MJ-12

by Michael J. Martinez

  Her bare hands, Cal noted. Smooth.

  Za’im turned on his heel and, without another word, made his way back to his seat, while al-Hinnawi glowered at Zippy with pure hatred in his eyes. “I do not like the fact that you are here, an American and a Jew and a woman advising our president.”

  “I am here at the President’s invitation,” Zippy responded curtly. With that, she went back to her seat and al-Hinnawi sat down again. Cal pulled a little notebook out of his jacket pocket and made a couple of notes to himself—al-Hinnawi bore watching. Cal could tell when someone was gonna be up to mischief, and the Syrian colonel seemed like he was just about there.

  Meanwhile, Za’im sat and pulled out a folder. “I propose that the Syrian nation take on three hundred thousand additional refugees from Palestine and resettle them here. In exchange, I ask the Israelis to adjust the border to include the areas here on this map.”

  Za’im handed the map to Copeland, who looked it over and nodded. “This seems fairly reasonable. Does this proposal include a peace treaty and recognition of Israel?”

  Za’im actually laughed. “Miles, my friend, you ask far too much. I would be willing to discuss an armistice at most. A suspension of hostilities. But there will be no peace treaty or recognition. You ask too much. Not even with the Soviets by your side, asking this, could I do such a thing.”

  “I understand,” Copeland replied, handing the map across the table to Zippy. “Miss Silverman will send this along to her contacts in Israel.”

  “Miss Silverman has already sent this along to her contacts in Israel,” Za’im replied. “But I thank you regardless.”

  The President then quickly and deftly moved to other matters on his agenda, including another request for military aid that Cal figured would get nowhere fast. Neither the U.S. nor the U.S.S.R. seemed to be in a big rush to send armies down into the area, preferring instead to play with proxies. Cal knew from his briefings that the Russians were busy indeed, trying to make friends with Egypt, Iraq, and Iran, besides supporting Israel.

  Cal figured that would have to change at some point, especially as he looked at the petulant al-Hinnawi. Folks here didn’t just dislike Israel; they actively hated the idea that a bunch of Jewish folks had come in and taken over Palestine. And Cal knew that no side was completely in the right. The Jews had gone through hell and back during the war; Cal had seen the files detailing the genocide. And yet the Palestinians weren’t the ones who had done the deed.

  Arab nationalists and Greater Syrians were one side, with some real religious Muslims on the other, planning to reestablish a caliphate. Then you had the Americans and Reds, all pushing for everyone else to get off the fence and pick a team.

  Cal glanced over at Copeland, who’d clearly been startled earlier to hear of Zippy’s activities but now seemed to be chatting amiably with Za’im. He’d often marveled at how a college man like Copeland could manage to nearly singlehandedly overthrow an entire government, and it was obvious the man had imagination and guts. But this thing … this thing was gonna get ugly, and Cal had spent enough time with him to know Copeland wasn’t going to be able to keep the peace all by himself.

  Zippy flicked another note into Cal’s lap. It was just a slip of paper with a few words on it, but they rattled Cal to his core.

  Hinnawi wants to kill Za’im. He’s working on a plan.

  Apparently, this thing was gonna get ugly faster than anyone thought.

  July 24, 1949

  Danny Wallace paced the cell and looked down at Kurt Schreiber, who was lying on his cot with his eyes closed. At least they’d managed to stick him in a proper prison this time, with no fewer than four guards on him at any one time, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

  Oh, and the lights were on full bore. Danny had didn’t give a rat’s ass whether Schreiber slept well—the man had used up the miniscule amount of goodwill Danny had left for him. For once, everyone involved with MAJESTIC-12 agreed with him, even that know-nothing Montague.

  “You know, Kurt, you’re pretty much done for. Hope you realize that,” Danny said. “You’ll never go back to your research. You won’t go back to any research, in fact. The only thing keeping you from a firing squad at this moment is my generosity.”

  “And for that I thank you,” Schreiber said with a smirk, eyes still closed. “Though I think there’s more to it than that.”

