MJ-12

by Michael J. Martinez

  He’s talking about Danny, Cal thought. They ain’t got anybody like Danny. But they sure as hell have enough folks up in our business back home.

  A third figure entered the room—this one far different from the rest. It was a vaguely human-shaped inky shadow, moving in a manner that could only be described as half-walking and half-floating, and it paused to “look” at the American Variants. Cal assumed it was a look, but only because something vaguely head-shaped turned towards him.

  “Ochtet,” the suited man said.

  The shadow’s voice replied as a whisper, but one that seemed to be right in Cal’s ear. He wondered if everyone heard him that way. Of course, Cal couldn’t make out a word of it, but when he looked over to Frank, there was pure shock on his face.

  The guy in charge smiled at the Americans once more. “I think you understand now, Mr. Lodge, how we know so much.”

  Frank nodded slowly. “That’s a Variant. He’s not even here. He’s a shadow—and he can be anywhere he wants to be, more or less.”

  “Very perceptive,” the man said. “He cannot track, of course—that is Comrade Savrova’s gift. But yes, when conditions are right, we can have a presence wherever we need to be, including at your Area 51. Or in Washington. We can whisper in ears, even.”

  Cal nodded slowly. “You knew about Area 51 from your plant, Captain Anderson, which allowed you to send your Variant there.”

  The Russian nodded, then turned back to the shadow and spoke to it in Russian again. The shadow nodded … and promptly disappeared.

  “You’ll notice that we do not use your null technology here,” the man said. “We have no reason to distrust the Empowered working alongside us here. We will, of course, take other measures to ensure you do not use your gifts upon us—this is why we asked you to wear the gloves. But we will not cripple you the way you have crippled your own fellow Empowered at your training facility.”

  The man rose and put his hands on his hips. “You are loyal Americans, and for that I commend you. Loyalty is important. But as you spend time here, as we begin to study you, I would simply ask you this: To whom are you loyal? To people who fear you? To a country that enslaves you? Or is your loyalty better suited toward each other? Should you not be loyal to your fellow Empowered instead?”

  That wasn’t the sales pitch Cal had expected. When they had been training him up, the Area 51 folks had been sure to warn them about how they might be tempted if they fell into enemy hands—money, sure. But class, race, and gender, too. Cal had been told all about the Russkies’ crazy ideas that the Soviet Union was a paradise free of racial and religious strife.

  Loyalty to the Empowered, though? To Variants? That was something else. Cal had long felt a bond with his fellow Variants—shared experiences and all. Apparently, the Russians felt the same way about theirs.

  The man left the room, followed by his two Variants, and Cal looked over to Frank questioningly. Frank looked back, wide-eyed.

  “That was Lavrentiy Beria, Stalin’s number two guy,” Frank said quietly. “And I’m pretty sure he’s a Variant, too.”

  August 19, 1949

  There was something out there; Danny was sure of it. It was something at the very edge of his consciousness and perception, but it skittered away like a roach when the lights came on every time Danny tried to focus on it. He couldn’t tell if it was consciously avoiding his Enhancement or whether it was a kind of automatic reflex.

  He didn’t even know what it was, but he was sure of one thing: there was something else in Damascus—a Variant, perhaps, or something related to the vortex and what he had felt inside it back at Area 51. It was in Damascus and, more importantly, it didn’t want to be discovered. And that made for the most tantalizing mystery Danny had encountered since the MAJESTIC-12 program had begun.

  Unfortunately, there was something far more important to do first. And that would likely take him away from Syria for a while. He could only hope that the presence in Damascus would be there when he could return.

  “Eyes on target,” a voice crackled over the small Handie-Talkie. “Heading out of the café.”

  Danny keyed his own radio. “Roger that,” he replied to Sorensen, who was using his natural camouflage plus another of Mrs. Stevens’s “Enhancement suits” to stay far closer to the target than anyone else could be without detection. “Chris, get into position.”

  A shadow crossed the street above, and Danny looked up to see Christina Vanoverbeke leaping from building to building to keep pace. Thankfully, the night sky of this warm Damascus evening was doing a fine job of keeping her hidden—the last thing they needed was a bunch of locals reporting a strange blonde woman making superhuman leaps across their city.

