoved him into what seemed to be Saadeh’s inner circle, a group of tweedy-looking older men who looked an awful lot like college professors. That seemed to fit the bill of revolutionaries these days—bunch of older college boys trying to convince the worker bees to follow along.

  As Cal fell in beside them, he couldn’t help but think that the American Revolution had been kind of the same thing, though—college-educated men getting a bunch of farmers and dockworkers to go along with a radical idea.