  “Do you, now?”

  Schreiber sat up and swung his legs around to the floor, looking up at Danny. “You likely have many talented individuals here, yes? But what you don’t have is what’s up here”—he tapped his forehead with a finger—“in my mind; otherwise, you would have employed them immediately, or at least sooner than this. And so we wait for you to slowly accept that even if you no longer trust me, you know I’m the only hope you have. Which means your threat of a firing squad is an empty gesture.”

  The worst part, of course, was that Schreiber was right. Danny had no idea how he had escaped, beyond some kind of literal shadow, some kind of under-the-radar Variant ability—though he couldn’t even be sure of that. Maybe it wasn’t a Variant in fact, maybe it was something or someone Schreiber had contacted through the vortex. But there had been eyes on the phenomenon nearly every minute since it had been brought to Area 51 two-plus years before. How could something have slipped by? Or maybe the shadow was just an incredibly talented operative, as Hamilton had suggested. Danny dismissed that idea largely due to logistics—if someone had managed the near-impossible feat of breaking into—and then out of—Area 51, why then just send Schreiber out without a better escape plan than to hitchhike his way to Vegas?

  “Who is Vanda?” Danny pressed.

  “The Wicked Witch of the East, of course,” Schreiber taunted. “Or was that the West? I can never remember. How is your hand, Commander?”

  Danny involuntarily looked down at his gloved hand. If things hadn’t been so fucked up at Area 51, he would’ve strongly considered heading to Damascus to see Cal for some healing. “What about my hand?”

  “From what I can see, you have recently lost the use of it. You have not flexed it, which means you have lost muscle control, and since you choose to hide it from sight, I can assume it does not look particularly pleasant, either. Now, these are perhaps leaps of deduction, but for a long time, I have wondered why you of all people have been placed in such a powerful position here.

  “Given what we both know that I know about the phenomenon and its impact on those of Variant blood, I think it’s likely you reached out and touched the vortex with your hand, and your hand has become useless, likely desiccated from the destruction of blood and tissue. And of course, this would confirm my long-running suspicions that you are a Variant yourself. A Variant with a very potent Enhancement, one that makes you extremely valuable to those in charge of this program. A shame they have no idea how truly incompetent you are.”

  Danny stared hard but knew deep down that his face had given away the game a while earlier. Danny had only killed one man in his entire life—that traitor Anderson—but he felt disturbingly inclined to end Schreiber right then and there, circumstances be damned. Only his military training—and the increased scrutiny on Variants throughout the MAJESTIC-12 program—stayed his hand. For now.

  “Sorry, Kurt. That’s a fine story you’ve deduced, but that’s all it is: a story,” Danny said. “And since you’re not going to talk, I guess I’ll wait for one of the others to get back so I can either cripple you emotionally or just shoot you in the head. Honestly, I’m hoping it’s the latter.”

  Without a backward glance, Danny turned and left the cell, allowing the MPs to lock up behind him. Bronk met him outside the brig area.

  “Why do you insist on doing that?” Bronk said. “He’s not going to say bupkus.”

  Danny shrugged. “I don’t know. Glutton for punishment. What’s up?”

  “Electrical problems again at Training Area 1. We’ve had to use portable nulls for now. The ones we have wired
to the generators are getting fried. But that’s not the worst of it. I saw some worrisome things in Group 1’s blood tests this morning.”

  That stopped Danny in his tracks. “Define ‘worrisome.’”

  “All four of them are showing lower white blood cell levels than is normal. I went and tested some of the MPs who put in a lot of time there, but they’re fine. It’s only the Variants.”

  “Cause?”

  Bronk ran a hand over his face and let out a sigh. “Training 1 is where we keep the highest number of null-generators, to keep the trainees in line.”

  “The generators are causing a lowered white cell count?”

  “Possibly. They throw off radiation, after all. We’ve been operating under the belief that the radiation was largely harmless, a unique but otherwise harmless combination of emissions that happened to disrupt Variant Enhancements. But there could be something in there degrading their immune systems. I’m afraid if we keep this up, their immune systems could be severely degraded, if not worse.”