  “Looks like he’s following the pattern,” Christina reported. “Same as every night so far.”

  Danny acknowledged the report. Ever since Maggie had landed in Damascus again, her job had been to tail Karilov, to learn his every movement. Naturally, the Soviet agent had taken a whole lot of meetings with al-Hinnawi of late, and given the Russian’s involvement in the coup against Za’im, that wasn’t surprising. Yet nearly every single night, Karilov would make his way toward a single café in the oldest part of town, one that only served local fare. It seemed the Russian had acquired a taste for shawarama and manakish, because they were all he ordered.

  But it was patterns like those that would get Karilov in trouble. The Soviet probably figured that with Za’im dead and the American agents captured, Copeland and Meade weren’t much of a problem—and indeed, the two OPC men still seemed to be at a total loss as to how to proceed. Their strongman was dead and most of his allies had quickly switched sides. Nobody in Syria’s power structure was very open to chatting with Americans these days.

  “Eyes on target,” Maggie chimed in. “He’s headed for the box. Over.”

  “Roger,” Danny said, moving a little quicker down the street now. “Rick, report.”

  “In position,” the young man replied. “Right by the transformer, the one Tim pointed out.”

  “Roger that. Tim, call it.”

  As the one closest to Karilov, it was up to Tim to give the signal—three quick clicks on the radio—once the Soviet was in position. The “box” was a choke point in the Russian’s walk back to his residence, a narrow, high-walled alley that was only about ten yards long and with just one exit on either end.

  If I were his trainer, I’d rip him a new one, Danny thought as he moved into position. I can only imagine what Hamilton would do to him. It was a comforting thought, for sure.

  The three clicks came over the radio, and Danny broke out into a run. “Go!”

  The lights went out first.

  Sparks flew overhead as Rick sent a surge of electrical power into the transformer, blowing through its safeguards and knocking out electricity over a six-block area. Danny was immediately plunged into darkness, only the full moon above shining the faintest of light down on the shadowed alley below.

  He arrived to take position behind Karilov, who was in the middle of the alley with his hand against one wall, moving slowly through it in the blackout. Sorensen was nowhere to be seen, but that wasn’t surprising—between his Enhancement and the darkness, he could be a hairsbreadth away from Karilov and the Russian wouldn’t even know it.

  A shadow flickered ahead of Karilov at the mouth of the alley. That would be Christina, jumping down to block the exit, as planned. Just ahead of her, Maggie emerged from behind a few crates.

  “Hello, Sergei,” she purred. “Got a minute?”

  Danny saw the Russian pause, then turn and start hustling back up the alley. He got about three feet before he was clotheslined by an invisible force across his chest—Sorensen’s arm, most likely—that sent him tumbling to the cobblestones.

  Danny hustled forward, meeting Maggie in the middle over Karilov’s prone body. “Mags, shut him down,” Danny whispered.

  Maggie smiled, and at Danny’s feet, Karilov’s eyes grew wide as sauce
rs, the whites reflecting the moonlight. He choked out a gurgling, stunted scream before fainting, a wet stain spreading at his crotch.

  “God, you’re scary,” Sorensen said from somewhere behind her, his voice coming out of thin air.

  Maggie nodded. “Damn right I am.”

  * * *

  Karilov bolted upright and screamed in terror, then looked around the shabby little hovel, confused and concerned, his Enhancement-powered terror replaced with a very real fear that was just beginning to simmer away.

  “Where am I?” he demanded in Russian, his voice seemingly swallowed by the shadowy, dimly lit room.

  Danny, sitting in the shadows behind Karilov, replied briefly in the same language. “You’re not cleared for that, Comrade.”

  Karilov turned around and looked for Danny’s face, hidden largely in darkness. “You’re American,” the Russian said in English. “You realize you have committed an act of war against both the Soviet Union and the Republic of Syria by detaining me here.”