  Danny stood with his hands on his hips for several long moments before kicking at the desert dust in a burst of frustration. “Fuck! Goddamnit! We need those null-fields shut off ASAP.”

  “If we do that, how do we contain them?” Bronk asked. “I’m thinking of Julia especially. What happens when she realizes her Enhancement is completely unchecked?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know, Det. But we’re injuring them right now, and that’s completely unacceptable. Tell Hamilton to shut ’em down. I want two sets of eyes on each of the Variants at all times, and bed checks every fifteen minutes at night—install a peephole or something if you have to, privacy be damned. And have Julia Meyer brought to my office. I’ll have a chat with her. Meantime …”

  Danny’s voice dropped off as he saw a small cargo plane on approach to the lakebed landing strip. It was one of Montague’s from Albuquerque.

  Bronk saw it too. “This day keeps getting better and better. I’ll talk to Hamilton. You go deal with that.”

  Danny simply nodded, his head down, hands on his hips as he tried to gather his wits about him in the hot afternoon sun. He then made his way to the admin building, where air traffic control was housed in a small radio room. Two airmen and a master sergeant were on duty.

  “Sergeant, who’s on that plane?”

  The NCO, a grizzled-looking, wiry fellow, just shrugged. “No manifest, sir, and they ain’t sayin’. But they have clearance and the right code words, so I’m letting ’em land. Could be the Radio City Rockettes, for all I know.”

  “We ain’t that lucky,” one of the airman muttered.

  Danny left the room and jogged out of the building toward the motor pool, where he grabbed a jeep and sped out to the plane, arriving just as it was finished rolling to a halt near the tent awning they used as a welcoming area.

  The plane door opened, and Gen. Montague came out, followed by a bear of a man in a crisp-looking suit. He was tall and balding, his face broad and flushed from the heat, but well put-together, like a rich guy or a politician.

  Danny briskly walked over to the general and saluted; Montague returned the salute with a disdainful little smirk. “Commander, I sure hope you’re getting your security back together here,” Montague said without preamble.

  “We are, General,” he said simply, then looked over at the man in the suit. “For example, I need to know who this is so that I can determine whether or not he’s cleared to be here.”

  Montague’s guest walked over with a grin, his hand extended. “I’m Louis Johnson. I’m the Secretary of Defense.”

  Well, fuck. “Sir,” Danny said, saluting again before taking Johnson’s hand. “Welcome to … our facility. General, I have to ask, has there been an update with regard to clearance for our project that I’m unaware of?”

  Montague’s smirk turned into a frown pretty quickly at that. “Did you hear the man, Commander? This is Secretary of Defense Louis Johnson, and he’s here to inspect this facility—a facility, need I remind you, under my personal command.”

  “I heard him, sir,” Danny said, unmoving. “However, because of the nature of our work here, I’m going to have to confirm that Secretary Johnson here is appropriately cleared to conduct his inspection. Once I have word from Washington, I’m sure we can—”

  Montague looked down at Danny. “Commander Wallace. Given your recent difficulties managing security at this base, I am relieving you of duty as executive officer of Area 51, effective immediately.”

  “That’s … that’s your prerogative, General,” Danny managed to stammer. “However, I remain the principal investigative and training officer for … um, any CIA projects based here at Area 51. And since I’m currently seconded to CIA, only an order from Director Hillenkoetter can remove me from that position. And thus, before Secretary Johnson gains access to any part of any project, I will clear his presence here with Washington.”

  Montague’s mouth hung open for several long seconds, while Johnson just looked at Danny with disbelief. “Are you disobeying a superior officer, young man?” Johnson said in disbelief.

  “No, Mr. Secretary, not at all,” Danny said, feeling slightly more confident now. “I’ve been relieved as executive officer on the base, which means that I no longer have authority in terms of the base operations. However, I remain an officer of the Central Intelligence Agency, and I remain in charge of any CIA projects underway here. So of course, you and the general are more than welcome to inspect the base. However, since I have yet to confirm your clearance for any CIA projects here, there will be some areas to which you won’t have access. I do apologize, sir.”