  Danny shrugged. “You’ve already committed an act of war against the United States by illegally detaining several of our diplomatic personnel. However, we’re willing to concede this might have simply been done in error, given the change in government here in Damascus, and so long as we get our people back, we’ll let it slide. This time.”

  Karilov stood up from the rickety cot they’d placed him on. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  With a sigh, Danny stood and looked around the hovel, rented just two days prior and chosen for its privacy and proximity to the alley where they’d grabbed Karilov. “All right, we can play it that way, Comrade. But then we’ll have to go to work on you. See, I don’t know how much you know about us, but I imagine you’ve seen enough to know that the folks of ours you grabbed were different. Special.” Danny walked over to the door and knocked; it opened to reveal Maggie and Rick on the other side. “And frankly, we’re kind of angry that you took our friends.”

  Karilov stumbled backward at the sight of Maggie; maybe she was already working on him, maybe he was just remembering the fear in the alleyway. Hard to say, but it didn’t really matter. Whatever they were doing to him, it was working.

  “Now, I don’t really condone torture, Comrade. I really don’t. However, when you kidnap American diplomatic agents and take them to Russian soil—and I assume that’s where they went, yes?—then I think the usual international norms are thrown out the window,” Danny said. “So, you’re going to tell us where you sent our friends, one way or the other.”

  Rick walked toward Karilov and placed a hand on the Russian’s shoulder. Karilov let out a scream, practically jumping out of his skin and falling to the floor in a heap.

  “Too much?” Rick asked, a few sparks still jumping around his fingertips.

  Karilov looked up at Rick from the floor, his fear in full bloom now.

  “No, that was a good start,” Danny said, crouching down next to Karilov and looking him in the eye. “We don’t want to electrocute him right off the bat. You see, Sergei, we want to give you a chance to do the right thing. Otherwise, we may have to fry you bit by bit.” Danny took off his left glove, revealing his still-withered hand. Karilov could only imagine how it had happened. “Do you want this to happen to you?”

  Karilov looked up at Danny’s hand as tears began to form in his eyes. “No,” the Soviet said feebly. “No.”

  “Then tell us where our friends are.”

  “And after?” Karilov said. “What then?”

  Danny smiled. “Then we’ll give you some interesting options.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, Danny was on the phone, waiting for “Victor Davies” to pick up.

  “Yes?” Hillenkoetter said over the line.

  “Mr. Davies! This is Mr. Walters. I hope you’re well. How are the kids?”

  “Fine, fine,” Hillenkoetter said impatiently. “You have some news on those missing packages for me?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe we tracked them down to a place called Semipalatinsk. It’s in eastern Kazakhstan.”

  There was a long pause and a rustling of paper; Danny figured the boss was digging for a map, just as he himself had done a half hour before. “Well, that’s quite a diversion, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is, sir. Amazing how things can get fouled up.”

  “So, are the folks in Semipalatinsk willing to send the packages back directly? I’m willing to pay for shipping, even throw in a bonus or two.” Can you do a trade? Ours for POSEIDON and maybe even Meyer?

  “Well, the shipping agent I talked to here really isn’t authorized to make that sort of arrangement, sir. I’m afraid we’d have to work with the folks there directly. Is that something you want to handle, or shall I do it?” Karilov can’t deal; only the bigwigs in Russia can. You want to reach out, or should we proceed with Plan B?

  “Unfortunately, I don’t really have the kind of export licensing I need to get packages out of Kazakhstan from here,” Hillenkoetter said. “Since you’re already halfway there, why don’t you finish it out?” There’s no way the United States is going to talk Variants directly with the Soviet Union. It’s your show.

  “I may have to go directly to Semipalatinsk to make that work, sir. Do we have the budget for that?” Reminder: we would be invading the Soviet Union to effect a rescue.

  “Budget isn’t an issue, Mr. Walters. Just need to be sure those packages are secured, and I stress this, one way or the other.” Do it. And remember, whether you trade or invade, either get our people back or make sure they’re dead.