  Montague stepped forward and pressed a meaty finger into Danny’s chest. “I swear, I am going to bust you down to a goddamn mess cook before we’re done here,” the general muttered. “Now, you will take us on a full inspection of this base and your project, or I will have you arrested for disobeying a direct order.”

  To his surprise, Danny felt a calm moment of clarity at this, and he even managed a slight smile. “Yes, sir, General,” he replied smartly. “This way.”

  Danny didn’t even bother looking back. Instead, he just walked briskly to the jeep and waited for the other two men to clamber aboard. Wordlessly, he sped off for Area 51, trying his best not to smile.

  Five minutes later, he pulled up directly in front of the main research hangar. “If it’s all right with you, General, I need to alert Major Hamilton to the change in my status, since that makes him acting executive officer in my place.”

  Montague climbed out of the jeep and stared down at Danny again, disdain on his face. “You’re dismissed, Commander,” he said finally. “Mr. Secretary, let’s go.”

  Danny watched a moment as the two men walked toward the MPs guarding the entrance to the facility, then hit the gas and sped off toward the admin building, no longer bothering to hide his smile. Back in his office, he picked up a phone and dialed the long string of numbers he had committed to memory years before.

  It took the better part of two minutes before someone picked up. “Yes?”

  “This is Commander Wallace. Password MAJIK one four eight three.”

  “What’s wrong, Commander?” The voice on the other end grew quickly worried.

  “I need a clearance confirmation for Secretary of Defense Louis Johnson. He just landed with General Montague for an inspection of both the facility and the project. Does Secretary Johnson have TOP SECRET-MAJIK clearance?”

  There was a long silence on the line before President Truman responded. “He sure as hell does not, repeat, does not have clearance for that operation. Not in any way, shape, or form.”

  “Very well, sir. Shall I tell him to call you?”

  “No, Commander. I’ll wire you new orders. Where are they now?”

  “Well, they’re about to attempt entry into the main research hangar.”

  “And you left them there?”

  “I did, sir. General Montague relieved me of duty as
executive officer of the base prior to that, sir, so I was under no obligation to inform or advise further.”

  Another silence, followed by a sharp bark of a laugh. “That’s rich. You’re reinstated. Orders are coming. Carry on, Commander.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  Danny hung up with a smile, then lazily got up and walked to his door, opening it and sticking his head out to address his clerk. “Airman, I have a secure communication coming in the next few minutes. Gimme a shout when it’s here.”

  The airman was on the phone; he covered the mouthpiece to respond. “Yes, sir. Uh, sir, we have a situation—”

  “Tell the MPs to follow their orders to the letter,” Danny replied.

  “Yes, sir. I have Julia Meyer waiting for you in the conference room as well,” the clerk said.

  Danny nodded and walked over to the meeting room next to his office. Inside, Julia was sitting at the table, idly looking out the window while passing her hand through the table repeatedly, up and down.

  “That’s some fine control you have there, Julia,” Danny said. “When you came here, you would’ve sunk through that chair if you’d tried to do that.”

  She just shrugged. “We practice when your men let us. And the rest of the time, we don’t.”

  Danny pulled up a chair next to her. “I know it’s distressing to be cut off from your Enhancements like that.”

  She turned to him with a fierce look on her face. “What do you know of it, Navy man? It isn’t just ‘distressing.’ Your little devices cut us off from ourselves. It is like you blind us or cripple us whenever you like. And for what? To keep us under control?”

  So, it’s gonna be like that, Danny thought. “Yes, actually. To keep you under control. If you and your teammates expressed more of a willingness to play ball, we wouldn’t have to do that. In fact, all the other Variants I’ve worked with have really found a place for themselves working on behalf of America. They’re good people, burdened with extraordinary and dangerous abilities, and they’ve chosen to make a difference, to help people.”