  Danny frowned. “Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  The line went dead, and Danny went back to his map again, looking over the terrain. The Semipalatinsk area bordered Russia proper, Mongolia—a puppet state of the Soviet Union anyway—and the Xinjiang region of China. Not a lot of great options—the nearest remotely friendly area was Pakistan or India, at least eight hundred miles away.

  But Xinjiang might not be a lost cause. The Kuomintang and some pro-Russian forces were holding the area against the encroaching People’s Liberation Army, and large parts of the area were pretty deserted anyway. They just had to find a friendly Kuomintang commander … and avoid the inevitable Soviet advisors surrounding him.

  Danny sighed. Nobody had said this was going to be easy. But at this point, it was bordering on ridiculous.

  August 28, 1949

  Frank was getting goddamn tired of the strange bits and pieces of food that had made up his rations over the past week and a half. Twice a day, a bowl of meat and broth was shoved into his cell through a floor-level slot in the door. The broth was salty as hell, the meat was largely on the underdone and chewy side, and Frank found himself actually getting excited when he found a bit of carrot or onion in the mix.

  The meat is likely sheep, and it looks like a fair amount of offal in there—hearts, kidneys, tongue. Might be a bit of actual beef, said Kirill Suleimenov, a hapless young Kazakh soldier Frank had absorbed early on during his stay. The Reds were already well aware of Frank’s enhancement and had decided to use Kirill in an experiment. They’d hooked Frank up to a host of machines and medical monitors, and then marched Kirill into the lab in cuffs. They’d shot him in the chest just five feet away from Frank and then observed as the transfer took hold.

  Frank had tried to use the horrible opportunity to learn more about the base, or anything else, but the Russians were smart. Kirill had been stationed in Semipalatinsk, the town nearby, and knew nothing of use. He’d barely known his duties in the town itself. He’d just followed orders and hoped to fulfill his compulsory service in the army so he could go back and take over his aging father’s horse farm.

  Frank had cried for Kirill that night.

  But he’d nonetheless picked up some Kazakh, which was handy, along with a working knowledge of how Red Army grunts comported themselves. Oh, and he could probably run his own horse farm someday, if he ever needed to—and cook up s
ome fine horsemeat dishes, something Kirill really enjoyed.

  At least Frank wasn’t truly alone, not with Kirill and everyone else in his head. He knew Cal or Zippy weren’t so lucky. After Beria’s little pep talk a week and a half earlier, the three Americans had been separated. Frank was taken to a holding cell in the old stables. The wooden-walled cell was cloying and smelled like horseshit, and he had no doubt that the once-every-three-days shower he was permitted wasn’t much of a help. His civvies had been taken and exchanged with what looked like Red Army surplus—olive-drab shirt and pants, threadbare boxers and socks, a pair of old parade shoes that had probably lost their luster sometime around the rise of Lenin.

  Each day, Frank was marched into one of the Russians’ labs. They took blood, made him run a treadmill and exercise—they even watched him eat, monitoring his vitals as he chewed leathery sheep’s heart. And they constantly asked him questions: how he was feeling, how he was responding to the various little tests they ginned up. They questioned him extensively after he absorbed Kirill, going so far as to have one of the bigger guards work him over pretty good when he refused.

  It didn’t work. Every stimulus, every question, everything they threw at him, Frank was determined to remain silent. And for the most part, he did—when the meaty-fisted Cossack used him as a heavy bag, his hands shackled above his head and chained to a roof beam in the barn, Frank did nothing but swear at his tormenter. A lot. In fourteen languages.

  That was a week before, and they hadn’t tortured him since. The meals came in the morning and in the evening, and he did lab time after the morning meal. They’d occasionally let him into a shoddy little exercise yard behind the old manse, just a penned-in area with some kettle weights and medicine balls. Frank had already developed a cell-bound exercise regimen—sit-ups, push-ups, running in place, pull-ups on an overhead beam—so he just took the opportunity to take long, slow circuits around the perimeter of the yard, looking out over the grassy steppes of Kazakhstan. Maybe he’d been letting Kirill narrate a bit too much in his head—the young man liked to wax poetic about his country and the land—but Frank actually found himself appreciating the grasslands and the herds of horses and sheep that he’d spot off in the distance.